Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
How could I allow him to have so much control over my emotions?
He is nothing to me. Even when he called me hot before, I knew it was because he was drunk. When he asked me out today, I knew it was because he has never been told no. I’m the one he can’t land, and that’s killing him. I just don’t understand the buzzing I felt when I was under his gaze. When he let those dimples loose, I felt my stomach clench. Of course I’m attracted to him. He’s very appealing to the eye, but I know his type. I know men like that. They are all gorgeous and pretty to look at, and the moment you don’t give them what they want, they drop you. Or they stay and beat you down. Calling out every single one of your insecurities so that you’ll stay with them and not look for better.
I am not dumb, and I may be wrong for putting Dawson in that category, but come on, his track record speaks for itself. Just look at the comments on all his posts or even in his thirst traps. No one has ever dated Dawson Sinclair.
Never.
Which is why I laughed so hard when he asked me out.
It kept me from crying from how badly I wanted it to be real. To fall back into my old naïve ways and give in to a man like Dawson. Just for fun, just to see what happened, but I’ve been burned so many times. I have seen firsthand how he throws away women. Yes, that was six years ago, and I’m sure he has somewhat matured, but I can’t put myself out there for him to shit on.
I can’t allow another person to laugh at the things I can’t do.
I force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat. That can’t happen again. No, I need to stay the hell away from Dawson Sinclair.
Just as I’m about to roll off the couch to head toward the kitchen where I know there will be food, I feel nails along my scalp and a hand along my back, rubbing up and down my spine in a loving way.
“Ah, mija, did it not go well?”
My mom’s voice is soft, hesitant, as she leans into my side, rubbing my back, which means my tía is at my head.
“I have a Costco-size box of batteries if you need them for your dildos.”
I sputter with laughter, which I know is what she wanted. I roll to my back, my mom’s hand falling to my stomach as my tía moves my hair out of my eyes, wiping away the stray tears that remain. I take in a deep breath through my nose, and I know they’re watching me, waiting for an answer, but I feel like I may cry more if I admit what is wrong. I let out the breath I was holding in a long whoosh.
“The meeting was fine. We went over what is different between broadcasting for the girls and the boys. It’s nothing I can’t handle and I’m actually excited for it, but when we discussed them coming on my podcast, I felt like they agreed to do it out of pity.”
Mom brings in her dark brows that are arched to perfection. “Why, mija?”
I chew on the inside of my lip, hating how I can still see the swirl of green in his hazel eyes, how the smirk made it really hard to form complete sentences and how damn good he looked, towering over me in all his glory.
Why does he have to be attractive?
Why did I like the feeling from being under his gaze?
Why do I want to hate him, yet still want him?
“Their son is so full of himself and came at me funky. Telling me that Dad’s theory wasn’t real, and that love isn’t a contributing factor to success, when he hasn’t even been in love. But what really gets my gears grinding is it is a factor. He is loved, with so much support from his family. So how can he not see that love does have something to do with it?”
Tía looks as if she might slash tires as she starts humming Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do with It.”
“Did you say that?” Mom asks.
I frown. “No. I didn’t think it until now.”
She pats my face, rubbing my nose with her finger. “Ah, I hate when that happens.”
Tía nods in agreement as I continue to rant. “He was so cocky, and he kept flirting with me, which was basically offensive.”
Mom’s brows furrow while Tía arches hers. “Why would flirting be offensive?”
“Because he didn’t mean it,” I shriek, surprising all of us. “He was just messing with me! He’s Dawson Sinclair. He’s a wildly talented athlete and hot as all hell. He can have and has had any girl he wants. I’m nowhere in his orbit.”