Not You It's Me

CHAPTER FOUR

ENOUGH

The camera's locked on me, and it's not moving. I catch a glimpse of myself on the huge, pixilated screen — a pale, dark-haired girl in a fancy black dress and ratty black sneakers. Too many curves, too many curls, and no one to kiss. I know there's panic flashing in my eyes — hell, I can see it, blown up to jumbo proportions on every screen in the arena. And so can everyone else.

I'm a freaking ant beneath a microscope.

The crowd starts to titter — oh, honey, look at that poor girl — and I'm getting a little desperate, so I swallow hard, throw back my shoulders, and sneak a glance at Ralph. He's still on his phone, the bastard, totally unaware that we've become the central act at the kiss-cam circus. Forcing a smile to cover my deep mortification, I elbow him sharply in the side, but he just bats me away with a hand and a glare before returning to his phone call.

I groan.

The crowd explodes with laughter.

I try to smile too, like I'm in on the joke, but it's wobbly — I can feel it trembling on my lips — and I begin to wonder if the man behind the camera is some kind of sociopath, because frankly, the fact that he's still filming right now — while surely entertaining for everyone who, you know, isn't me — is pure evil.

I look up at the camera and shrug my shoulders, hoping the yes-my-boyfriend-is-in-fact-a-total-asshole expression translates to the crowd. I think I succeed, since the laughter gets even louder, but suddenly I'm distracted by the wall of man blocking my view of the jumbotron.

Green Eyes is out of his seat.

His eyes are on mine, and he's reaching for my hand.

The crowd is going wild and my brain is short-circuiting, but apparently my hand doesn't need executive functions to tell it what to do, because it's lifting from my lap and slipping into his.

Before I can form a single thought, he's pulling me out of my chair.

Sliding one arm around my waist.

Slipping one hand behind my neck.

His eyes never leave mine as he leans in, bending me backward over his arm in a full-on, movie-star dip, and the only thought in my head is ohmigod, there's no way he's going to kiss me right now, but then even that disappears when his lips move closer and my mind blanks entirely.

Because he's kissing me.

And it's good.

No, actually, it's great.

It's not the soft, sympathetic, pity-kiss you'd expect in a situation like this.

It's a full on, invade-your-senses, shatter-your-world, boil-your-blood kiss. With tongue.

For a moment, I'm so stunned, I just hang there limply... but then my brain catches up to my body and I realize that the hottest freaking man I've ever seen is kissing me like I've never, ever been kissed before, and that I might never be kissed like this again for the rest of my whole pathetic life, so I damn well better enjoy it while it lasts.

Without another thought, my arms twine around his neck, my mouth opens under his, and I'm returning his kiss without hesitation, with abandon. He feels my response and a low growl vibrates from his throat — for a second, I think he's angry, but I quickly realize it's a good growl when he pulls me tighter to him, so I'm fully plastered against the hard plane of his body. Thoughts long-chased from my mind, I don't even try to think of reasons this is a bad idea. I melt into him like my limbs are made of water.