"Just because he's keen on you, doesn't mean we can't dream of our fair share of snogs, too."
"He's not keen on me!" Carmelita said hotly. Then she paused. "Well. Maybe. I don't know!"
"Car, look at him. He's Fit-on-Two-Legs, I'm not joking," Isobel insisted.
"I've looked at him too much," groaned Carmelita, but she did peek at him from under her dark, messy tresses.
Sure enough, he was staring at her, feathery hair carefully mussed like a model's, cheekbones modestly prominent, eyes like darkening mists. He was, Carmelita had realized, awfully fit. Too fit for his own good.