Somebody taps on my window, my name whispered through the glass.
Looking over at the window, my brows knit together in confusion but I slide off my bed, sweeping the curtains out of the way.
A pair of shocking green eyes and messy boyish hair and I know exactly who it is.
I let go of the curtains, letting them fall back into place.
"Hey!" Jameson protests, loud enough for me to hear clearly.
Jameson Hawthorne is not at my window. This is not happening.
I take a deep breath, straightening my posture, and return to the window, moving the curtains away from the glass.
Jameson grins at me, dimples etched deep into his cheeks.
I roll my eyes and unlock the window, sliding the frame up so he can climb through.
"You know, you're the reason I keep my windows locked." I tell him, setting my hands on my hips. "You're like a monkey, lurking on my balcony all the time."
Jameson smiles. "I can't help it."
"I've also only been here a week. Would it kill you to let me have some space?" I ask, taking a seat back on my bed. Jameson chuckles. It's a deep sound that rattles his chest. I look up at him.
"It just might." Jameson tells me, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pajamas.
Jameson is good looking but he's not going to charm me with his little witch spells to make me like him. He's always scaring me and asking me impossible riddles that I can't answer and it's annoying.
"Why are you here?" I ask him, standing to face him. I feel short sitting there with him towering over me and I can't have that.
Jameson raises a brow. "It's my house."
"Wrong! It's my house." I shoot back, hair falling over my shoulders.
Jameson laughs, like it's funny.
It's not funny.
I wanna punch him for looking so good when he laughs. It makes me mad that someone could be so beautiful, like a piece of art.
"Okay, you can leave now." I sprint to the door and open it, motioning for him to leave through the opening. He crinkles his nose and sets his hands on his hips.
He looks like my sister when he does that.
When his face stops looking like it got smashed like a baseball bat, he makes his way toward my bookshelf but before he can do anything fishy, I ask what he's doing.
Jameson turns and shrugs. "This is my front door."
He does something magic with his hands and suddenly, he's gone.
I knit my brows together and shut the door cautiously, making my way back to my bed. I watch the bookshelf for a long time, waiting for him to appear again, to knock at my window.
Perhaps I shouldn't have told him to go but he's scary to be around. It's like I don't want to say something wrong that will make look bad, like I can't slip up.
Jameson Hawthorne. A regal name and given to the right person.
