Chapter Eight
He wore jeans, jeans that hugged his arse and made it impossible for me not to think about pinching him there. He'd done it on purpose, appealing to every girl’s lustful dreams about cowboys and their macho, sexually animalistic ways. I wished I was wearing jeans, not that my arse could match his in the pinchable stakes. I'd eaten far too many fry ups for mine to be considered attractive. It looked more like an unruly mound of jelly than a pinchable peach. I wore Donna's navy blue skater dress, and right now every nettle in the vicinity wouldn't settle until they'd stung me to death. I definitely should have worn jeans, damn him for not disclosing that we'd be waist deep in gnarly thorns.
Perhaps he just an opportunistic killer? Singling out the really pathetic member of th
