Addicted [BoyxBoy]

Rich Girl

"I think I could be a Hollister model."

My laugh echoed through the store, turning a few heads.

He looked offended. "What makes you think I can't?"

"Hollister models are attractive," I said simply.

We were inside of a Hollister store, and a poster of someone wearing the clothes evoked his delusional thoughts.

He rolled his eyes and pointed to the guy in the poster above the wall racks.

"I'm way more attractive than this guy," he whined, making me turn my head away.

"Keep telling yourself that," I mumbled as I shifted through the tops.

I honestly thought that he could be, with how attractive he was. I didn't say that for obvious reasons; feelings for him would drive a wedge between us that would get stuck and never move. I enjoyed his company, so I had to start suppressing the crap that bubbled up from my heart.

I was busy looking through the circular rack of shirts, and I noticed that he was silent for too long. I looked over to him, and his tall figure was looming over a rack of dark pants. He was staring at me, similar to the way he stared at me in the movie theater.

"Bobby, you've gotta stop with the staring," I said bluntly, not letting a smile creep up on me.

He grinned, letting his eyes close for a moment. His face was resting on his arms, and for that quick moment, he looked heavenly. So heavenly, in fact, a soft gasp threatened to escape my mouth. I held it back, making me choke a little.

His eyes opened slowly as he mumbled, "I can't get over how different you are. So focused, so confident. . . so strong."

I looked down, hiding the inevitable flushing of my cheeks. "Sure," I breathed, looking through the rack again, "Just please stop staring."

I heard him chuckle and say, "Can't make any promises."

My heart began to race at his words.

He wouldn't say that unless he truly cares.

Before I could continue to dwell on it like an overemotional teenage girl, the rack shifted under my hands. I looked up to see Bobby leaning over the rack, staring at me. He was four inches from my face, eyeing me curiously.

"How long does it take to pick a shirt, Caleb?" he asked me, a smirk just pulling at the corner of his mouth.

I rolled my eyes and huffed. "Look, you may not be as concerned with the way you present yourself," I waved in his direction, my sassy-hand making an appearance, "But my reputation for being a fabulous piece of pie is a long-standing one, and it takes some time to perfect." I gestured toward myself and my particularly handsome ensemble (at least, I thought so).

He simply looked down, chuckling lightly. I went back to searching shirts, not seeing anything that suited me.

"What makes you think I don't care about my presentation?" he asked, the playful hurt in his voice raising it in pitch.

I stayed silent, and looked him up and down. I didn't need to speak; my eyes said it all.

He was wearing a black tank top, a pair of silver basketball shorts and Adidas sandals.

Need I say more?

"What, are you saying that I don't dress well enough?"

"You dress fine," I shrug, circling the rack, "but your wardrobe could use some serious revamping."