I know I’m no beauty queen—Liv is definitely the one in my group that would take that title—but this was harsh no matter how I look. I’m sure his type is a six foot tall, size zero model with flowing blonde locks and eyes as blue as the ocean. Basically the complete opposite of my five-foot, three-inch frame that hasn’t fit into a size zero since middle school . . . and even that is pushing it. My hair did have gold highlights for a while, but because I blast it with a flatiron at least once a week to tame my wild curls, I stopped dyeing it so it didn’t all fall out. And my eyes are more the color of trees—not the leaves, the trunks. They’re brown. I’m about as average as they come and I’m usually fine with that because most people have at least a sliver of manners.

In any other situation, I would be completely and utterly horrified. I mean, that’s not just rude, it’s hurtful! But thankfully for my tear ducts—and my pride—I’m just pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he was blessed with perfect, smooth dark brown skin and sharp cheekbones that are noticeable even with the thick beard that is infuriatingly even more gorgeous up close, does not mean that every woman who approaches him wants in his pants.

At my sides, my hands form into fists so tight that my neatly trimmed nails start digging into my palms, and I can actually feel the heat rising in my face like my head might explode at any second.

Even through my brown skin and peach blush, Quinton must see the red in my cheeks. He just reads it the wrong way.

I know he gets it wrong because instead of running away screaming, he has the audacity to touch me. His oversized hand wraps around my fist that is now shaking with the almost unbearable urge to punch him.

Much to my dismay, my body isn’t on the same page with my mind. Because as soon as his calloused palm rubs against the sensitive skin on the back of my hand, it’s like the fireworks that went off as the Mustangs ran onto the field moved into my pants. This only makes me more furious. I mean, I didn’t even know touching hands could do this! The freaking audacity! And, by the way, why couldn’t my body have reacted like this for any of the guys who actually weren’t jerks to me?

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He squeezes my hand and his voice is so patronizing that if I didn’t know the value of the hand touching me, I’d consider breaking it. “I’m just not interested.”