Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Ambrosia
When the doorbell sounds, I’m working on salting the tostones, and Mom says she’ll get the door.
Nerves gather in my belly, but I’m excited to be recording a new episode.
I have been getting so much attention lately, not only from the podcast but on The Rowe Report’s socials.
Lots of new listeners and lots of comments.
People love the new segment. Even my male listeners do, and I feel certain what Dr. Poncy said was wrong.
I can do this.
I will do this.
I know it’s the Sinclairs at the door, and I don’t allow myself to feel anxiety about their being here because they feel bad or because I made a fool of myself when Jayden called.
While it’s hard, I have to remind myself that I am worthy of their time, and that while I may have acted like a loon on crack, I am a professional.
I will prove that today.
Maybe they’ll like me.
Maybe think I’m good enough for their son.
I have to stop thinking like that.
I grip the pitcher as Mom greets the Sinclairs, but I pause when I hear Tía say, “Ohh, you brought your son. He is ever so handsome!”
Please be Louis. Please be Louis.
Then I hear his voice, his low tenor that has my belly warming at the sound. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you. Naylia, right?” Dawson says my aunt’s name like he’s been practicing it for months. “And Mrs. Mercer, I know where Ambrosia gets her beauty from.”
This guy.
I roll my eyes, willing my heart to calm as I pass through the beaded curtain to the living room, where everyone is welcoming one another.
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 and Tía look 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 pink Rowe Report tee 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 dimples are 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 hear Tía mutter 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 fitted Rowe Report shirt.
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 notice Tía moving 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.”
I blink, completely frazzled. Which is the only reason I can give for why I ask, “Why are you here?”
He isn’t put off by my question. No, not Dawson Sinclair. He flashes me a wide smirk, pulling at the strands of hair on the back of his neck. “When there is a chance I can see you, you should know by now I’m going to take it.”
I do know.
As I get lost in his eyes, I wish instead of adding Tajín to the limeade, I’d added tequila, because then I’d have an excuse for the next thing I do.
It’s almost as if I don’t have control of my body with the way I go up on my toes and pause right before my lips touch his skin.
Neither of us is breathing, only staring into each other’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
Dawson’s response stirs all kinds of emotions in my chest. “Can I kiss you?”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “Please.”
I have never heard a man beg like that, but I can’t think too hard about it.
I push up higher before ever so softly pressing my lips to the bottom of his jaw.
The hairs on his chin tickle my lips, and I want so badly to nuzzle them.
I can’t, though. Even though it seems like it’s just him and me, I know our families are watching.
As I pull back, it’s almost comical how surprised he is.
His jaw is slack, his eyes wide, and when his hand moves to where my lips touched, he blinds me with the biggest smile.
“Your breath doesn’t stink, by the way.”
Even his eyes are smiling. “How could you tell? You missed my mouth.”
I wink. “Nope. I hit my mark.”
“Can I hit mine?”
I snort, flashing him a racy grin. His eyes brighten, and his laughter runs down my spine.
He tries to reach for me, but I’m too quick.
I move away to greet his family, but before I get to them, I glance back at him.
His eyes are molten…and that smile. Jesus above, I’m in trouble.
But really, what did I expect? I have been fighting this dude with everything I have, and now, I just willingly kissed him.
I feel like I’m in my own version of Hamilton.
I’m the British, waving the white flag.
Dawson, he’s Alexander Hamilton.
And he’s not going to throw away the shot I just gave him.
The Rowe Report: Episode 1049: A Delayed call from the Johanssons.
Brie Johansson: God, Vaughn was brash, cocky, and talented the moment I held out the mic to him. He made me want to kick him in the balls with how he made it seem like I was lucky enough to interview him.
Vaughn Johansson: I wanted her to notice me. I mean, look at her. She’s a knockout, but she was soooo professional.
Laughter.
Ambrosia Mercer: What changed?
Vaughn Johansson: I moved in across the hall from her apartment, and I decided she was going to be mine.
Brie Johansson: And one thing about Vaughn, or any hockey player with a goal, when they want to score, they will keep trying until that little hunk of rubber is in the back of the net.
Ambrosia Mercer: So you gave him a chance?
Brie Johannson: Rather, he took it.
Laughter.
Brie Johannson: And I know this is about how falling in love changed his game, but it changed my life.
I went from being alone, hating men because I had been hurt so many times, and struggling to care for my brother, to having someone to lean on.
To laugh with. To love. I’m not saying I elevated his game, because Vaughn has always been on top, but he sure as hell elevated my life.
Vaughn Johannson: Brie, sweetheart, you changed everything for me. I am a husband, a brother-in-law, and a father of three girls. The way I play, the way I live, the way I love. You elevated it all.