I blink a few times before he brings my wrist to his lips, kissing it softly. I hope he’ll pull me into his lap, but he lets go to return to his pumpkin.
He’s a focused guy, apparently.
While I’m still reeling and feeling completely off-kilter, he asks, “When did you get diagnosed with dyslexia?”
I can’t with him. “Wow. Moving on, huh?”
He snorts. “I have a pumpkin to carve, and if I keep touching you, I won’t finish it.” Our eyes meet, and he grins, all teeth and dirty promises. “But I’ll finish you.”
Pretty sure I just came. Breathless, I ask, “And the problem is?”
He pins me with a heated but playful look as he teases, “Stop trying to get in my pants, you fiend.” I sputter with laughter. “Now tell me when you were diagnosed.”
He’s watching me, twirling a little poker tool in his hands as he waits for my answer. His face is always open, so full of life, every emotion on full display, and fuck, I really like how it makes me feel. “When I was ten, really late. But I went to public school, and I got lost in the sauce.”
“I hate that,” he says softly.
“It was rough. I couldn’t read and I just kept failing, but when I’d ask for help, everyone would talk to me like I was stupid. I’d get mad that the words wouldn’t stay still for me to focus on them.”
“So it’s like the whole word moves? Or only the letters?”
I look up to see if he’s teasing me, but he’s not. He genuinely wants to know. “Both. When I know what the word is supposed to be, it’s easier. But most of the time, they’ll jumble up, or when I’m super anxious, they’ll move.”
“That’s so annoying,” he says softly. “Have you seen the medical trials?”
“Yeah,” I say sadly. “I was in a few when I was younger, but my confidence was shot to shit by everyone always putting me down. So, Dad focused on getting me the help I needed, and when I began to regain that confidence, I started to succeed.”
“Your dad was a bomb-ass dude.”
“The best,” I agree.
“The keyboard helps, that Professor Koshkin designed?”
“Yes,” I say, which is a relief to discuss. “It will capitalize some of the letters for me, so I can read better.”
“I downloaded it. It’s really neat.”
His words make my insides burn. I glance over to see if he’s showing a hint of teasing or condescension, but he’s not. It’s just Dawson being Dawson. Curious and kind. “You didn’t have to download it.”
He makes a sound of contempt. “What did I tell you? I wanted you to be able to use my phone if you needed.”
I smile softly. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for doing something I wanted to, heart-stopper.”
Our eyes lock, and my breathing kicks up. “Still, I just want you to know it means a lot to me.”
He winks at me, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
He’s so smug.
I love it.
“Which reminds me,” he says as he pulls out his phone. He hands it over to me, the photo of me in the bikini shining up at me. “The code is 5960. Put your number in.” I swallow, holding his phone, and he nods toward it.
I do as he asks before handing it back. He gives me a look. “Ambrosia Mercer?”
I hold up a hand. “What? That’s my name.”
