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 makes me happy.
Which, while scary, I’ve come to realize I can’t fight anymore.
As our laughter subsides and we get back to our pumpkins, Noah Kahan sings about calling your mom. I can’t help but sneak peeks of Dawson as he works, and it isn’t because he’s so gorgeous… Okay, it is, but I’m also trying to get a glimpse of his pumpkin. It’s no use; he’s practically surrounded it with himself.
I wish he’d surround me like that with his big ol’ body.
I’m not usually overly sexual, but there has been this sexual tension between Dawson and me since that night at the party. Or maybe it’s an intimate tension, because while I do want to be railed seven ways to Sunday by him, I also want him to hold me after. I bet he would whisper the dirtiest of things, and then when I was done screaming his name, he’d whisper the sweetest. I never thought he’d be one of those aftercare kinds of guys, but I think he would be with me.
As much as I fought it, I’m starting to trust that this thing between us is different.
Which, again, is petrifying.
“Why are you flushed?”
I promptly choke on my spit and start coughing like a carrot is lodged in my throat. Dawson eyes me, leaning over to pat my back. “This actually doesn’t help when you’re choking. Do you need the Heimlich?”
I laugh between coughs. “No. I swallowed wrong.” His brows rise, scandalized, and I smack him. “Stop!”
He grins, reaching over to hand me my water bottle. I take it and sip slowly, trying not to be embarrassed. “I feel like this is a ploy to get out of our little contest.”
I give him a dry look. “Yes, let me die so I don’t have to face your pumpkin of power tools?”
He waggles his brows. “Exactly.”
I hold back from throwing anything at him since everything around me is hard, and I also don’t want him to think I’m violent.
Okay, more violent than I already am.
Dawson chuckles as we get back to work. We are chitchatting about classes when he asks, “Did you ever hear back about that internship with FanDuel Sports?”
I shake my head. “No. They said I’d know one way or another by the end of the year.”
“And you’ll go to Knoxville?”
“For the internship, yes. So that’ll suck, scheduling between boys’ and girls’ hockey, but I could give away my girls’ broadcasting.”
It’s actually what I plan to do. One of my classmates would love the opportunity, and I need the free time in my schedule if I get the internship.
“You know, my dad was telling me that broadcasting for the Bullies could be intern hours,” Dawson says, and I meet his gaze. “He said he was going to talk to you about it.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, surprised. “And I’ll do both, honestly. I want to get my name out there.”
“For sure. You should.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by his support and willingness to want me to establish my reputation. To follow my dreams. He’s just as driven as I am, but this is new. Would time apart ruin what we’re building? Would we allow it to when we know how badly we both want what we want?
“Would that be a problem for you?” I find myself asking, and he tilts his head as he gazes at me.
“What?”
“If this continues—”
“When this continues,” he corrects. “It’s all about how to talk things into existence.”
This guy.
“When this continues,” I start, and I can’t ignore the pride and wonder in his eyes, “will the distance be an issue for you?”
“Never,” he says simply and without hesitation. “We will make it work.”
He said a total of six words, and I feel like he wrote me a sonnet. “Good to know.”
His lips quirk, and I smile as we go back to our pumpkins.
Only a few minutes later, when I hold mine out to take it in, he asks, “All done?”
“Yup,” I say proudly, and he grins back.
“Me too.” I wiggle in my seat as he holds his pumpkin and counts down. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
We turn at the same time, and I lose it. I’m wheezing, I’m laughing so hard when I take in the very detailed bowl of ambrosia salad carved into his pumpkin. “I can’t with you!” I squeal, shaking my head.
“Come on. I had to!”
“You even did the grapes!”
“Of course I did.” And he did. Little grapes are falling from the salad. His detail is impressive, and I can’t help but think it’s the best pumpkin I’ve ever seen in my life.
When our eyes move from the pumpkins to each other, I smile. “Let’s light them.”
“Hell yes.” He helps me up like I weigh nothing. “I love how there is absolutely no detail in my football.”
“I didn’t bring power tools.” I cackle as we move to put them outside on my patio. I love that I’m on the ground level because all the passersby will be able to see them. I don’t know that anyone else will know it’s ambrosia salad, but I do, and it makes me insanely giddy.