Cassie
By Thursday, I had learned there was something uniquely humiliating about kissing a man you’d been friends with for years.
It wasn’t the kissing itself. I was becoming embarrassingly fond of that part.
It was everything around it.
Like sitting beside Brett in class and suddenly being aware of his thigh touching mine when that same thigh had been touching mine twice a week for two semesters without causing a complete breakdown of my ability to understand basic economics.
“You’re doing it again,” Brett whispered.
I kept my eyes on Professor Hall. “Doing what?”
“Staring at my leg.”
“I am not staring at your leg.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was looking at the floor.”
“My leg is not the floor.”
“Your ego is exhausting.”
He leaned closer. “You like my legs.”
Unfortunately, I
