How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You Read Online Free Page B

did,” she said with a wink.
    I rolled my eyes. “How did Dad get you to fall in love with him?”
    Now, here’s the thing I love about my mom. Well, one of the many things, because, despite any teenage posturing I might do, I had to admit that my mom—both my parents actually—was pretty cool. She could have picked that moment to squeal and ask me, Oh, is this about a giiiiiirl? and be incredibly embarrassing. But instead, she put the spoon down and thought for a moment before she actually answered the question.
    “He didn’t really have to try,” she said finally. “It’s something that happened over time.”
    I frowned, a little deflated. “But he had to have done something to, I don’t know, court you?”
    “Court me?” She snorted slightly. “This isn’t the Old West, Oliver.”
    “You know what I mean,” I said with an exasperated groan. I was about to take back all my kind thoughts about my mom being cool.
    “I do,” she said, laughing. She took a deep breath and tapped her lips, thinking about it. “I suppose he did, back in the beginning. I guess it was the usual things—bringing me flowers, opening doors for me, pulling my chair out at restaurants.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. “But I think what I liked the most was that he seemed to pay attention to me. He listened when I talked and really seemed like he wanted to know what I was going to say. He acted like I was . . . important , I guess.” She blinked and shook her head slightly, turning her attention back to the sauce.
    This was useful information. I’d need to expand my list a bit. “So when did you know you loved him?” I asked.
    My mom smiled softly and stirred the noodles. “I’m not sure of the exact moment. Like I said, it came over time. One day I looked at him and realized that the thing I wanted most in the world was to make him happy.” She set the spoon down and turned to me, head tilted. “Now, can I ask you a question?”
    I smirked. “You just did.”
    “Touché,” she said, reaching out to brush the hair out of my face. “So what is this all about?”
    “Oh, you know.” I shrugged. “There’s this . . . girl.”
    “There usually is.” Her eyes were dancing, but she didn’t mock me. My mom never mocked me. “And this girl is special?”
    I nodded. “I just . . . I don’t know if she . . . she and I, we’re not . . .”
    My mom reached out and took my shoulders gently. “I get it,” she said. She always did. “Let me tell you this, though, Oliver. And it’s important, okay?” She looked into my eyes until I nodded again.
    She smiled, squeezing my shoulders a little. “It’s not about what you do or what you say or any of that stuff. You can’t make someone fall in love with you. And you can’t try to be someone else to win them over.”
    “I know that, Mom.” We’d had that discussion dozens, maybe hundreds of times in my life. Be yourself. Be proud of who you are. Be who you want to be.
    She shoved my hair back again. I really needed a haircut. “I know you do,” she said. “It can be easy to forget, though, when you—” The phone rang and she tapped my cheek once before turning to answer it.
    “Hello?”
    I swung my legs, banging the cabinets lightly with my heels. She glanced at my feet with a pointed look, and I stopped, chewing on my thumbnail as I watched her smile fall before she turned away.
    “Again?” she said, her voice terse, sharp. “That’s the third time this week. I made dinner.”
    My stomach started to churn, and I knew it was my dad on the phone. I hopped down from the counter, grabbed my backpack, and headed up to my room as angry, hissed words echoed behind me. I hummed a little under my breath to drown them out and took the steps two at a time up to my room. I felt rather than heard my little brother following behind me, so I left the door open as I grabbed my iPod and flopped on the bed. He trailed in a few minutes later and chewed on