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Falling for My Beautiful Ward
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She’s too beautiful for her own good.
After Daisy’s mom died, she left me as her daughter’s legal guardian. A single guy who knew nothing about parenting was suddenly saddled with a little girl. So I packed the kid off to boarding school, and we didn’t cross paths for years. But now Daisy’s back. She’s in my mansion, eating my food. Dancing to music in her head while humming like a butterfly. I can’t stop myself from looking because the girl’s so young and innocent. But that’s the problem. Daisy’s my ward for crying out loud, and no man should feel this way about a girl living under his roof. So what do I do now?
I can’t stop.
We’re screwed, because this is too damn good to be true.
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I’ve always been unpopular, the girl hiding out in the library and picked last for all the sports teams. But I don’t blame my classmates. After all, whichever team I was on was practically guaranteed to lose.
“Throw it to Daisy,” opponents would whisper. “Hit the ball to Daisy because she’s got two left hands.”
And it was true. I was so gangly and clumsy that if the ball even sort-of sailed in my direction, I ducked and ran instead of catching and throwing. So I felt personally responsible whenever my group lost, and was always grateful when the bell rang signaling the end of P.E.
But physical education was the least of it. Sometimes, I didn’t feel like I was good at anything. The bowls I molded in ceramics class were lopsided and floppy, and the articles I wrote for the school newspaper never seemed to get published. I was pretty much an outcast, eating lunch alone most days. In fact, there were entire weeks where I put my head down and hoped to disappear, trying to keep out of everyone’s way.
But the last year has been eye-opening because I grew curves of the good kind. At first it was just my boobs popping out to Double Ds, but my ass and thighs followed, and pretty soon I had an hourglass figure like the kind you see in old-time movies. Once upon a time, heroines were size twelves and proud of it, flaunting their god-given assets instead of hiding them under big jackets and smocks. And even if my figure’s not popular per se, it makes me feel better because I’m more confident, and people can sense the change. Some kids invited me to be in their study group, and I have a lab partner who actually treats me decently now. Best of all, I’ve made a couple friends. Okay, maybe I don’t know these girls that well yet, but you know what? It’s nice to be part of a tribe for a change.
“Oh my god, did you see Nelson Peters the other day?” whispered Natalie, a bubbly blonde with a slightly crooked nose. “He looked sooo hot in his letter jacket.”
We were hanging out by the fountain in front of school and Trina, the most popular girl at school, snorted, scrunching her perfect ski slope nose and letting out an unladylike harrumph.
“He wears his letter jacket every day Nat, it’s nothing new,” she remarked sarcastically, twirling a lock of platinum hair around her finger while snapping her gum and looking bored. Trina has been queen bee since freshman year, holding court after school each day in front of the fountain. I was excited to be there that afternoon and part of the clique surrounding her, standing in a semi-circle of supplicants.
“Oh right,” squealed Natalie. “Well, Nelson looks good, he’s really rockin’ football this year. Coach says he’s going to be a starter.”
Trina just snorted again.
“Don’t get your panties in a scrunch because you never know what’ll happen,” Trina scoffed. “Besides, high school boys are boring.”
High school boys are boring? That was new because I’ve never been asked out by a boy of any age before. But I wanted to belong, so I said the first thing that popped into my mind.
“Yeah, I agree, teenage boys can be so boring,” I said in a low whisper, looking around, not even sure that anyone could even hear. And it seemed that no one had because they continued their own conversations, animatedly talking about this or that.
Except Trina heard. She cast me an odd look before tossing out, “Yeah, I’m not into Pokeman Go or whatever the new shit is with these guys,” she said. “I like real men.”
I smiled at her.
“Me too, real men rock,” I said a little more boldly.
Trina stared at me even harder then.
“Who are you again?” she asked. By now, more girls had turned towards us and were listening and watching avidly.
I hesitated for a moment.
“I’m Daisy Smith. I have English with a bunch of you guys,” I said, swallowing suddenly. I’d never felt the full force of the group’s gaze on me and it was uncomfortable, like being in a powerful tractor beam and unable to budge.
But Trina snapped her gum again, looking at me thoughtfully before smirking.
“Well you’re about to get your chance because a real man is coming,” she grinned lasciviously. “Daisy Smith, why don’t you go talk with Mr. Ranger? You said you were in English with us right? He’s coming around the corner, so go strike up a conversation.”
I flushed. Because John Ranger is a new teacher to the district who couldn’t have been more than in his late twenties. He was great at his job, explaining books to a bunch of kids who had no interest whatsoever in plot development or other literary devices. But Mr. Ranger definitely had the attention of his female pupils because he was built like a tank with muscles popping out everywhere. Personally, I didn’t think it was attractive because his muscles had muscles, but there was definitely a contingent of teenage girls who swooned whenever he walked past.