Love Like Her (Against All Odds #3) - Claudia Y. Burgoa Page 0,9
my prayers. I understand why you would disapprove, but I didn’t make the decision lightly. It took me five hours to accept.”
“They waited for you to accept?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “Make sure they call me so I can thank them, okay.”
“I will,” I agree before hanging up. “Love you, Dan.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Be safe, please.”
I hang up and sigh with relief.
“Did you just lie to your parents?” The baritone voice makes me jump.
Eros is only a few steps away from me. He wears a T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts.
“I tweaked the truth.”
He snorts. “Obviously. My imaginary family and I invited you to stay is pretty believable. Tweaking is a lesser transgression than telling them a big fat lie.”
“Like you’ve never lied to your parents.” I roll my eyes.
“You’d have to meet them to understand why I don’t lie to them,” he answers. I’m intrigued about his statement.
“Are you lying to me about never—”
“No. I’m dead serious. Octavio and Edna Brassard are no ordinary parents,” he states. “So, your parents are waiting for someone to call them to say, yes, your child is safe with us?”
I nod.
He shakes his head. “You’re on your own, Pinocchio. I don’t lie.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t need to lie. Therefore, I don’t have the experience you require to convince your parents that you’re staying at my family’s place,” he confesses with a boyish smile that melts my heart.
I toss my hands up in the air and plop onto the couch. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Let’s have some breakfast and we’ll figure something out. I’m great at avoiding confrontation.” He takes my hand. Heat rushes to my face. Our eyes lock for a second, the weight of his gaze making me shiver. I feel a little flash of panic and I divert my gaze, almost running toward the kitchen.
“You okay?”
I nod, sucking on my bottom lip.
He smirks. “We have something in common?”
Does he want to kiss himself too?
“What is it?” I ask, opening the refrigerator. “You don’t have milk.”
“It’s in the pantry,” he says. “Do you want cereal or oatmeal? Those are our only choices. I usually grab some coffee and an instant oatmeal in the morning.”
“Why is the milk in the pantry?”
He shows me a carton of rice milk.
“Are you allergic to milk?”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s easier to store. I don’t drink milk as often as many people. Cow’s milk goes bad within days.”
“Cereal is fine,” I state. “Do you have tea?”
I take a couple of bowls, set them on the kitchen table, and search for spoons. In the meantime, he sets up the coffee maker and fills a mug with water before putting it in the microwave. The way we do things without even speaking feels strange. This guy is different from any other guy I have interacted with. It’s probably because he’s a year or two older than me. He’s out of my league, but I sure want to know how he kisses.
“You never told me what we have in common,” I say, breaking the silence.
“We’re both terrible liars.” He winks at me.
I laugh. Let’s hope he doesn’t know that I’m starting to develop a crush on him.
“So, what are you studying?” I try to sound casual and not like a teenager crazy in love with a hunk.
“Business,” he answers. “How about you?”
I shrug.
“Still haven’t decided on your major, huh,” he states, pointing at me with his spoon. “I always knew what I wanted to do.”
Taking a spoonful of cereal, I wonder if I should give him the long answer. He’s used to being with more sophisticated girls who wouldn’t be choking on words because they’re flustered by his hotness.
“I feel like I have a little time before I do it. If not, I can always go for something general like Liberal Arts and study for a master’s degree once I have decided what to do with my life.”
“It’s vague, but it sounds like a solid plan.”
I smile proudly. If only my father could be as supportive as he is. Why is it that adults want us to decide our future during the most confusing years of our life?
He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. Every cell in my body vibrates. I want him to have his hands all over my body. I press my legs together. What is happening to me?
“You’re worried about your future, aren’t you?”
“It’s scary to think about it,” I answer. There’s a lot packed into that one sentence. I don’t want