Page 3 of He Loves Me Not

Dawson: Good to know.

Me: …

Dawson: You going to be at dinner tomorrow?

Me: Maybe.

Dawson: You coming alone?

I swear, if this is his way of telling me that he's bringing some supermodel to dinner, I'm crawling through this phone and strangling him with his own jockstrap.

I could probably do it, too. I may be short, but I'm fast.

Me: I don't bring random hookups to family dinner, Dawson.

Dawson: Good. Keep it that way.

"What the crap?" I glare at my phone, my heart thudding against my ribcage. Since when does he get to tell me what to do?

Me: You know what? Scratch that. Maybe I'll bring my hot neighbor. He looks like he'd be down for a good time.

Mr. Daniels may have been hot at some point in his lifetime, but it hasn't been in the last three decades. The man is ninety. Am I telling Dawson that? Hell no, not if he thinks he can tell me what to do.

Dawson: What neighbor?

Me: That's for me to know. Bye.

I toss my phone into my bag, breathing like a masked villain.

"I did not sign up for him to be my brother," I growl at the sky. I'm not really expecting an answer, but an arc of lightning dances through the clouds, thunder rumbling loud enough to make me jump.

I think the Universe just told me to fuck off with my complaints.

Awesome.

I'm halfway home when it starts pouring rain. I make a mad dash for my front door when I pull up, but I'm soaked through before I manage to get the key in the lock.

I don't bother running to the bathroom to change. I just strip in the entryway, my clothes landing with a wet plop on the floor, then crank the heat.

I head straight for the shower, trying to burn away the chill rain and the memory of Dawson trying to tell me what to do. As if he gets a say. I don't ask who he's sleeping with or try to tell him what to do with his life. I don't even want tothinkabout who keeps his bed warm.

I'm guessing whoever it is, she doesn't look like me. I'm short, round, and look closer to eighteen than my actual age. Men who look like him rarely go for women like me. They go for women who grace magazine covers and stalk runways.

"Ugh," I groan, stepping out of the shower to wrap a warm, fuzzy towel around me. I'm too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice that my bedroom door is standing wide open.

Apparently, I'm too wrapped up in them to notice the infuriating man stretched across my bed, too. I don't see him at all, in fact. Not until Ihearhim.

"Half Pint," he growls, his voice the same deep baritone that haunts my dreams.

I scream, whirling to face him.

I register him sprawled across my bed with his hands behind his head and a diabolical smirk on his gorgeous face approximately half a second before my worst nightmare comes true.

My towel slips, landing on the floor at my feet.

I'm officially naked and dripping wet…in front of the man who hates me.

Send help.