I froze at the sound of that smooth, caffè latte voice. I hated it. It rasped over my already edgy nerves and dragged me back ten years in time, to the last time I’d spoken with Simon Pierce, here in this very building. On the last day of school, the final hour actually, he’d cornered me in the narrow corridor outside the hall. He’d crowded me with his larger body and touched my breast. In distraught confusion, I’d thought he was going to kiss me goodbye. I’d wanted him to. But with a knowing look he’d pulled away and left me flushing with embarrassed disappointment and a message in black marker pen on my breast. Next Time, Simon. I’d felt that touch every day for the last ten years, my breath hitching in my throat, my nipple contracting under his hand. I still had the shirt too, because many of my friends had signed it and I couldn’t throw it away just because he’d spoiled it. I turned to face him now, hoping he hadn’t noticed me falter, and my gaze slammed into his winter-sky-blue eyes.
