What Brings Me to You Read Online Free Page A

realized he was my opposite in every way. His tall to my short: he had the body of a swimmer; lean muscle, taut flesh. Not a single freckle on his pale skin turning a pinky-gold in the sun; my dark skin turning browner. His hair: straight, amber-blonde and stick straight to my unruly, thick, brown and curly. He was the picture of health while I looked like I could be on the cover of one of those cancer booklets asking for donations for kids with leukemia.
                  He looked serene lying in the sun. His perfect profile almost angelic - like an Italian fresco, right down to the blond hair on his arms and legs, around his temples, and that little seductive patch below his navel all glistening in the sun making him look like he was bathing in stardust. It was divine looking. Other worldly, even. The thought made me blush then mentally stab myself in the eye for my hopelessness.
                  I finally finished Jane Eyre and had to take slow breaths to keep myself from crying. I was not giving this guy the satisfaction of seeing me cry. He looked up anyway when I’d shut the book finally and with a sideways glance said: "Art imitating life, eh? He smirked something seductive and infuriating. I just wanted to slap that smirk right off his beautiful, angelic face. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as far back into my head as they could because I wasn’t going to give this guy any ammunition, I was simply going to stare him into submission. Then, he kept smiling, so I had to break the silence between us which was heavy with something else. Something that was churning up all the mush behind my hardened exterior.
                  "I doubt it." He looked at me quizzically so I continued.
                  "Men like Mr. Rochester and Mr. Darcy, though a beautiful fantasy, simply do not exist. Handsome, conveniently wealthy men do not pine for and woo some poor old, no pun intended, plain Jane, because she's smart and wholesome. It doesn't work like that. Men are attracted to what they see before all else. And this is essentially why there's so much wrong with girls. We're raised up on this "knight in shining armor" narrative which is completely and totally bogus. There is no hero to save a damsel in distress. There are only bastards and decent guys. You just need to get one of the decent guys and know when you have him or you're in for a lifetime of pain. Even with a decent guy, life isn't like the movies. He's going to hurt you too, but if he's decent he'll at least be sorry for it."
                  "So you're saying that a woman isn't attracted to a man based on what she sees?"
                  "I didn't say that, but it is more complicated with a woman. It's a mixture of physical attraction, intellectual, spiritual. How much does he remind her of other male figures? How much does he remind her of authority figures? If he's young, who will he be or could he be? Is a go-getter? A hustler? We think of all this consciously and subconsciously with the first few minutes of meeting you. Whereas all a man thinks is: 'is she fuck-worthy'."
                  "How do you know so much? Experience? Observation?" I was too embarrassed to say I had nil in the way of experience, but something in the way he looked at me; or rather undressed me told me he knew that already. Thankfully, he glossed over the question to another.
                  "So what did you think of me?"       The hives flared on my chest and my throat constricted.
                  "Not fair!"
                  "Listen you can't give me all this garbage without giving me a reliable case study. Share! It's the only way I'll learn." He was laughing at me now, not out loud, but mocking me. He'd trapped me with my own ego and somehow he knew I'd share because my pride wouldn't let me accept defeat. I needed to beat him at his own