"You're the worst kind of obsession, Jolene. My obsession. One I can't seem to find a cure for and if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I ever want to find one."
***
My initial plan is to get far away from here. I emphasize on the word 'initial', becau...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
JOLENE'S POV
I hear the shopkeeper's bell jingle but I'm too invested in Mr. Darcy and Elisabeth's story to even glance at who's just walked in the shop.
I'm reading that passage in which they dance together at the Netherfield Ball. We know how he feels about her but she can't fathom it yet and I'm so into it I'm helding my breath as I my eyes scan the paper.
Then someone clears his throat, and I jolt, putting my book aside.
My eyes suddenly land on a bottle of whiskey and a pack of extra-large condoms on the counter before me. I've been a cashier for quite some time now, and over the summers I learned not to judge other people's baskets. But they're gonna have a hell of a night. And he has a hell of a dick.
I fail to suppress a grin before my gaze lands on the client.
My smile falls and my eyes widen.
Tan skin.
Brown hair.
Blue, blue eyes.
He's been in town for what? Three days in total? And he already has the need to buy condoms?
"You got an ID?" I ask, trying to sound relaxed while I'm simmering inside. If I'm being honest with myself, it's probably because I'm a little bit jealous. Of whom? I don't know, the girl he's planning to fuck at the party tonight?
But why? Because I'm probably a little horny and I knew him first? Even I can tell it's actually not a good, logical reason.
Buchanan runs his tongue over his front teeth, hiding a smirk as he shakes his head.
And suddenly I want this tongue on me. In me. Everywhere.
I may or may not have a hyper fixation on his tongue and it's creeping me out.
I almost forget the pack of condoms between us, that he surely buys because he plans to fuck another girl than me, as I absently rub my thighs together on my stool to ease the growing need to get laid.
By him, preferably. But I know it won't happen.
"Jenna, right?" he says with a scowl, as if he's not really sure.
Is he fucking kidding?
"My name's Lena," I clip.
"Lena," he almost looks apologetic. Almost. Too bad. "Listen. These," he gestures at the pack of extra-large condoms - because of course he wears extra-large -, "are not for me."
"Sure," I reply, making an effort to sound careless.
I'm not, and he knows it.
"I promise."
"Good for you," I say flatly. "Now you got an ID for the bottle or not?"
He sighs and finally buries his hand in his front pocket before taking out his wallet, then his driver's license and handing it to me.
