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)
“Yet,” he says with such confidence, if I were a bystander, I wouldn’t even dare to doubt him.
But I do dare.
Oh! I so fucking dare!
“Never!” I snap back, glaring up at him. “We will never be a thing. You are you, all fuckboy and full of yourself, and I will not be your next conquest. This is not a challenge—”
“A prize.”
I snap my jaw shut, looking at him in pure confusion. “Huh?”
“You’re not a challenge,” he says almost shyly, which makes me laugh. “You’re the prize.”
I balk at that. No, you will not be charmed by him! My voice rises with each slap of my hands. “You.” Clap. “Do.” Clap. “Not.” Clap. “Know.” Clap. “Me!”
I swear, it’s as if he isn’t the least bit affected by my outburst. “I do, though,” he says simply, moving closer. “I know you have a standing appointment to get your nails done every Sunday at noon after church with your mom and aunt.” My eyes widen. “I know you like to eat all foods, but your mom’s pasteles are your favorite. That you like to snack on Big Chewy Nerds when you’re working on your podcast, and that your studio is full of all your dad’s old memorabilia.” I’m stunned to silence. “I know your coffee order and that you’ve resorted to DoorDashing because you’re scared to see me. Because you feel this, and while you’re afraid to let it happen, you can’t help but wonder, what if you did?”
I blink. His words are so calm, so confident, and his eyes shine with promise.
My mouth goes dry, and all I can do is roar, “Are you stalking me?”
He grins, his dimples flaring. “No. I’ve been listening to your podcast, and according to Google, I’m not breaking any laws.”
Damn it all to hell. Why is he doing this to me? I inhale sharply and shake my head before pinching the bridge of my nose. “You Googled if you were a stalker?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to go to jail before I can convince you to give me a chance.”
I sigh deeply, squeezing my eyes shut. “Stop. Please stop,” I practically beg.
“I just want you to come to my game, then give me an hour after.”
I’m already shaking my head. “No. You will forget I ever challenged you. That I flicked your nose and demanded you believe in my theory—”
“I do.”
My mouth parts a bit. “Dawson, please.”
He takes a step closer, his eyes searching mine. “I believe that your theory is real for some people, and I didn’t think it applied to me—until I met you.”
I blink. I am not naïve enough to believe his words. “You just want me because I’m resisting.”
He licks his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. “Then stop resisting so I can prove you wrong.”
My heart is basically in my throat, my body is vibrating with want, and I feel like I’m drowning underwater and he is holding the life vest I need. Breathless, I beg, “Please forget me entirely, because this will never happen.”
I’m gesturing my hands wildly between us until his fucking mitten of a hand wraps around my wrist, and he pulls me to him. I stop before I plow into him, letting out a very unladylike squeak as his eyes lock with mine. That damn scent of his, woodsy, fire-pit-like, and all male, hits me, and I’m left speechless.
Like a fool.
Fucking dude continues to make me a fool.
I go to scream and smack his hands away, but the look in his eyes has my lips pressing together in confusion. His eyes are soft, full of guilt and vulnerability, a look I have never seen on Dawson Sinclair. I gaze up into his stunning greenish-brown eyes as he says, “I can’t.” Before I can tell him to fucking try, he continues. “I need you to know I’m sorry.”
I can only blink, but then I remember who the hell I am. “For what? You’ve done a lot to me in the last couple weeks.”
He smiles, his eyes playful, and I hate how that transforms him from fuckboy into the boy next door. I feel his thumb moving along my pulse point and I go to yank my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. “Just a second,” he pleads, almost like he needs my touch to survive, but that can’t be.
He is Dawson Sinclair. He can have anyone.
That thought is like a bucket of ice being poured over me. I have been here, in front of a guy as he tells me how badly he wants me, only for him to fuck me senseless and then ghost me the next day. I yank again, and he lets me go, though I don’t move away, for some reason. “I’m sorry for kissing you when you didn’t want it, but I would like to point out that you’ve been looking at my lips a lot.”