older than I am. Definitely not built like any seventeen-year-olds I know. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, he looks like one of those Olympic gymnasts. I turn on my heel to leave. This boy is not part of the plan. Not the beginning, middle, or anywhere in between. “Briana, wait up!” Nick jogs to follow. “I’ll walk you to your dorm.” “It’s Bree, and no thanks.” When he catches up, his fresh-laundry-and-cedar scent comes with him. Of course he smells good. “Bree, short for Briana.” His dimple-edged smile is probably on a poster at a dentist’s office somewhere.
