Chapter 6: Rachel’s New Obsession

“Where’s that brat Tyler? I’ve been back for days and he still hasn’t come to see me?”

Rachel flicked her thick, honey-blonde curls, a look of displeasure on her beautiful face.

I lounged on the sofa, watching models show off the latest season’s styles on YouTube.

The apartment was all soft throws and fairy lights, the faint smell of popcorn lingering from our last binge-watch. Rachel looked every bit the Instagram influencer, even in her old college sweatshirt.

To this childhood friend who grew up with Tyler and me, I explained:

“He said last time you came back, you made him model for you and scolded him the whole time. He’s still traumatized.”

Rachel’s lips curled up coldly:

“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in him now.”

“A few days ago, I passed a repair shop and saw a straight-up ten. Like, cover-of-GQ level.”

“I’ll take you to check him out later. I want him to model for me.”

Straight-up ten?

Caleb’s face flashed through my mind.

I took out my phone and tapped the screen.

No new messages.

I raised my brow slightly.

A little part of me itched to text first, but I held back. Gotta play it cool, right?

That evening, after Miss Rachel had shopped to her heart’s content, we wandered through racks of vintage Levi’s and neon crop tops, the air thick with the smell of cinnamon pretzels from the food court. Then she rode her new bike and brought me to the repair shop.

The boss greeted us with bright eyes.

He looked like he’d just seen a celebrity walk in—Rachel did have that effect, especially with her oversized sunglasses and designer tote.

Before he could speak, Rachel pointed to a guy not far away:

“That one. Bring him over.”

The guy looked up, world-weary and indifferent.

But when he saw me, he paused for a split second.

I looked at Caleb—black tank top, broad shoulders, narrow waist, smooth arm muscles. My pulse skipped. Who knew a grease-stained tank top could look so good? I couldn’t help but smile.

He looked so different outside of class—less brooding heartthrob, more rugged-mechanic, the kind you’d see in a GQ spread on ‘America’s Hottest Blue-Collar Jobs.’

“How about it? He’s a straight-up ten. Like, cover-of-GQ level.”

“Perfect features, golden ratio, photogenic as hell.”

Rachel’s eyes were practically sparkling with artistic hunger.

“Yeah, straight-up ten.”

I looked at Caleb, who was walking toward us, and replied softly.