Lily Evans peeked over the top of her book, her emerald eyes searching for that familiar shock of jet black hair. She’d been staring at James Potter a lot lately – using the utmost stealth and secrecy, of course – and watching him now it wasn’t difficult to pinpoint why.
He had a disarmingly charming smile, for one. It didn’t hurt that he was extremely fit, either. Like corded-arms-and-muscles-that-rippled-beneath-his-tan-skin-when-he-so-much-as-shifted fit. And his laugh was so damn infectious it hurt.