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Summary
"Stan's the son of a friend of mine," Lillian explained, looping herself around Stanley's arm and affectionately brushing a stubborn lock of hair away from his forehead. "What a coincidence that they happened to send you to Houston." Her smile widened. "Stanley works for the military. He's a fighter pilot." She sounded absurdly proud, as though he were her own son.
"That's a pretty elegant line of work," Xeno remarked, meeting Stanley's gaze once again.
But dear God.
What the hell was with those lips?
or:
Xeno figured he was already on the road to hell–that he’d go flying headfirst down the slippery slope, courtesy of teenage backtalk and the absolute idiots he had the misfortune of working with.
Maybe that’s how it would’ve gone. Maybe he’d have broken his neck and his nose somewhere along the way and ended up a bitter old bachelor with a serious grudge against the world, if not for that flicker of admiration in those amber eyes and the way the corners of those violet lips pulled into a smile.