'Hey, uh… Clary, right?'

Recovering from the total paralysis that had momentarily struck me at the sound of my name on his (utterly perfect) lips, I turned around in my seat, hesitantly bringing my eyes up to meet his.

Seated at the desk behind me, looking every inch a schoolboy Adonis, was Jace Wayland. Not only the best looking boy I had ever seen (including the celebrity pretty boys of Hollywood), but the object of a pathetically desperate crush I had held since I was thirteen and fortunate, or more honestly, unfortunate enough to witness beauty incarnate entering my class room. More than three years later, I was still dazzled by his sensational good looks, yet he had remained altogether immune to my own personal charms. Of which there were plenty, alright?

Once, as I admired the strong, tanned lines of his flawless cheek bones in our school year book (he photographed beautifully, of course, and the page was dog-eared and bookmarked), I measured his facial proportions against that of Fibonacci's Golden Ratio, a divine proportion renowned amongst mathematicians, philosophers and artists for centuries for the beauty resulting from its use. That day I discovered that even reduced to mathematics, his face proved aesthetically faultless. However, Jace Wayland's appeal was more than just golden features placed according to symmetry and 1:0.618. There was something else that kept me addicted to the sight of him. Perhaps it was the muscles?

It was this undefinable quality I pondered as he spoke to me, wondering the long, Maybelline-worthy eyelashes had something to do with…Spoke to me?

With a start, I realised he was talking to me. Clary. Talking to Clary.

'Oh! Um…sorry, what did you say?'

He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, repeating slowly, as you would for an imbecile, 'I said can I borrow a pencil?'

'Oh! Of, of course!' I held out the pencil in my hands, cursing my stutter and hating how unnatural my voice sounded. Not that he would notice. This was only the third time we had ever spoken. I'd counted. The current tally was at 38 words. I cursed myself again for missing the words he had spoken during my inappropriately-timed day-dreaming.

With a word of thanks (39!), he sat back in his chair, flashing me a quick grin.

Keep breathing, Clary.

Reluctantly, I turned back to face the front, where the only chemistry he and I shared was being written upon the white board. With little interest in redox reactions, I turned to the back of my notebook and resumed doodling, picking up another of my embarrassingly gnawed upon pencils. What can I say? Drawing makes me hungry. And as a result, all my pencils look like the food stuff of some curly haired fire-squirrel.

Shit.

I spent the rest of the period desperate to turn around, look to see his expression of disgust or his amused sneer as he showed my poor pencil to his (equally popular though slightly less stunning) friends.

But I couldn't bring myself to even consider a backwards glance, so hideously mortified was I at ruining the one chance I'd had to interact with him. So, when the bell rang, I raced out of the room. He could keep the pencil. I never wanted to see it or him again.

Once out of the classroom, safely cocooned between my open locker door and that of my friend Simon, beside me, I was able to think more clearly. Of course I wanted to see him again. And, maybe if I was lucky, he'd forget the offending item was mine.

The next day, I slipped and dropped my books across the school hallway. Swearing quietly, I turned to see the object that had caused such embarrassment. The damned pencil.

So he had just left it. Perhaps he had missed the bin nearby. I pinched myself to suppress a sudden and absurd desire to cry.

I took a deep breath, feeling my girlish inner turmoil change into a steely resolve. The whole mooning-after-Jace thing had gone too far. I had to grow up. I didn't even know him. Time to move on.

In fact, I could feel myself moving on already. I could easily see myself changing focus to the boy who belonged to the shoulders (or rather, the shoulder muscles) I could see moving beneath a white T-shirt as he picked up my books.

'Oh, thank you. You really don't have to do that.'

He turned around, one side of his mouth lifting in the slightest of smirks as he countered, 'Are you sure? You seem to be incapacitated. '

My heart stopped.

'Don't worry about it. I find my presence has that effect on people, men and women alike.'

How did he know the status of my bodily processes?

'I mean, you were clearly too busy admiring my toned physique to think about clearing up the huge inconvenience your precious belongings are causing the rest of the student body.'

Oh. So he was a mind reader, not a body reader. Body reader? Apparently, it was not just my resolve to move on that he had melted but also my brain, beginning with the part that spoke English.

'I…ya…ber…er'

Once again, he smirked, this time with his whole mouth. I'd seen it before. It was a classic Jace-Face. Note the capitals (purely for my amusement). It was an expression he adopted when he was either flirting or mocking someone. I'd noticed that the two often occurred at the same time, though I was having a horrendously bad hair day, so I presumed the latter. Either way, the effect of such a smirk, though dazzling, appeared to awaken a Clary I did not know existed.

Rolling my eyes, I came out with the hugely original, 'In your dreams, Jace Wayland.'

Raising one eyebrow (so adorable I almost sighed), he went to speak but my rant was not yet complete.

'In fact, I was rather more preoccupied with the pain in my…'

I couldn't say it. I'm such a square. I bit my lip as he chuckled, a low, delicious sound. His amusement reignited my wrath.

'And now there's two of them', I said, staring at him pointedly (It was nice to have an excuse for it, for once.)

Jace continued to smirk, as we stood up and he leant over (and down, from his dizzy heights to my less impressive 5 feet) to return my stack of books to me. Taking the books in my arms, I waited for him to leave, wearing my brand new cool-as-a-cucumber-Clary-face, blush not included.

'I got you a present, by the way. Unfortunately I lost your pencil, or what was left of it, but you can have one of mine.'

Reaching into his pockets, he drew out a plain blue grey-lead, leaning close to drop it onto my books. Before he drew away, he whispered into my ear, 'Sorry about your pencil, although I think you got a better deal out of losing it. If you put it under your pillow, you'll dream of me.'

As he walked away, I snorted. As if I'd ever needed a pencil for that.

Seconds later, I heard him call out, 'Although I bet you've managed that without the pencil.'

Ass.