Tilly
Chase was leaning against the stable door like a thief waiting for trouble when I got there—in his defense, he never hid that part of himself from me.
His mischievousness was one of the quirks I loved about him. The boy could conjure trouble out of thin air.
Moonlight cut across his face, sharpening that jaw, those lips, the arrogant slant of his powerful shoulders. It was hard to believe we were of the same age. I looked like a doll next to him.
And there was no wheelchair.
The thought skittered through my mind like a mouse across a floor.
He was just standing there. Like he'd been doing it his whole life. Watching me approach.
I wanted to ask why he was on wheelchair sometimes and standing the next minute. Does he need it? Does he not need it?
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Not now.
Instead, I snapped my fingers at him. "Hey! My eyes are up here, Pervert!"
He was practically undressing me with his eyes.
"Not my fault. You're late," he said, smirking.
