He wasn't hot. Or, not in the strictest sense of the word, she amended. No, good looks definitely weren't a factor…he wasn't even passably cute, except when he did that one surprised-disappointed face. His facial features were too strong, his hair too coarse, his body was built along the lines of a bird, and his grin showed crooked teeth.
His personality was…random, at best. There were times when he could be incredibly abrasive and rude, without thought for anyone else, and she hated those times. He was funny, true, but it was not self-deprecating humour: it was the kind that mad you feel bad about laughing at someone else. He was also lewd; his writing was stark evidence for that.
She found his conversation annoying. She found his obsessions tiresome. She lost track of how many times he had made her lose her temper.
She didn't love him. She didn't even like him. Why, then, was she so attracted to him?
She told him all this, lying under the tree, watching the fireworks. They abruptly stopped, the clink of the lighter telling her that he was diverting his attention from the fire to her question.
He turned to look at her and held out his palm, flame dancing in the middle. After staring for a moment, she reached out with one finger to touch it, mesmerized, but recoiled sharply as he made a fist, smothering the fire.
"Done and done," he said, then grinned lopsidedly as she walked away.