Before I can greet them like I want, Jayden stands taller and side-eyes his son. “Oh, did Ro not tell you? She invited Dawson, apparently.”
Mom andTíalook at each other before shaking their heads, but when they turn to me, I’m not looking at them. Nope. My gaze goes right to him. He’s wearing black jeans with a pair of Nikes and a pinkRowe Reporttee with a matching hat. The color makes his skin seem bronzed, and the veins in his arms are on full display today.
Arm porn at its finest, I tell ya.
His dark hair is curling along the brim of his cap in a sweet, boyish way. He stands with no cares, like he belongs here, and I want to laugh at the hilarity of it. At how much I love having him in my space. It’s apparent that he knows I know he lied about my inviting him, but he doesn’t care.
He stands proud.
In all his beautiful glory.
At first, he’s using his media smile, but when our eyes meet, his smile morphs into one I wonder if is only for me. His dimplesare deep and his eyes sparkling, and the air is knocked out of me with a whoosh.
Sweet Lord, he makes it hard to breathe.
I somehow recover. “Well, he lied to you. He wasn’t invited.”
Dawson snorts, his eyes darkening and leaving me wanting to press my body to his. The room goes quiet, four pairs of eyes moving between the two of us, but our gazes don’t move off each other.
He is so handsome and sure of himself.
And I’m fucking done playing this charade with DoesMyBreathStink60.
“But I guess I don’t mind my number one fan being here.”
His eyes widen, the surprise of my calling him out stunning him for a moment before his grin grows. “I had to get in somehow to watch my favorite podcaster record.”
My lips curve as I curl my tongue along my front teeth. “Nice shirt.”
“Nice everything,” he quips back, and my face burns.
I hearTíamutter in Spanish, “Oh, he is smooth.”
But I ignore her and swallow hard at the intense way Dawson is looking at me. I notice he has a bouquet of flowers in his grip, and the whiteness of his knuckles indicates to me that he may be a bit nervous. Then I realize the flowers are made of paper and in a hockey-stick vase. Did he make that?
When I bring my eyes back up to find him watching me, I see he is moving. My mouth goes dry as he prowls toward me like I’m his meal to devour. Like it doesn’t matter that we’re in a room full of people. It feels like it’s only us. His intense eyes drift along my body, taking in my skirt and fittedRowe Reportshirt. But with how he is looking at me, I feel as if the shirt is hardly containing my boobs. My hair is down today, and I wonder if he likes it.
I get my answer almost immediately.
“I haven’t seen you with your hair down in person,” he says, his voice low, almost as if he doesn’t want our families to hear him. He reaches out, taking a curl between his fingers. The strands curl around his big knuckles as if they are vines, wrapping around him to gain purchase. I track the movement of his thumb along the waves, and I’m jealous. I want him to touch me like that. His eyes are dark, mesmerizing, and leave me breathless. I’m unable to look away, and I’m holding on to the pitcher of limeade like it’s the only thing keeping me from curling myself around this man.
“You’re absolutely stunning, Ambrosia.”
I don’t know what to say because it’s not just his words, it’s the way his eyes look as if they are memorizing me. I don’t trust when people comment on my looks, but Dawson does it as if it’s as easy as skating.
And I believe him.
He lets go of my hair and holds out the bouquet for me.
“I made this for you.” I look at the paper flowers then back to him. He smiles sheepishly before I redirect my gaze to the flowers, taking in the bright paper and intricate folding that make up each petal of each flower. I glance back up, stunned, and he cups the back of his neck. “Not by myself. I had help. But I know you don’t like real flowers, so I wanted to get you some that wouldn’t die.”
I’m pretty sure I’m doing a damn fine impression of a bass out of water. My lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.
“These sticks are game-day sticks of mine,” he tells me with a wink. “My name and number are on each one, so you never forget who gave you this bouquet.”
As if I could ever forget.
The pitcher disappears from my hands, and I barely noticeTíamoving away as I stay locked in Dawson’s gaze. I take the flowers, and when I bring them close, I can smell his cologne.I pull them in closer to take a deep inhale of his scent. I am becoming obsessed with it, the woodsy but fresh notes that have me wet within seconds. When I glance up at him, he preens at me, all teeth and dimples. “I wanted them to smell like me.”
