All through Miss Ryder’s American-lit lecture I fantasized about Robbie Marshall. His eyes. His smile. His lips.
I didn’t concentrate on my classwork, didn’t scrutinize the red comments on the essay Miss Ryder passed back.
By the end of class my chance collision with the school’s most gorgeous jock was completely entwined with my newfound desire to live my fantasy.
It had all become perfectly clear. I needed to kiss Robbie Marshall.
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