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)
I have to fight back the grin from being right.
I knew he would never remember me.
“Oh, Dawson—” Baylor says just as Jayden says, “No.”
I snort at that. I’m pretty sure my dad made it clear that if anything happened to him, all his buddies would keep all the sleazeballs away. Funny that Jayden is trying to keep his own son away.
Baylor smacks Jayden’s stomach before giving me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I think someone skipped lunch.” She gives her husband a pointed look that he doesn’t seem to agree with.
Before he can argue, though, Dawson holds out his hand. “Dawson Sinclair.”
You will take his hand, and you will not remember how he defended you or how hot his thigh tattoo is.
I say those words in my head, but the moment his warm, huge mitten of a hand engulfs mine, I can’t help but remember it all.
How gruff his voice was.
The way he called Grace P. a leech.
How I felt when he licked his lips after asking to eat my pussy.
Just like that damn tattoo, the butterflies in my gut take flight.
In seconds, I’m being pulled into Dawson’s orbit, where girls go to be used and tossed aside.
Like when I was younger and my dad would scoot across the carpet in socks, only to zap me with his finger, I feel the zap from Dawson’s huge hold. Breathless, I pull my hand away quickly and wrap my arms around my middle, hating that I want to know if he felt that too. I know I look defensive, but with Dawson Sinclair, I need to be.
“Ambrosia Mercer.”
He hikes a brow at me, amusement curving his lips. “Ambrosia? Like the salad?”
I hear his dad say his name in a low warning, and his mom gives him a sharp look, but he ignores both. Mirroring him, I hike my own brow in a challenge. “Yes.”
“A story with that?”
“Maybe, but only people I like get it.”
His eyes light up, and I see the challenge in them.
Fantastic.
Just what I need.
His brother chuckles as Phillipe Odder—holyfuckingshit!—leans into the boards with a smirk on his face. They both are enjoying the show.
I love this for me.
“Oh, so you don’t like me?”
I give him a bored look and remind myself that his parents are right here. “I don’t know you.”
“Everyone knows me,” he says with a laugh.
“Not me,” I throw back. “And only a select few know me.” I look to his parents, ignoring his devastatingly gorgeous grin, and say, “You guys ready?”
“What are you meeting for?”
I can tell that Jayden doesn’t have time for his son’s bullshit by the look he shoots Dawson, but his mom has one hell of a soft spot for him. “Ambrosia here is taking over the announcing position for the boys’ games, but she also does the girls’, so we wanted to map out what this will look like.”
Dawson’s appreciative gaze falls to me. His eyes dance with mischief. He’s sizing me up, so I stand taller. Tetas afuera—tits out—as my mom and tía always tell me. “So, you know hockey?”
“A bit.”
“She also wants us on her podcast, so we’re going to discuss that too.”
Dawson seems a bit surprised by that. “A podcast too? Hockey one?”
I nod, and I really don’t want to talk to him, but I’m proud of what I’ve done. “Yes, I took over The Rowe Report when my dad passed.”
Recognition takes over his features. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I feel myself getting smaller, so I fight against the need to fold into myself. I hate that phrase, though. Sorry for your loss. Yeah, me too. Can you bring him back?
Swallowing past the emotion in my throat, I say, “Thank you.”
He looks at his parents now. “Going on to talk about the programs?”
Jayden squeezes Baylor into his side again. “Yes, and Ambrosia is also doing a new segment.”
“Not hockey?”
I bristle at his question, and I don’t know why. I really dislike the fact that something about this guy just gets under my skin. I hate the static I’m feeling. As if my skin has a billion little spiders crawling all along it and down my back.
Ugh, why can’t he have a snaggletooth?
I try to keep the annoyance of my reaction out of my voice. “Why would you assume it’s not hockey?”
He shrugs, a knowing little grin on his face that I want to smack off. “Just an assumption.”
I scoff, narrowing my eyes. “Well, you assume wrong, because it does have to do with hockey.” I clear my throat. “I am asking everyone if falling in love changed their game.”
Dawson pauses then lets out a bark of a laugh. A deep one, from his soul, it seems, which only makes me glare harder. When he notices no one is laughing, he swallows his amusement before giving his parents a look of disbelief. He then looks back at me, humor sparkling in his eyes. I want to poke him in his stupid, pretty eyes. “Only you are in control of your game.”