-Sloane Pierce:
It had been four weeks. Four long weeks of going to Roxy's house almost every day, keeping an eye on her wounds, her progress, her stubborn refusal to ever take anything seriously.
Four weeks of trying, with every ounce of professionalism I could gather, to keep her at arm's length while she tugged me closer with words, with smiles, with that infuriating persistence that never cracked into malice, never tipped into anything inappropriate, but also never let me breathe.
I told myself I was strong enough to withstand her. I told myself she was just bored, trapped, restless in her recovery, that her flirting was some kind of elaborate game to pass the time.
But the truth was, no one had ever looked at me the way Roxy did. No one had ever looked through the layers I wrapped myself in, through the glasses and the bun and the loose clothes, through the armor of long sleeves and high collars, and decided that something underneath was worth chasing.
