Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Ambrosia
“So out of all the Southern food, the amazing and talented Valeria, your mother, made your dad ambrosia salad.”
I chortle as I flick pumpkin guts off my fingers. “Every single night he came over.”
Dawson’s laughter is loud as he uses a razor to work on his design. We aren’t showing each other what we’re making, but we have to do something that reminds us of the other person. Of course, because I’m basic and I wanted something easy, I did a football and a puck.
Listen, I may have lied when I said I was a kick-ass at this. I need something simple, and by the looks of all the implements Dawson is using, I may be screwed either way. The guy pulled out a tool bag from his trunk when we got here.
A tool bag.
With a drill.
For, like, wood.
He’s going to gloat for weeks.
And I’ll act like I hate it.
But I’ll just stare at his dimples.
“Like, for real, a can of fruit salad and whipped cream?”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Sir, my mother added pecans like a fucking lady, okay? She even chopped them herself instead of buying them prechopped.”
“Well, damn, and I was being judgy.”
“So damn judgy,” I say with a smirk.
He snorts at that, shaking his head. “I can’t. That’s wild. So then they decided to name you Ambrosia?”
I smile with a shrug. Some would be very embarrassed by that story, but for some reason, it makes me smile.
Leave it to my dad. He loved my mom’s can of fruit and whipped topping salad so much he wanted to name me after it.
I mean, that’s kind of sweet. “Mom wanted to name me something very Puerto Rican, but Dad was set on Ambrosia because it was such a staple in their daily meals, so she got my middle name.”
“I like it a lot. It fits you.”
“A joyful fruit salad?”
He smirks. “Hey now. There were pecans.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn it, you’re right. They make it way better.”
“Too bad it wasn’t Pecan Joy.”
I grimace. “Could you imagine the debate? Is it peecan or pecaannnn?”
He grins as he pushes up his hat with his forearm, and like the fiend I am, I watch in awe. “But for real, you’re sweet like a salad and bring joy to everyone around you.”
I snort. “Dawson, I did not bring joy to you for the last couple months. I’ve brought headaches.”
His eyes are full of humor, and I expect him to placate me, but instead, he says, “Yeah. True.”
I crack up, throwing pumpkin guts at him. Our laughter fills the room as we continue with our work. I’ve never had a guy in my space. Even when I was dating, we always went to their places because I was nervous to have anyone here when my mom or tía could just walk in without any announcement.
Remember? They have no boundaries.
But I wouldn’t mind if they showed up. I mean, I would ’cause I don’t want to share Dawson with them, but I’m not hiding who I’m with. I like being with him.
A lot.
Especially when he’s bent all funny, with his pumpkin between his widespread legs.
He is fully engrossed in his efforts, and I can’t help but watch him.
He looks devilishly handsome after changing into his pumpkin-carving clothes, which are some basketball shorts and a Bullies Hockey tee.
His legs are angled so high up that his shorts have fallen down his thick thighs and are showing his pink boxer briefs.
I never thought I’d think that was sexy, but I do.
Dawson has his hair pushed back under his teal Bullies cap, and I may sound like a freak, but I really like that the clothes he wore at the patch are folded over my couch.
Even being so big, his knees up by his head as he carves, he looks relaxed and… happy.
It’s hard to believe he’s never done this kind of stuff with someone before.
And he’s happy to do it with me.
It doesn’t seem real.
I swallow and ask what I want to know. “So, you’ve never done this with a girl you liked before?”
His eyes cut to mine before returning to his work. His lips curve, and I know he likes that I asked. He wants me to know everything, just as he wants to know everything about me.
It’s a wild feeling.
“Nope. You’re my first in all aspects, honestly.”
I blink, and I’m sure as hell not ready to unpack that comment. I go for an easier one. “Not even when you were younger?”
He shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the P as he holds his pumpkin back, his head falling to the side as he takes in his work.
“I knew I wanted to be an athlete, and I fully focused in on it. While it’s a beautiful thing to see people in love, I wasn’t na?ve enough to think it was easy.
Everyone in my family got together young, and I mean, young.
Mom and Dad were like nineteen, Jace and Avery, eighteen, and that’s crazy to me.
I didn’t even know my favorite cereal then, but you expect me to pick my forever person? ”
I nod in agreement. “Yeah, if I had chosen who I was dating at eighteen, I’d be divorced.”
He points his drill at me. “Exactly,” he agrees with a nod. “While they still got to their goals, we both know how our generation is. Very selfish and only about themselves.”
I nod. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“But that doesn’t apply to you,” he says with a wink, and my cheeks flush.
“Everyone I met when I was younger never really wanted to know me. It was weird, but they never asked questions about me, only what my plans were and how much I thought I’d be worth.
Then I heard a bunch of girls my junior year of high school saying they were going to try to get pregnant by me, and it freaked me out, so I decided to keep it totally superficial. ”
My jaw drops. I wonder if it was the Graces… That’s a shitty thought.
But I wouldn’t put it past them.
“Junior year? As in, like, sixteen, seventeen years old?”
He nods. “Yeah, freaked me out so badly I went to homeschooling so I could, again, focus on my game.” He adds with a strained laugh. It makes me sad to think he chose to focus so hard on his sports, only to now not know what he wants.
“That’s insane,” I say, shaking my head. “My junior year, I was learning to clean houses and going to hockey games.”
“All while I was dealing with girls trying to trap me.”
“Disgusting.”
He grunts in agreement.
“Maybe that’s why you’re holding on to football so tightly, though.”
He looks up, pulling his brows in. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Just a thought, but you’ve worked so hard for both sports, so who says you can’t do both?”
“Everyone,” he says with a chuckle, and I smile.
“But again, it’s your choice.”
His eyes cut to mine from his pumpkin. “If I were smart, I’d train for hockey.”
“But would you be happy?” He presses his lips together, his eyes holding mine. “Could you walk away without regrets?”
He visibly swallows. “I had a thought of walking away from both and starting my career.”
Whoa. I wasn’t expecting that. “Is that an option for you?”
He shrugs, looking fully unsure of himself, something I know he doesn’t do often. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Then you have your answer.”
While we have music playing, all I hear is my heart in my ears as he holds my gaze. It’s beautiful to watch as his confidence snaps back into place, and a smile moves over his sweet lips. “Thank you.”
“Just saying, I think you should do what you want.”
He bites his lip, the motion so sexy, it makes me hot all over. I want to throw my pumpkin to the side and tackle him, but I stay where I am. “I am doing what I want.”
I match his grin. “For real, though, you never wanted this with anyone?”
He shakes his head once more, his eyes on his pumpkin. “I’m not kidding when I say I was only focused on hockey and football. Then I got a bit too wild my freshman year, and I had to buckle down to be able to move forward. So I refocused, but there were injuries, and then—”
“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting him off, and his eyes meet mine. “I know how hard you’ve fought, Dawson. I’ve kept up with your career.”
He isn’t surprised by my admission, but he is pleased by it. “But you claimed not to know me.”
I wave him off. “I knew of you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he teases, looking back to his pumpkin, bringing his lip between his teeth.
“But I meant,” I start, feeling silly, but I need to know, “you never wanted…” I pause, and he looks up.
There are pumpkin guts hanging from his chin, and I smile before rising to my knees.
He watches when I lean forward to wipe it off, as I ask, “Why me? Why did you decide to direct your attention and focus on me?”
He grabs my wrists before I can sit back down, his eyes capturing mine in a heated heist. “It’s funny you think it was a decision I could make, when really, it was a physical need.”
My mouth parts a bit. “Dawson,” I say softly, my eyes searching his. “Why me?”
“Why not you?” His eyes search mine right back before dropping to my mouth and then locking with mine again. “I wanted you.” He says it like he is explaining the color of the sky. “I don’t need a reason. But I guess, if I do, it’s you. I want to be yours and have you be mine.”
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.”
“But you’re my heart-stopper.” He winks before changing my name then tossing his phone next to him on the floor like he didn’t just blow my mind and make me feel all kinds of special. “Make sure you save me as ‘Yours.’”
I look up at him through my lashes and laugh. “So smug.”
“Damn right.”