◆◆◆ Chapter 2 ◆◆◆
~ Anne McGiver ~
The rest of the class was torture.
I was barely registering a single word about cellular respiration or ATP. It was torture because every time I tried to catch Mr. Romans’s eye, he deliberately looked anywhere else. At his slides. At the students raising hands. At the f*****g clock on the wall.
Anywhere but me.
I leaned forward just enough to let the deep V of my blouse gape, offering a deliberate view of the lace edge of my bra and the swell of my breasts. Nothing.
I slowly uncrossed and recrossed my legs, letting my skirt ride high enough that the bare skin of my thigh was exposed almost to the crease where it met my hip. Nothing.
I dragged my lower lip between my teeth, slow and deliberate — the move that had gotten me three magazine covers and
