Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Okay. I know what it is.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Hmm, interesting theory. Have you heard the one that if they want to, they will?
Me: I have.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Cool. Get ready to live it firsthand.
I can try to convince myself that DoesMyBreathStink60 isn’t Dawson Sinclair all I want.
But that message?
That’s all him.
Once more, I’m getting the same out-of-control feeling I had when he had his finger on my lips and that devilish look in his eyes.
I hate that feeling.
Because usually the feeling after that is pain.
I swallow as Professor Koshkin hits the player on my computer to stop it, and he looks over at me.
I freeze as he starts, “First, I want to compliment you on your articulation. Ever since I told you we had to fix that, you’ve gone above and beyond.”
I smile proudly. “I started using my podcast mic when recording, and of course, I’m using that program you designed for dictation.”
He smiles at me. “We’re very proud of it. Did I tell you it had over nine thousand downloads last month?” I beam since I know how important the app is to him and his son, how hard they’ve worked on it for the dyslexia community. We share a small smile, and he continues. “I mean, Ambrosia, what can I say? You’re my star student. Each of your points is thought-out and fully researched. The bit about bringing broadcasting into elementary schools is genius.”
I let out the breath I was holding. “I actually got the idea from Elli Adler since she just brought hockey to all middle and high schools across the state.”
He nods eagerly. “Yes, and if there is anyone to partner with, it’s her. Problem with state-funded schools is that they don’t have the money for equipment or even a budget for a teacher to lead the charge.”
Don’t I know it. State schools failed me as a kid and let me drown instead of helping me. It took my dad losing his ever-loving shit, pulling me, and moving me to a private school to get me the help I needed. They claimed I was mentally challenged, but my dad said he always knew that wasn’t it. I swallow past the lump of grief in my throat as I hold my professor’s gaze.
“It’s an A for me. I really don’t know why you were so nervous.”
I exhale in relief. “Did you have time to listen to the other assignments?”
He nods. “Yes, and I need to talk to Dr. Poncy this afternoon. I don’t agree with her grade and want to see why she gave you a B instead of an A.”
Gosh, I love this man. “I don’t think she likes my voice.”
“I don’t care,” he says simply. “It’s about the work, the research—and for me, you hit her syllabus perfectly.”
Like I said, I wouldn’t be here without him. “Thank you.”
“Absolutely,” he says with a wink. “Now, stop stressing. You’re going to be a great broadcaster, Ambrosia. Trust me.”
The relief washes over me. I have been stressing over this assignment for weeks now. I flash him a wide smile and gather my things. I close my laptop and tuck it into my bag as he reaches for his phone when it chimes. I recognize the tone since it’s his son’s sound. He hits play, and Vincent’s voice fills the room.
“Dad, did you see that Dawson Sinclair posted about Ambrosia?”
I’m mid-zip of my backpack when I whip my head up. Peter’s brows are almost touching as he looks at his phone, then at me. A feeling of dread slams into my body before he turns his phone to me. It’s a screenshot of a photo of me from this past summer when I went to Puerto Rico with my mom and tía. It’s a great picture. I am sun-kissed and tanned, but I’m wearing a very small green two-piece because I wanted to, and I never thought my professor would see the photo. For one, it’s from my spam account on Instagram, which is private, and for two, how the hell did Dawson get ahold of that photo?
My mouth drops open and I see words, but my heart is beating too fast for them to make sense to me. They all start wiggling and moving, making it hard to form in my brain.
“Is there a reason Dawson Sinclair would tell all of campus that you are off-limits?”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
My heart falls out of my ass as I just stare at my professor.
“No way,” I mutter, and he nods.
“Yes way. That’s what it says in the square he put across your chest.”
Someone kill me now.
Or better yet, kill Dawson Sinclair!
I reach for his phone, and he lets me take it as I focus on the words that are easy to read when I know what they say. My heart is hammering in my chest as my body burns with anger. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have entertained him when he messaged me. I should have blocked him there too, but fuck, I didn’t want to. I can’t deny that I enjoy talking sports with him. He’s funny and entertaining. Clever just like me, and it’s fun. But this right here…