Chapter 3: The Locker, Part 2

With a lift of his hand, a wave of heat washed over Cianne's entire body. The reaction her body went through when Tristan was near, she explained away as nervous attraction. Clearly, she was both nervous and attracted to him. Only she had a feeling that the heat she felt was no more normal than she was.

Cianne took a step back to widen the space between them. While hot, this level of heat didn't compare to the heat she felt at their first meeting a few years ago in middle school. On that day, the heat that assaulted her was intense. She actually feared that her skin had burned that day as she fled to the girl's bathroom.

The mirror revealed that she was perfectly fine. Needless to say, her little freak out had been the talk of the school. Well, it was the talk until one of the teachers fell in the gym. Cianne had made sure she kept her distance from Tristan Bertram the rest of that day and every day that followed.

That was why being near Tristan was so unsettling to her.

She continued to back away from him until she felt the cold steel of her locker door through the thin shirt she wore. Cianne embraced the chill that seeped into her skin as her eyes lowered to the palm of his outstretched hand. In it was her cell phone. Relieved, she stretched her lips into a rare smile. If she lost another phone, it would be the third one this year.

But her relief at the sight of the phone didn't ease her anxiety. Tristan's attention was on her and he was standing too close.

Cianne didn't reach for her phone right away nor did she look up at him. To be honest, she didn't need too to look at Tristan. She knew his face like she knew her own. His tanned skin was impeccable, with the exception of a barely noticeable two-inch scar that began at the lobe of his left ear and trailed under his chin. His eyes were blue, remarkable, and depending on the light, could transform from a light Carolina blue to a dark royal blue.

He stood about six foot two, taller than her five foot eight. He had the body of a professional athlete, with sculpted streamlined muscles that made her want to stop and stare. His dark brown hair was cut close now, but for a couple of years, he wore it longer, so she knew it had a little curl to it. Cianne liked the curls but short was a good look for him too.

Today, he wore a fitted gray T-shirt, black cargo shorts, and a pair of black and white running shoes. As always, he was a mix of what she called comfortable-perfection. Everything about him was perfect, though nothing compared to Tristan's most incredible asset, his smile. Cianne had a mental meltdown whenever she saw it.

Seemingly confused by her reluctance to take her phone, Tristan extended his hand more. "I found this on the floor over there." He motioned to the hallway she walked through earlier.

Cianne tried to stay calm as she focused on his outstretched hand and was relieved that the familiar warmth he always ignited inside her had decreased to a mild annoyance.

Tristan sighed as he lowered his hand.

Cianne knew that he wanted some kind of response from her so she went over several in her head. Don't say something stupid. . .and try to sound normal. She decided on, "Thank you. I thought I lost another one."

That wouldn't win "the best response ever" award but it was all she could manage.

Ignoring the urge to caress his palm, Cianne took the phone from Tristan's hand without touching his skin. She glanced back up at his smiling eyes and almost sighed before turning her back to him and facing her locker.

"I. . .uh, I'm glad I found it then."

She fidgeted with stuff in her locker to look busy but she was certain she just looked ridiculous. In Tristan's presence, Cianne found it virtually impossible to relax. He was definitely the kind of guy who got a girl's blood racing. . .or boiling. Especially when she felt his eyes on her.

Cianne nervously glanced at her hand. No dark veins.

Somewhat comforted, she tried to think of why he was still there, staring at her. Is my hair out of place? Does he hate my new shirt? Calm. . .nope, she was failing at staying calm. She actually launched into a self-conscious breakdown, picking apart everything she could think of that could be wrong.

Tristan cleared his throat. "I was thinking," he began, "there's a back to school party in Phoenix this weekend and-"

"Hey, Tristan," a chorus of passing girls sang out, interrupting him.

Cianne saw them pass by out of the corner of her eye.

They giggled, waved at Tristan, and jostled one another as they walked by.

"Hey," Tristan said, as he tilted his head slightly in their direction. He followed with a halfhearted smile and waved.

With her appearance forgotten, Cianne thought that his voice sounded automatic, almost empty. She dismissed it as the sound of the girls arguing over which of them were the intended recipient of Tristan's greeting amped up in volume even though they were moving away.

Cianne looked over at Tristan then past him to the group of girls as they made their way down the hallway. The girls erupted in a single inharmonious scream when they looked back and saw Tristan watching them too. Cianne shook her head at the high-frequency giggles of her classmates and focused back on her locker.

The clicking sound of Tristan opening his own locker was almost deafening. She had to get away from him. How they had been assigned lockers next to each other was still a mystery to her. Not just to her-it seemed that every girl in their graduating class openly questioned their locker assignments. His homeroom was on the north side of the building so his locker should be located in the north hallway, not next to hers which was in the east hall.

Cianne had no clue how it happened, but she refused several bribes from his admirers to switch with her. She wasn't about to give her assigned locker to anyone. At least that was what she told herself before Tristan started a regular campaign to engage her in conversation. It was already difficult ignoring the pull of his magnetism but now that he was her locker neighbor, avoiding him was almost impossible.

The sound of ruffled papers coming from Tristan's locker was a hopeful sign that maybe he forgot what he was about to say about the party. Cianne was reveling in her reprieve when his hand gripped the side of her locker door. He slowly eased the door she often used as a barrier between them back until he had a clear view of her profile.

"So, about the party,"

"I don't go to parties," Cianne said, without hesitating. She leaned forward, using her long dark hair to hide her face.

"Dude?"

Cianne glanced up when she heard the familiar voice and saw Brian, Tristan's best friend, walking up. Relief washed over her, but she kept her head lowered.

Tristan tapped her locker a few times. "Right." He sighed as he moved her locker door back the way it was.

When he closed his locker, she felt rather than witnessed him turn and walk away.