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They were always nervous. Which was expected. Besides, I knew what I looked like. I wasn’t being vain, just drawing a logical mathematical conclusion after adding how many times I’d gotten laid to how many times I’d been asked if I was an underwear model. Chiseled? Check. Caramel-blond hair that somehow managed to look wavy and thick all the damn time? Check. One dimple on the right side
my cheek? Check. Sexy crooked smile? Check. Rugged badass-looking scar near my chin? Check. Smoldering hazel eyes? Check. And don’t even get me started on penis size. Really, it just gets better the farther south your eyes go—trust me.
“You sound bored!” I had to, damn it! What did she want me to do? Sound interested? Turned-on? Intrigued? Curious? I was all those things. I just tried to ignore the insanity bouncing around in my head and blurted, “Your boobs look really good. Perky, happy, just . . . awesome.” Did I just call her boobs “happy”? “You think?” She stared down at her breasts, then grabbed them. Holy shit, was she seriously feeling herself up?
I just liked her. Plain and simple. She was beautiful, but something told me that even if she was still wearing the baggy sweatshirts and sporting a scrunchie, it wouldn’t have taken me a long time to discover the treasure that she was underneath.
She left me standing there in her room, wondering how the hell I’d gone from being a guy who was confident in every area of his life to a guy wondering if I’d made a huge lapse in judgment by giving her a chance. Because the minute you’re in a relationship, like really in it, you have the potential to fail. And I didn’t fail.