With a hand on his hip and the other pointing toward my house, he stares at the ground.
Good, because I hate his eyes. And I adore them, too. Especially when he touches me and tells me I’m beautiful. And now, he’s punishing me by refusing to look at me.
In a fog of shame, I hug the sandwich to my chest and drag my feet home. As I walk, I sneak peeks over my shoulder. He doesn’t move. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re following me, watching me, protecting me.
Whatever this is, however inappropriate and risky, he doesn’t want it to end. Spending four private hours a day together for the rest of the year, it’s only going to become more. More punishments, more music, more Mr. De la Croix. I don’t care what he says. This isn’t over.
“It’s over.” I slam the beer bottle down harder tha
