He grabbed the ledge of the booth, his knuckles blanching white, while he feigned focus on the crowd filling up the hall. "I like someone else."
"That was quick," I said, trying not to vocalize my disappointment. "You've been here a whole week now. Who? The cheerleader to her left or right? Or maybe long legs Fitzpatrick?" I was jealous and, while I'd heard the emotion associated with the color green, I felt and saw nothing but red.
"Nope, not my type," he answered simply.
"Just what is your type?" I didn't really want to know if girls - who were gorgeous in my book - didn't clear his bar.
He didn't let a second fill in the space between us before answering. "You."