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 can’t believe I whimper, but I do. Pathetic. I know. “Kiss me.”
He shakes his head, his lips right there as he brushes his nose along mine. “Nah, I think I’ll wait a little longer.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
He clicks his tongue at me. “But, my heart-stopper,” he says, his lips stopping right at mine, “the wait is part of the game.”
I glare before he kisses my nose then pulls me with him, chuckling.
“Smug bastard,” I mutter, and he barks a laugh. I watch his beautiful profile, the way the sun kisses his cheekbones, and how his eyes sparkle with light bouncing off the oranges and reds of the trees.
“Ambrosia?”
I pause mid-step and feel that sense of dread fall over me. I look over to find none other than Grace G. looking every bit the damn Instagram mom with her flowing blond hair, huge boobs, and skinny little waist. On her hip is a young child, maybe just over a year old, a little boy, and beside her is a rather large man with a baby strapped to his chest.
Her family.
I cut contact with the Graces when I moved out after my dad passed. They never reached out, even though they knew I had lost my father. And after I moved, they still didn’t contact me. They didn’t even come to the funeral. Fine by me. I didn’t want anything to do with them anyway, and thankfully, I haven’t seen any of them until now.
Her blue eyes widen when she looks at Dawson, and then I watch her eyes move to where his hand is tight around my waist. “Dawson Sinclair?”
Dawson looks at me, his brow arched, and I want to laugh. Instead, I say, “Grace G., how are you?”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Actually, it’s just Grace now. Grace Miller. This is my husband Josh, our little boy, Jim, and our little girl, Amy.”
I bet they have a farmhouse with a white picket fence and two golden retrievers. “Wow, congratulations.”
Her husband, who is quite handsome with dark brown eyes and blond hair, looks between all of us. He is tall but nowhere near Dawson’s height. Nor is he as good-looking, but I can tell he loves his wife. “How do y’all know each other?”
Grace smiles widely, but I know that’s her fake one. “Ambrosia and I were roommates in college, and I dated Dawson for a bit.”
My stomach clenches in pure envy, but before I can even really feel the emotion, Dawson speaks up. “We didn’t date. It was a one-time thing.”
Josh glances at Grace, and she giggles, her face flushing. “Well, yeah, but it sounds better—”
“But it’s not true. I didn’t date before Ambrosia.”
Really? Is this real life? Did he just say that to Grace Miller, with just as much confidence as Kendrick Lamar calling out Drake at the Super Bowl?
I look up at Dawson, and once again, I’m caught off guard by how self-assured he is. He looks over at me then brings our joined hands to his lips.
Grace, though, she sputters, “You’re dating her?”
He kisses my knuckles again. “Yeah.”
Grace looks positively put out, but I won’t let her ruin this for me. “I’m hungry.”
Dawson’s gaze falls to mine, and he nods. “Caramel popcorn?”
I beam. “Yes, please.”
“Let’s go.”
And then he pulls me away, not even saying bye. I lean into his side, and I feel… I don’t know. I don’t want to say I feel good that he put Grace in her place because I’m a girl’s girl, but it made me feel important when he specified what she was to him.
And I know he did it because he wanted to.
Because I mean something to him.
Breathless and feeling every emotion in the book, I know I need a distraction. “Are we carving the pumpkins we get?”
He side-eyes me. “Duh.”
“Tonight?” I ask, eager and not the least bit ashamed of it. “Or do you have workouts?”
Dawson glances over at me, smiling ear to ear, his eyes just for me. “I worked out this morning so I could be all yours all day.”
All mine.
Shit. I really like the sound of that.
But…does he mean forever?
Do I want forever?
Damn it all to hell.
Why didn’t I keep my walls up?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Ambrosia
“So out of all the Southern food, the amazing and talented Valeria, your mother, made your dad ambrosia salad.”
I chortle as I flick pumpkin guts off my fingers. “Every single night he came over.”
Dawson’s laughter is loud as he uses a razor to work on his design. We aren’t showing each other what we’re making, but we have to do something that reminds us of the other person. Of course, because I’m basic and I wanted something easy, I did a football and a puck.
Listen, I may have lied when I said I was a kick-ass at this. I need something simple, and by the looks of all the implements Dawson is using, I may be screwed either way. The guy pulled out a tool bag from his trunk when we got here.