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)
“Oh, but heart-stopper, you’re number one and only.” She rolls her eyes as my mom snickers, but my dad glares. And all I can do is think, who the hell am I? I don’t say things like this to girls. I don’t have to. They drop to their knees before I even ask.
But not her.
Not Ambrosia.
Unable to decipher what the hell is going on with me, I know I need space to think. “See you around, Ro.”
I head to the door just as she calls out, “It’s Ambrosia.”
I look over my shoulder, our eyes meeting. “Okay, heart-stopper.”
I can see her grinding her molars before she mutters, “Stay in your lane, hotshot.”
My grin widens as I head out the door with more pep to my step than I’ve ever experienced.
Stay in my lane, huh?
Oh, I will.
A lane that is leading right to her.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Ambrosia
I have absolutely no clue what possessed me to go to my family home, but the moment I enter the den and fall face first into the couch from my childhood, I know why.
I needed my dad.
My dad’s scent lingers on the couch, cedarwood and spice. My mom makes sure to spray his cologne on this couch for moments like these. When I need the reminder that, even though he’s gone, he is still with me. I bury my face into a pillow and inhale deeply, begging my tears to stay where they belong.
I will not cry over Dawson Sinclair.
I don’t even know why I am feeling all these emotions. Why am I embarrassed? He doesn’t matter, and while, yes, he caused me to act like an unhinged idiot in front of his parents, I am still a strong, confident woman with goals and aspirations. I will conquer! Did my meeting with the Sinclairs go well? In my opinion, no. I think they felt bad for me, pitied the fact that their son flustered me. They were too agreeable, too damn kind, and, ugh, I hate when people feel bad for me.
It’s always been like that. When I was young, my learning disabilities made everyone treat me like I was too dumb to succeed. No one ever celebrated what I overcame, only pointed out what I couldn’t do. Now, that doesn’t apply to my parents or tía. Those three have loved me no matter what and have always praised my accomplishments as if I were winning the Stanley Cup.
But they have to. I’m theirs.
To them, I’m perfect.
To everyone else, I’m not.
I have always been a chunky girl, and while my chunk has turned to curves, I have been told many times that if only I were skinny. I have such a pretty face, too bad I’m too big. Too tall. Too…fucking much. It’s so frustrating and annoying, to say the least. I have gone through life with people continually feeling sorry for me, when I’m not the problem.
They are.
But in this case, Dawson is the fucking problem!
He’s a showboating, full-of-himself, too-damn-hot player, with a one-track mind.
Hockey, football, and pussy.
In no particular order.
Dawson’s antics, his heated looks, and arrogant thoughts about my theory made me look like a fool. I reacted just how he wanted. I played right into his hands. He wanted a reaction from me, and he got it. I just don’t understand why. What is he gaining? He doesn’t know me, and never once has he given me a second glance. What was so different about today?
Pathetically, I wanted him to remember me.
I wanted that night to be as important to him as it was to me.
Not the whole his getting head or even his asking to eat me out, it was him defending me.
I felt seen, I felt heard, and even in the middle of my grief when I’ve thought of that night, I smiled because of the way he’d looked at me, defended me, and told me he’d find me.
Not that he did, but it still felt nice that drunk Dawson wanted to find me.
I let out a tortured scream that I feel from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. My body shakes with anger as I scream into the pillow before inhaling my dad’s scent. If he were here, I know what he’d say.
Ro, haters are like glitter—annoying, hard to get rid of, but proof that you sparkle.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the traitorous tears falling into the pillow. The only reason I’m not mad at myself for letting them fall is the fact that I know I’m not crying because of Dawson or even that I miss my dad and his wise words. It’s from the frustration over how I acted.
Since taking over The Rowe Report, I promised I would always maintain my dad’s professionalism and make him proud. Dawson brought out a side of me that I don’t let anyone see. People talk about my dad all the time, good and bad, but the fact that Dawson was so unrelenting about my dad’s theory… Damn it, it made me violent.