Suri Nightingale
Everyone was staring at me, and I don’t mean most people that I passed by. I mean everyone. The staff of the hotel, the parents and even grandparents. Even the freaking children who are not even supposed to care about a girl before they hit puberty.
Granted, they might either be amused at how colorful and shiny I was, but still, the feeling of having eyes on me with every step I took is, in all capital and bold font letters, WEIRD.
The only reason I managed to not end up hurling in front of everyone was because I kept telling myself that they’re all probably also looking at the three–four if you want to count Keith–hard to look away from men walking beside me, because they may be assholes to me, but they’re still stupidly attractive assholes.
Including the fact that
