13Skye wasn’t at school Monday and Javi gave me a ride home in his father’s old green pickup truck. With his thrift-store tweed jacket, he smelled like a French poet – black coffee, unwashed wool and smoky candles.
And oh my God, those incredible eyes – tilted almonds with chocolate lashes. I couldn’t stop staring at him. And every time he looked over at me, his gaze stayed with mine a touch too long for someone who was driving.
“Let’s pull over and kiss.” I started out bold, but then I cracked up and turned red.
Javi pulled over immediately, right on Wilshire Boulevard. He looked up and down the street and in his rearview mirror, like he was about to commit a crime.
No one would have noticed. But we were both too shy to do anything. I sat there trying not to peel the blue polish off m
