She leans back, sinking into the couch, and narrows her dark-brown eyes at me. I just know I’m gonna hate whatever comes out of her mouth next. “Who is she?” There’s no point denying it. Stella can read me better than just about anyone. Except Finn, he’s got some weird, psychic shit going on, I swear. And the last thing I want is her to go on a spiel about how doe-eyed and lovestruck I seem.
