Perrie Lancaster has zero plans after college. No dream job she's working toward, no one to impress, and no care for anything other than making her last two years of college one big party.
Levi Saints wants nothing more than to follow his dream of t...
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Motification boils through my veins.
Oh, God. Oh fuck.
With my back bent forward, I stay very still, unwilling to move an inch. No sound comes from above me, no yelling or screaming or cursing comes from the person whose shoes I just ruined with last night's tequila and this morning's hash browns.
Thankfully, none of it got in my hair, which shields my face from view. Small wins when you're desperate after humiliating yourself.
Lucifer if you're down there, now would be a great time to make a hole and swallow me up and away from this impending torture. Who are we kidding, he's probably sitting back and enjoying the show.
My cheeks felt like they were on fire. A bead of sweat drips down the side of my face. I clear my throat and instinctively pull a disgusted face at the taste left in my mouth.
The owner of the once-white sneakers takes one large step back.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take the napkin that held Nova's drink and discreetly wipe my mouth. Maybe if I stay like this long enough, they'll just walk away. But their feet don't move again and I sigh deeply, dread crawling in my chest.
I straighten out and raise my chin confidently, even though I would rather curl up into a fetal position and swear off alcohol for the near future but I knew my flaws and neither would be happening anytime soon.
My eyes trail up his body. From the grey sweatpants to the maroon athletic shirt covering wide-set shoulders and a lean yet defined muscular chest until they land on his face. Specifically, the annoyed scowl on his otherwise handsome face. Oh no.
His face is smooth and clean-shaven with a small scar at the edge of his bottom lip. His tawny beige skin stretches as he folds his arms in front of his chest. His afro is close-cropped on top of his head while the sides are shaved into a fade. Wow.
"Are you sick?"
My head jerks back in fright at his sudden question after the long silence. "What?" I ask dumbly.
He gazes down at his shoes before focusing back on me. "Are you sick?" He says slowly. "Do you have a stomach bug or something?" He questions with concerned disgust at his shoes.
I shake my head to the side and pause the moment sharp pain bursts around my temple. My eyes stop short on the athletic gear he's wearing including the duffle over his shoulder. "No, I'm not sick," I murmur, running a hand over my forehead, trying to alleviate the pain.
His eyebrows lift. "My shoes beg to differ," he quips, shifting on his feet.
Guilt surges through me. I purse my lips and give him a grimace. "I am so sorry—I'll buy you new shoes or clean them or something but no, no I'm not sick, I promise." Helpless, I look at his shoes instinctively knowing they're screwed. "I—uh, ate something bad," I say, unwilling to tell a random stranger that I'm hungover on the first day of school.
