“She was smoking hot. Sexy and confident.” “And that makes it okay?” He sighs. “No.” “What would a twenty-nine-year-old, smoking hot, sexy, confident woman want with a fifteen-year-old boy? There’s no way you looked like this”—I wave a hand at his chiseled body—“at that age.” “I was a lot scrawnier,” he admits. “But I had my charm. And she was a good teacher.” A secretive smile touches his lips, as if he’s reminiscing. “She’s sick.”
