What Brings Me to You Read Online Free

away.
                  "You don't believe in happily ever after?"
                  "It's not real life." The way he was staring at me was making me feel uneasy so in a show of nonchalance to hide my discomfort, I crossed my arms over my chest. Big mistake. His eyes unexpectedly and unabashedly flicked over my chest. A crooked, lazy grin played on his face and, I’ll say it, his attractive lips.
                  "May I point out, oh cynical one, that Austen was an author of       fiction ." He said when his clear blue eyes finally made their way back to my face.
                  "I'm certainly aware of that, however in life there are very few, if any, happy endings and art, as the saying goes, is a reflection of life."
                  "Why should it?" I certainly had not pictured the conversation going on that way. I didn't even know the guy's name and there he was baiting me into a philosophical discussion.      
                  "Why should art imitate life?” He repeated.  “Life pretty much sucks. Works of fiction are a way to escape for a little while. Don't you think in that sense Austen got it right?"
                  "Why would someone miserable want to read about someone who, miraculously, got everything they ever desired? It's like going on a diet and watching someone eat a pint of ice cream.”
                  “It’s entertainment.”
                  “But entertainment for entertainment’s sake is silly and does more harm than good."
                  "Well, I'm with Oscar Wilde; I think Life should imitate art."
                  "Ha. You would be an Oscar Wilde fan." My high-brow dig at his sexuality didn’t really seem to take, or maybe it did. Either way his crooked grin morphed into a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. I continued to scowl hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but instead he sat down cross legged against my rock.
                  "What are you doing?" It almost came out as a shriek.
                  "Reading."       Smart ass.
                  "Why?"
                  "Because reading is fundamental...?"
                  "No, I mean, why here?"       Why haven’t you run away screaming, yet!?
                  "Oh, I didn't realize this spot had your name on it. I can go if you want." He looked at me for a real answer.       That's sweet,        I thought before my brain could stop me.       No, it isn't sweet he's going to try and torture you some more.        If I was being honest with myself, which I wasn't, I didn't want him to go, and he seemed content to stay, so I       acquiesced.
                  Flustered I said: "Fine. Just. You know. Don't make a lot of noise.Or whatever." I took out my book, another copy of Jane Eyre , and plopped down in the sand next to him. Though I was sure not to touch him in any way, we were close enough that I could feel the heat from his body dance on my skin making me insane. The floppy hat could not cover the hives that were creeping over my chest. I had to check myself several times because I could feel my breathing working       itself       into a pant.       He’s taunting you, Charley. Do not give him the satisfaction.        I played and replayed that mantra on a loop in my head throughout the afternoon which helped me to relax, marginally. I was able to enjoy what was left of my book, though it took me a ridiculous amount of time because I took every opportunity to steal glances at this boy who made no move to leave my side.
                  He alternated between reading some kind of sci-fi garbage, to tilting his head back to drink in the sun. On his back, his upper body propped up on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankle; I reveled in his features and