Page 51 of Dirty

“I can’t imagine you with hair.”

“I can’t either. Not now.”

“Were you good? When you boxed?”

“Everyone thought so.”

She studied the next picture. “What did you think?”

“I was never any good in my eyes. Not good enough, anyway.”

“Did you win?”

“Every time I fought.”

“Every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you were good.”

“The competition was poor.”

“You’re humble,” she said.

“I’m a realist.”

She turned to face me. “A humble realist.”

“Maybe.”

She met my gaze and locked her eyes on mine. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

She spread her arms wide and gazed around the room. “This. Bringing me to your mother’s home for dinner. Showing me your old bedroom. Kissing me?”

“I like you,” I said.

She let out a sigh. “You like me, or you like the thought of me?”

“What do you mean?”

She pressed her hands against her hips. “Do you like the thought of someone who’s young and easily influenced?”

Before I had a chance to respond, she continued. “Maybe you like the thought of saving me.” She raised both eyebrows. “You already did that, you know.”

I admired her as she spoke. Describing her as beautiful simply wasn’t enough. I exercised a little self-control and shifted my focus to her eyes. “Already did what?”

“Saved me. I don’t need any help from here on out. I can make it without you.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you want?”

“What I want?” She asked. “I want what every girl wants.”

Hell, I had no idea what every girl wanted. Any response on her part would be enlightening.

“And what might that be?”