Ruthless Bishop (Sinners and Saints #3) - Veronica Eden Page 0,1
than mine. Instead, the romper fits to my big hips and rides up my thighs. Thank god for still photos where I can fake like I’m not trying to pick the material my ass is eating every two seconds.
Mom doesn’t know I own the romper, or some of the other clothes hidden in the closet. I have to rotate my hiding spots because she is a notorious snooper.
Photo-me looks up from the phone screen with bedroom eyes, my lashes fluttered low over my blue-green eyes. My dark red curls are tossed over strategically to give my hair that bombshell volume, spilling down my neck and over one shoulder as I lean forward to show off my cleavage. My plump lips are puckered into duck lips. I can’t help it, duck lips are my go to when I put myself on the spot in the hopes I’ll capture something natural and effortless. It’s me, and yet…not.
My gaze slides to the mirror and my shoulders droop as soon as I eye my reflection critically.
Mirrors and phone cameras must have a deal with the devil.
Somehow the reflection and the pictures never match up. Maybe the girl I am in my secret folder of photos exists only in digital format.
Squinting, I lean closer. Is that—? Yup. That’s flour in my hair. I sink my fingers into my curls with an aggravated sigh and shake them out as I check the photo. Fan-flipping-tastic.
I thought I cleaned myself up after baking the rustic cranberry tarts I’ve been trying to perfect when I got home from school, but I must have missed some. What else is new? I’m almost always covered in some ingredient with my love of baking.
Okay, attempt number twenty-one.
This time I crop part of my face out of the frame and go for a coy smirk. Once I snap the photo, I drop out of the pose and perch on the arm of the floral print cushioned chair by the window, nudging one of my infinite recipe notebooks onto the seat.
“Not bad.” I tilt my head and scrunch my lips to the side. The next dilemma occurs to me and my eyes widen. “Crap.”
I’m already being bold with the photo, but should I say anything or just send the picture? What do people normally say when they send selfies revealing their thirst levels to their crush? Oh god, I’m going to screw this up. I’m so bad at this!
The glow of headlights shining through the window distracts me from my momentary panic as a dark silver SUV pulls into the house next door. The Bishop’s place. I’m the lucky duck who not only has the school principal for a neighbor but also his vicious son, Connor Bishop. Most of the time he ignores my existence, but on days he doesn’t, he’s the champion of the crusade against me and my favorite sweaters.
“Oh freaking great,” I mumble, ducking down in the chair so he doesn’t look up to my window and think I’m creeping on him.
I’m not risking Connor seeing me in this romper, either. No free shows for that asshole.
The headlights cut off as he parks outside of the garage. Their house looks like it belongs in the Hollywood Hills with its sprawling paved terraces, huge arched windows, and terracotta tiled roof. It stands out against the other houses, like mine, that resemble mountain lodges and chalets with stone columns and dark accents. Almost everything in our town matches the same mountain vibe. Our neighborhood is comfortably upscale as far as Ridgeview goes, but Connor’s is the biggest on the street.
Curling my fingers over the back of the chair, I peek past the sheer lavender curtains and watch him slam the door of the Lexus GX with a bag of soccer balls hooked over his shoulder. It makes his bicep flex, stretching his green varsity soccer shirt taut.
Why do mean boys always have to look like that? He’s an angel-faced demon in disguise with his striking gray eyes, floppy light brown hair, and a dangerous, dazzling smile he uses to melt the panties off of his adoring fangirls. Not that I know what his charm-up-to-eleven smile looks like up close. I only get the cruel smirks directed my way when I have the misfortune of catching his attention.
Collapsing back into the chair, I bite my lip and push Connor Bishop from my mind. I’m a girl on a mission to flirt. He isn’t messing this up for me.