A/N:  So, everybody is loving Weston.  Nobody wants to be on team Jackson?  Poor Jackson.  He has no fans.  :(

On with the chapter!

     Three seconds into the kiss and I realize how horrible an idea this is.  I mean, yeah, it is totally awesome in a weird kind of way, but then it registers in my brain who exactly I’m kissing.  The same guy who a couple of days ago, offered to weed whack my legs.  The same guy who’ll take any opportunity to comment on how ugly I am, compared to everyone and everything else.  And I realize that this kiss is going to come with a lot of repercussions.

     Sure, Weston is kissing me back, and automatically my brain wants to think its because he’s actually enjoying it.  But looking at this objectively, I remember that Kristina is only standing inches away.  She’d be able to tell if Weston is really into it, or if he’s faking.  I remind myself that he’s doing this for show, and right now, I’m extending the performance much longer than necessary.

     So, I jump back from the kiss.  Not too quickly, though, so it won’t seem like something’s wrong.  I don’t have the courage to look him in the eyes.  Who knows what distain is swimming in those dark orbs of his?  But suddenly, he presses his forehead up against mine.  A gesture that has me stunned.

     “You’re amazing.”  He mutters.  This is not real.  This is not real

     And then, it’s like something hits him over the head, because in a matter of seconds, Weston pulls away from me too, but much too quickly.  His sudden jump, causes him to bump into the guy behind him, who just happens to be juggling three cups of some unidentified liquid.  The cups go flying in the air, while Weston and the other guy fall on the ground, and both cups of liquid decide Weston is their target, before drenching his shirt and hair.

     The next thing I hear is Jackson’s laughter filling the air.  It’s soon followed by a few others who saw the situation, including Kristina.  I can see a hint of pink color his cheeks, so I offer him a hand, feeling kind of bad for him.  He doesn’t take it.  He pulls himself up from the ground, calmly walking towards the kitchen.  I follow him.

     He pulls open one of the drawers, grabbing a dishtowel from inside.  I grab it out of his hands.  “Here I’ll get it.”


     But before he can refuse, I’m already taking the towel, and attempting to dry his shirt.  I could smell alcohol, and I figure that the mysterious liquid was simply beer.  The only thing that would save the shirt would be a washer machine, not my horrible hand drying skills.  I would’ve given up, but as I keep drying, I feel little sparks on my fingertips.  I can feel every single muscle under that shirt, and boy, this guy has to be benching like 200lbs. 

     Oh god, WHAT am I doing?!

      “Addelyn, stop—”

     What if he knows that I totally was just feeling his abs?  Oh goodness, he’d never let me live it down!  I’d die of embarrassment, literally. 

     In this moment of thought, I don’t even realize that I’m probably rubbing him raw.  So, I drop the towel on the ground, and start sputtering like an idiot.  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!  Oh my god, I didn’t mean to…sorry.  I just… sorry, sorry.”

     Wow, it’s official.  I’m a loser. 


     “Sorry!”  I repeat, instinctively going back to dry him off some more, but I no longer have a towel in my hands, so now I’m just rubbing his shirt off with my hand.  Which is WAY worse, believe me.  “OH GOD!  Sorry!”

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