As I walk into Neptune High on Monday morning, I am most definitely not on the lookout for a certain blonde girl who might have captured my attention five days earlier.

Why should I care what one Veronica Mars is saying or doing or thinking? It's not like it would affect me in any way, shape, or form.

Unless she's still thinking about what happened at the Camelot. Not that that's what I'm doing, of course.

But is she?

Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of her at her locker, and my heart starts to race.

Who am I kidding? Two days without seeing Veronica and four days without really talking to her has been driving me crazy.

And whose fault is that?

Okay, our recent lack of contact is largely because I haven't sought her out like I've wanted to. It's better to be able to reflect warmly on what happened between us rather than have her alter my rose-colored perspective.

Before we kissed, I had never feared Veronica Mars. Her words and opinions never mattered that much to me before. And even now, fear is hardly the appropriate word. Still, I don't want to talk to her and learn that what happened will never happen again.

"Oh, hey," she greets me with a small smile playing on her lips.

Come on, you coward. Just ask her.

I take a deep breath, as I muster my courage. Talking to Veronica – who knows and understands me better than most people – shouldn't be this difficult.

Then again, the fact that she can read me so well might be the problem.

I do not want to get the 'can't we just be friends?' speech from her, of all people.

"So, what do you think?"

Hardly the perfect way to word the question, but she knows what I'm talking about. Unless I'm the only one who hasn't been able to forget what happened.

Her lips moved over mine. Her flowery scent assaulted my senses. My arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, closer, closer.

"Like, in general? Or is there a specific arena in which you'd like my opinion?"

The realization that we aren't on the same wavelength hits me like a jolt. Clearly, I am the only one who is still focused on the stolen moment we'd shared.

So instead of clarifying what I had meant, and pressing for the answer I really want to hear, I abort that train of thought and start talking about Duncan's disappearance to save face.

By this point, as far as she's concerned, thoughts of kissing her couldn't be further from my mind.

Coward. Just tell her what you're really thinking.

Like that won't send her running in the other direction.

The rest of our short-lived conversation largely consists of me babbling a load of nonsense. I can't say why I felt the need to share the details of my conversation with Celeste. It's not as if the topic of her ex-boyfriend will compel her to tell me what I want to know.

Clock's ticking, Logan.

Time is flying by as I ramble about Duncan and Celeste, trying to focus on anything but how much I want to kiss her.

Sometimes, avoidance is key to one's survival.

God, now I sound as if I can't live without her. Talk about pathetic.

I should just tell her. Just come right out and say it.

But how do I say it?

Just say it now, before it's too late!

Instead, I watch the clock and point upwards as the bell rings.

"See ya," I mumble, as I look at her expectantly.

And just what do you expect her to do? Pin you to the lockers and engage in a totally unVeronica PDA?

Disgusted with my inability to find the nerve to just tell her everything I am afraid to say, I turn on my heel and head off in the opposite direction.

Her body fit snugly against my own. Her silky hair slid across my eager fingers. The touch of her skin made me ache for more, more, more.

I shake my head, attempting to rid my mind of the inappropriate vision. I try to ignore the compulsion that I feel.

Retracing my steps, grabbing her by the arm, skipping classes in favor of a sun-kissed day with the woman I adore …