Page 32 of Grasp The Moment

She chuckles softly and gets in. “What? Worried I’ll bite?”

“More like, worried I will.” I joke back, lying flat on my back as she twists and turns to get comfortable.

“It’s okay, I'm not opposed to it.”

My face heats and my pulse skyrockets as I grin. Here I amsharing a bed with the most gorgeous woman in Summerfield University’s history, and I made a barrier between us.

Heavens, strike me down now.

When she finally settles and sighs, I turn to face the fort, and I’m about to speak, but she beats me to it.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” she says, and I chuckle.

“Going for the big bucks now, are we?”

She laughs. “Of course. Go big or go home—this place is my new home, so…”

Nodding, I sigh. “I started cooking when my dad died. He and I used to cook all the time together—Mamá is a shit cook, but Papá? He could throw down in the kitchen, and when he died, my mom couldn’t evenlookat our kitchen anymore. Our floors were scuffed from them dancing in there, and Papá had a handmade molcajete that he crafted for her on the counter. I used it the first time that I cooked without him, and she said that my food tasted just like his—after that, I started cooking more. I fell in love with it, and now we’re here.”

I don’t know why I told her that. Maybe it’s because of the barrier between us, but I told her something that I haven’t even admitted to myself.

Georgia hums. “Do you still have to mocha-thing? I’m sorry, I’m trying to remember how you said it, but I can’t,” she mumbles, and I laugh obnoxiously loud.

“Amolcajeteis a bowl that helps you grind spices and no. I left the one he made her at their house in Texas. Tell me something about you that not a lot of people know.”

Georgia pauses for a second before sighing. “My brain is fucked up.”

I scoff, removing a pillow from the barrier to see her eyes, and even in the darkness of the room, I can make out the small flecks in her irises.

“Don’t say that about my wife.”

She chuckles. “It’s true, though. My brain is fucked. I can’t read, and I’m twenty-one…”

I frown, my brows furrowing. “You text all the time and read stuff in Vegas.”

She rolls her eyes. “Let me not say that I can’t read—I can. It’s harder for me because I’m dyslexic. I can read most things, but it’s hard... When I text, I use text-to-speech to know what others are saying, and I’ll use speech-to-text for things I want to say. Sometimes, I'll keyboard smash a letter so it’ll seem like I sent it…” She shrugs.

We sit in silence for a moment, staring at one another. I don’t think either of us was prepared to tell one another this much on night one, but here we are.

Cupping her face, ignoring the other pillows to separate us, I look into the darkness and find her eyes again.

“Your brain is beautiful, and so are you. Having dyslexia doesn’t mean your brain is ruined. English is my first language, and I still get stumped. It’s okay.”

She cups her hand on her cheek, and a smile forms under our hands.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, Georgia.”

“Goodnight, Derek.”

Sunlight shines through my blinds, successfully waking me up. With a groan, I take in my surroundings and frown.

What the hell am I doing in here?

I go to stretch and stop as soft snores filter through the air. Looking down, I freeze.

Georgia’s asleep on my chest.