Free Ninja At First Sight by Penny Reid

that?” He whistled low then added, “If that’s how you kiss then you should apologize.”
    I tried not to grimace. I tried, and failed.
    Mark’s attention moved from me to Greg, then back again. “Who is this guy?”
    I sighed, my flustered frustration punctuated by the puff of white condensation as I exhaled. “That’s Greg.”
    “Greg?”
    “Yes. Greg. He… lives on my floor.”
    Mark’s eyes narrowed.
    “Is he your boyfriend?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Not yet,” Greg added helpfully.
    My grimace morphed into a scowl and my betraying heart quadrupled with traitorous glee as I sought to clarify, “Greg lives on my floor. He’s not my boyfriend. I wouldn’t have gone on a date with you if I had a boyfriend.”
    Why I felt the need to clarify wasn’t exactly clear since I had no intention of going out with Mark again; yet the thought of Mark walking away from this evening thinking of me as a bad person didn’t sit right either.
    Mark’s expression softened just before Greg volunteered, “That’s right. We’re not dating. We just make out sometimes, like yesterday.”
    I couldn’t help it, I groaned. And it wasn’t just a grown of embarrassment, but a semi-moan of remembering what it was like to make out with Greg. Making out with Greg was beyond divine and he certainly never rationed his tongue.
    Out of nowhere, I was having a hot flash.
    I closed my eyes and let my chin drop to my chest, painful mortification expanding like an inflating balloon from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. Strangely, I didn’t feel embarrassed for myself; rather, I felt terribly sorry for Mark and regretful of the situation.
    And I felt like a bad person.
    I heard Mark’s boots crunch on the snow as he backed away from me, his voice ripe with disdain. “I thought you were a nice girl, Fiona. I guess I was wrong. You don’t have to worry about me calling you again, that’s for certain.”
    Cringing, bracing for what I felt sure I would find, I lifted my gaze and found Mark staring at me with resolute indictment.
    When our eyes met, he warned hatefully, “And don’t come to me for help when you can’t tell Manet from Monet.”
    With that he huffed, turned, and stomped off. I watched him go until he moved beyond the perimeter of the dorm lights and was swallowed by the dark Valentine’s night.
    Mark really was a nice guy. It really had been a nice date. Just nice. Not great, not fun, not interesting or thrilling or exciting. Just… nice.
    And very, very wrong.
    Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I wasn’t nice. Maybe my feelings of self-reproach and guilt were warranted. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone on a date with Mark when I was more than interested in—and by interested in I mean utterly infatuated with—Greg.
    This was messy.
    I heard Greg clear his throat again, rather obnoxiously, pulling me from my thoughts. I gathered a steadying breath and affixed Greg with a suspicious glare, hoping it communicated the weight of my ire.
    “I’m not talking to you,” I said through gritted teeth. I was mad of course, but mostly at myself.
    “I see. You’re struck speechless with gratitude. Don’t fret too much,” he gave me a half smile as his gaze swept up, then down my body, adding darkly, “I’m not all that interested in talking anyway.”
    I made a sound in the back of my throat that I wasn’t expecting, a half swallow-misfire half huff, and turned completely around to face him. And, confound it, I was blushing.
    He was beyond exasperating. Just yesterday he’d encouraged me to go on the date with Mark. In fact, after he gave me my first kiss and first French kiss, he’d insisted I go on the date with Mark. Then he packed up his tequila and left. Then he’d avoided me all day. So why was he now standing there behaving like the jealous boyfriend?
    I leveled him with what I hoped was an incendiary stare as I stomped past him into the dorm, and made a beeline for the stairwell.
    He was close behind