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)
“Dawson, this is insane. Don’t you see you only want me—”
“Don’t finish that,” he demands, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t let you minimize how I feel.”
“How you feel?” There I go, mimicking like a damn parrot again.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. “I have never felt like this, so be patient with me. But for me, it’s more than physical.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, running a finger down my jaw. “No, I want you at my games, and I want to share a milkshake with you so we can get to know each other in person.”
“There are plenty of girls out there—”
“Not when you exist.”
My eyes widen. “Dawson,” I sigh, my heart in my throat. “Neither of us has time for games. Work on what’s important.”
“I am,” he says, and his admission has me pausing. His eyes are so sincere, so full of heart, and I believe him. He wants me; he wants this—but for how long? Attentively, Dawson runs his thumb along my cheek, catching the tear that has escaped. “I’d rather have your anger than your tears.”
I press my lips together. “I’m not crying over you. I’m overwhelmed with everything…the notes, the signs.”
“No, I know,” he says softly and not in a condescending way. I was sure he’d call me on my lie, but just like he’s done during this whole interaction—hell, every interaction—he proves me wrong.
I swallow at the realization.
Maybe I truly don’t know Dawson Sinclair.
Before I can say something stupid or kiss him like it’s all I want, he says, “But I don’t want you to cry over something you have no control over. I didn’t know what you needed, but now I do.”
No one has ever spoken of my disability like that, and I hate that the bricks that had built my wall to keep him out have crumbled even more.
I swallow again as he says softly, “I mean…fuck, you’re incredible. You got me trapped in your web, begging for attention, and no one has ever done that.”
My heart aches as I look away. “I’m not your type.”
“I didn’t have a type until you.”
My brow furrows. He wasn’t supposed to agree with me, but even I know he isn’t making shit up. He has been with big, little, and midsize girls. He doesn’t care if they’re dark, light, or caramel like me. He likes women, and that alone is a red flag. “You’re not my type.”
“Eh,” he says on a chuckle, leaning in close. “How so?”
“You’ve been with everyone in this school.”
He scoffs. “Hardly. And my past is just that—a past. Let me show you our future.”
Jesus H. Christ. “Wow, you’ve been practicing that?”
“Every chance I get,” he says with a wink. “But it’s true. Let me prove it.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and then walking away because I have to.
“Didn’t peg you as someone who lets fear control you.”
I glance over at him, feeling each of his words as he gives me that panty-dropping smirk that should be totally illegal. I usually don’t let fear control me, but when it comes to him…
Nope. Not going there.
I need to get the hell away from him.
Now.
I decide to take a shortcut through the communications building since my car is parked in the back. With Dawson throwing me off my axis like I’m one of his footballs, I don’t notice Dr. Poncy stepping in front of me. I jerk back, my eyes widening as she takes hold of my shoulders with her bony fingers. Dr. Poncy is in her early fifties, black hair with two white stripes along her temples that she weaves in braids to tuck into a bun. She is very small, not only in stature but also in weight. Maybe five feet and one hundred pounds. She is an Emmy-winning broadcaster for her local broadcasting, and while people love her, I don’t feel the same. Things changed two years ago, and I know I’m not her favorite person. Still, I try so hard to please her and even asked her to write me a letter of recommendation for my master’s program since I do respect her.
I thought she’d be a professional, but she turned me down.
Her reason: “I don’t think you’re good enough to get your master’s.”
Mind you, I carry a 4.0 GPA unweighted, but whatever.
With her nose a bit wrinkled, she says, “Ms. Mercer.”
Flashing a sweet smile, I ask, “Dr. Poncy, how are you?”
Ignoring my question, she sets me with a narrow look. “I need to speak with you privately. I spoke with Professor Koshkin, and I am not pleased that he is fighting for a higher grade for you on a paper that I feel you didn’t do your best on. From now on, I’d like to speak to you and only you.”
Air gets trapped in my lungs as I hold her gaze, unsure what to say. “I never asked Professor Koshkin to discuss my grade. He did that unsolicited as my adviser.”