“I ain’t hot.”

“A liar on top of being prickly. You’re the entire package, aren’t you?”

Was anything coming out of his mouth not outrageous? I had a feeling if I asked, he’d say something shocking on principle.

“Okay. Fine. I’m a little hot, but I’ve been wearin’ hoodies for years and it hasn’t affected my work here one bit. Ain’t my fault I’m good at things,” I huffed.

“I’m good at things.” He quirked an eyebrow, sticking a candy apple stick he produced out of nowhere into the side of his mouth, smirking. “They’re just not resume-appropriate.”

He handed me another stick from his back pocket. I shook my head, which, by the way, was painfully close to detonating from the sexual innuendo thrown my way.

He was riling me up on purpose, making fun of Toastie by acting like she stood a chance. Talk to the fire victim about being hot … that should be fun. I could practically hear him and De La Salle plotting it together like two mega villains in a sleek spaceship, stroking look-alike black cats.

“Get used to the heat. Things get progressively worse. By June, we dab our faces with ice packs. July and August are a blur of heatwave headaches and suicidal thoughts. I suggest you get the heck outta here by summer break.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m sticking around for the summer. Better stock up on ice and find the local suicide hotline.”

He sounded businesslike, dry, and tough as hell. But he did not sound like he wanted to murder me, which was good news, I guessed.

“That’s a shame.”

“Not for me.” He rolled the candy stick in his mouth, dragging a rag across his station. I noticed he kept his space squeaky clean. “Home sucks.”

“Where’s home?” I slurped my slushie.

“Maine.”

“How come you’re not goin’?”

“Not many jobs available in Bumfuck Creek.”

“Please tell me that’s your town’s real name.”

“Wish it was.” He scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles, dumping the rag on the counter. “That’d be the only good thing about it.”

I looked away again, feeling crappy for assuming he made enough at the fighting arena when he’d first asked for the job. Who was I to make assumptions about his financial situation? I took his privileged asshole reputation and ran with it, even though it enraged me when people judged me based on rumors.

We hit a slow hour. The sleepy pocket between dinnertime to post-frat party munchies. Mrs. Contreras’ policy was that we couldn’t use our phones, unless it was an emergency call, so ignoring one another was pretty hard, seeing as we were each other’s sole source of entertainment.

A few minutes later, West piped up again, “Mind if I lose the shirt?”

“Hmm, what?” I whirled around, glaring at him.

“I’m about to turn into a fucking puddle. Doubt I’d be much help liquefied.”

“Uh …” My eyes roamed the truck. “I’m not sure strippin’ is the best course of action. For one thing, it’s highly unhygienic.”

“I’m not going to hold the tongs with my nipples,” he said wryly. “Unless it’ll get us more tips. In which case, I’m open to trying.”

I let out a stunned, hysterical laugh. I didn’t want to see his nipples, or any other part of him. In fact, I didn’t want to acknowledge he had more of that bronze, muscular body underneath his clothes. It was bad enough the flawlessness of him was right in front of my eyes all shift.

“I was referrin’ to your chest hair.”

Stop talking about his chest. Stop speaking at all, Grace.

“Ain’t got none,” he said in a fake Texan accent I’d find insulting if it wasn’t so accurate. He held the hem of his faded tee, raising it up to his brown nipples. His body was smooth, tan, and hairless. His six-pack was something out of an Armani underwear commercial. I wanted to trace the ridges between his abs with my index finger, which was extremely unexpected and laughable altogether.

I didn’t crush on people.

Not anymore, anyway.

“Final verdict?” He dropped the shirt, waiting for an answer.

I felt myself turning crimson. I didn’t want to look like a nerd and a prude.

“No.”

“Let me amend: I was being polite. I’m taking off the fucking shirt, and, if I am being honest, you should do the same.”

A second later, West’s shirt was gone, and his six-pack was accompanied by defined pecs, Adonis belt veins, and the kind of back you wanted to marry. He turned to the grill and resumed his work. He had a faded purple-yellow welt on his lower back.

“Lookie here, Virgin Mary is still alive.” He smirked when he caught me glaring.

I cleared my throat and looked away.

He moved past me, clapping my shoulder casually.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. For you to get knocked up, we’d have to at least hold hands. You’re safe with me.”

West St. Claire had touched me. Willingly.

My throat clogged up unexpectedly, the normalcy in his action making me feel like my old self for a fraction of a second. Not that I was bullied for having a scar. Not per se.

In some ways, people’s reactions were far worse. Girls were nice to me in a fake, superficial, we’re-cool-but-don’t-get-too-close way. It was obvious I wasn’t a competition to them anymore. Guys ignored me altogether. I confused them. I still had the same cheerleader body and long blonde hair, but I also had the scars, and they knew that whatever was wrong with the left side of my face bled underneath the clothes, to the rest of my torso.

At first, after the fire, I’d actually had the audacity to try to pretend everything was normal. To hatch the phoenix from its egg with a hammer. I went to the same parties, hung out with the same people. My peers set the record straight at supersonic speed. Through whispers, giggles, gasps, and rumors. My then-boyfriend, Tucker, whom I’d lost my virginity to, cemented the fact I was no longer my old self by quickly replacing me with Rachelle Muir, a fellow flyer. Everyone evaporated from my life like the sweat under my hoodie. The only people who stayed were Karlie and Grandma Savvy.

“Hellooooo?” a feminine voice drawled from outside the window. “Anybody in there?”

Yeah, me and my deranged, teenybopper thoughts.