If I Break by Portia Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

disagree a lot but she’s still my friend, and I won’t let him speak badly about her, no matter how incredibly sexy he is.
    He sighs, noticing my defensiveness. He clasps his hands together.
    “Can I be one hundred percent with you right now?” he asks, and I nod apprehensively.
    “Her type is usually empty, demanding, feeding on everyone else around them to boost their ego, jumping from one guy to the other,” he continues to explain.
    “So absorbed in her own sense of self-worth that she doesn’t realize that any man who can stand her is doing it just long enough to get laid.”
    I’m caught off guard by his answer. I won’t confirm or deny what he’s saying and decide to steer the conversation in a different direction.
    “So, are you saying that you’re not interested in sex?” I ask, surprising myself.
    He folds his arms and flashes an amused grin. He leans in and like a magnet, I do the same.
    “Oh no. I’m very interested in sex.” His voice is low and sensual, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I’m disappointed when he leans back in his seat.
    “That doesn’t mean I’d screw any girl that batted her fake eyelashes at me. So, what about you?” he asks, focusing those piercing gray eyes on me.
    I smile to hide my nervousness. Most guys I know fail to look me in the eye, which I hate, but it’s like his eyes can see right through me, and I don’t know which is worse. His candor is refreshing but unexpected. I don’t know how to answer his question; he’s been so honest, it would be hypocritical if I don’t return the favor.
    “Well, it’s been a--a while since the last time,” I stutter nervously.
    “I actually meant 'what do you like to do,' but I’m sorry to hear that.” He smiles teasingly.
    I think I’m going to die of embarrassment. “Oh, God,” I whimper, covering my face.
    Then, I feel his hands on mine and he brings them down. I look at him, surprised, his touch giving me butterflies.
    “Don’t ever hide those gorgeous eyes from me again,” he tells me, and I’m even more embarrassed, but this time it feels much better.
    “Well, I’m pretty boring, actually.” I laugh, slightly disappointed when he lets go of my hands.
    “I’m sure that’s not the case.” He rests his arms behind his head.
    “I like to paint, draw, sculpt...” I tell him.
    “Oh, an artist.” He grins.
    “Yeah, kind of.” I smile.
    “So, is that something you want a profession in?” he asks. Somehow, it actually seems like he’s interested, and not just for the sake of conversation.
    “Well, sculpting and painting are more of a hobby, but drawing is what I love. If I could wake up every day and do it for a living, it’d be great. Unfortunately, there isn’t a demand for artists, so I don’t know how far I can go with it professionally.” I sigh.
    “Are you any good?” he asks.
    I’m a little caught off guard by that. “Well, I hope I am. It’d be kind of heartbreaking if I sucked at something I love so much,” I remark with a chuckle.
    “So am I going to see some of this work of yours?” he asks.
    “I don’t know. I’m sort of private about it,” I say apprehensively.
    “If you want to stun the world, you have to show it first,” he says casually, and for the second time I have nothing to say. “And you can practice on me,” he offers.
    “Maybe.” I smirk. “So, are you from Chicago?”
    “I’ve lived here most of my life,” he answers. “What about you?”
    “No, I go to school here at Chicago University. I was born in Michigan; Saginaw, to be exact,” I tell him.
    “Beautiful, smart, and Saginaw—I’ve been there before,” he says.
    “Really? I never knew anyone from Chicago who willingly went there,” I say, surprised.
    “I used to know some people who lived near there,” he says, his mouth turning downward. “You didn’t like it?”
    “No! I love it. It’s my home, where I grew up. There’s just not much opportunity there. Well,