“I just want you to come to my game, then give me an hour after.”
I’m already shaking my head. “No. You will forget I ever challenged you. That I flicked your nose and demanded you believe in my theory?—”
“I do.”
My mouth parts a bit. “Dawson, please.”
He takes a step closer, his eyes searching mine. “I believe that your theory is real for some people, and I didn’t think it applied to me—until I met you.”
I blink. I am not naïve enough to believe his words. “You just want me because I’m resisting.”
He licks his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. “Then stop resisting so I can prove you wrong.”
My heart is basically in my throat, my body is vibrating with want, and I feel like I’m drowning underwater and he is holding the life vest I need. Breathless, I beg, “Please forget me entirely, because this will never happen.”
I’m gesturing my hands wildly between us until his fucking mitten of a hand wraps around my wrist, and he pulls meto him. I stop before I plow into him, letting out a very unladylike squeak as his eyes lock with mine. That damn scent of his, woodsy, fire-pit-like, and all male, hits me, and I’m left speechless.
Like a fool.
Fucking dude continues to make me a fool.
I go to scream and smack his hands away, but the look in his eyes has my lips pressing together in confusion. His eyes are soft, full of guilt and vulnerability, a look I have never seen on Dawson Sinclair. I gaze up into his stunning greenish-brown eyes as he says, “I can’t.” Before I can tell him to fucking try, he continues. “I need you to know I’m sorry.”
I can only blink, but then I remember who the hell I am. “For what? You’ve done a lot to me in the last couple weeks.”
He smiles, his eyes playful, and I hate how that transforms him from fuckboy into the boy next door. I feel his thumb moving along my pulse point and I go to yank my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. “Just a second,” he pleads, almost like he needs my touch to survive, but that can’t be.
He is Dawson Sinclair. He can have anyone.
That thought is like a bucket of ice being poured over me. I have been here, in front of a guy as he tells me how badly he wants me, only for him to fuck me senseless and then ghost me the next day. I yank again, and he lets me go, though I don’t move away, for some reason. “I’m sorry for kissing you when you didn’t want it, but I would like to point out that you’ve been looking at my lips a lot.”
I wrap my arms around my middle, breathing deeply. “An apology should be just that, not with context to it.”
His eyes flare with humor. “You’re right. I’m sorry for kissing you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll wait for you to give me permission.”
“I won’t.”
“Oh, heart-stopper, you will,” he says, so low I feel it in my gut. The flutter that swoops and takes flight inside me is terrifying, but I don’t look away. “I won’t apologize for the story about you being off-limits because, for one, that photo was fucking hot.” He moves then, holding up his phone to show where I am now his wallpaper.
You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.
“That is not okay.”
“Why?”
“That’s my photo.”
“Yes, but now it’s my wallpaper on my phone.”
“I have the rights to it.”
He grins, that devilish grin that has my stomach clenching. “Can I pay for the rights for it to be on my phone?”
“They’re out of your price range.”
