“RIGHT, HOW ABOUT we take this back to my place?” Brian, my date this evening, asks after we’re done with desserts, then bursts out laughing at the dumbstruck expression undoubtedly painting my face.
Yes, I’m on a date and not with broody Mr. Hayes, who watched me like a hawk from his booth last week.
Last week.
You read that correctly.
I’m with Brian. Tall, blond, handsome. Odd. A little inappropriate. Not my type. He’s friends with a guy Abby almost dry-humped at the dancefloor last week. He’s a… distraction. Someone who fails miserably to take my mind off Mr. Hayes.
I expected to see Conor the day after he tracked me down at The Ramshack. He said he still wanted a date, and once I sobered up, the want that coursed through me while he held me at the bar was still there, convincing me to give him a shot.
But he backed off.
I don’t understand why. I stayed safe. Didn’t dance with anyone. Kept a watchful eye on the bottle of champagne and my flute. I was good, yet I somehow pushed him away.
I blink at Brian a few times, a mixture of surprise and annoyance flooding my system.
Is sex all he wanted from this evening?
“Relax, sweet cheeks. You think I’d straight-up ask you to come home with me for a quick fuck?” he adds, grating my nerves with his patronizing tone.
“Maybe. Don’t pretend you’ve never done it,” I retort, the words dripping with sarcasm.
“Not with girls I like.” He winks, high-fiving himself. He’s done that a lot tonight. “But, hey, if you’re down for some action, I’m game.”
Abby warned me about him. She said he’s a pothead with zero ambitions, but he seemed cool while we talked at The Ramshack. I guess he wasn’t high then. He sure is now, his eyes bleary, unfocused, cackle perforating my eardrums every thirty seconds.
Or maybe I had too many drinks last week to notice whether he was high.
My blatant flirting with Conor speaks in favor of that.
I clench my jaw, pushing the fuzzy memories aside, but Conor’s soft lips brushing my ear as he whispered still send tingles down my spine six days later.
“Thanks, but—” The rest of the sentence hits an abyss as a movement out on the street snatches my attention.
Or rather the shiny Mustang does as it comes to a screeching halt by the curb right outside the window. Conor exits the car, eyes locked on my face, a deep eleven lining his forehead.
Relief rattles through me, powerful enough to knock off the weight that’s been dragging my shoulders down since he disappeared in the crowd.
When I dropped Rose off this week, he wasn’t home, fueling my obsessive thoughts by purposely avoiding me.
What the hell have I done wrong?
Why isn’t he seeking me out?
Did he find someone else?
Has he lost interest?
Question followed question for six long days, and now… he’s strutting toward the entrance, familiar determination written all over his handsome face.
“My roommates are having a party,” Brian says, oblivious to my sinking stomach and chaotic mind. “We’ll have a few beers, yeah? Your friend, the blonde one, is there. I think Roach has the hots for her.”
“Roach? Which one’s he?” I ask to keep him talking, my heart battling with my mind.
One flutters, filling my chest with warmness, while the other kicks up through the gears. God, I need my meds altered because those contradicting thoughts come on too strong.
It’s like having two people whisper completely different things in my ears, and I have no way of silencing either.
One voice wants me to fling my arms around Conor’s neck and kiss him like there’ll be no tomorrow. The other is vexed I don’t have enough time to set a convincing scene: I’m on a date with a great guy, having so much fun.
Why a part of me thinks about setting the scene is a mystery considering I’ve spent the past week lusting after Conor.
Yep, dose adjustment is in order. This is not working well.
I watch Brian’s mouth open and close, but for the life of me, I can’t hear a word he’s saying. My ears are dialed into the sound of the overdoor bell chiming as Conor enters the diner, his broad shoulders squared back, head high, stride long.
He looks like he owns this place.
He looks like he owns me.
My pulse picks up pace, my heart pounding in my chest to the beat of his Jordans hitting the floor. The sound reverberates across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. No doubt in their minds where this tall, broad-shouldered man is heading.
Toward me and my date.
Brian.
“That’s right, focus on Brian,” I school myself quietly, tuning into his ongoing monologue.
He’s talking… What is he saying? Black hair. He’s not talking about me, then. Some other girl? Big-ass joint. A frown marks my forehead. What on earth does black hair have to do with a big joint. Is he smoking hair? Did he find one in his joint?
God, this makes no fucking sense.
Rightly so. I’m only catching every tenth word. Maybe not even that, the rest a distant drone, a hum in the background, drowned out by blood singing in my ears.
I rub my hands on my jeans like I’m ironing the fabric, but the truth is, I’m wiping off the sweat. A jolt of nervous energy sends anticipation, dread, and excitement whirring through my body.
Three more seconds and Mr. Hayes stops by our table, the scent of his cologne pungent in the warm, stuffy air.
And just then, Brian’s monologue ramps back up, hitting my ears in full volume.
“Man, you should’ve seen it!” he screeches. “He was so high he woke up while we were still partying, took a leak on the flat screen thinking he was in the shitter, then vomited all over Jessica.”
Lovely…
So much for setting a scene.
I wish I could simply sag, fold inward, sink to the floor, and hide under the table. Instead, I’m frozen in place. Heat prickles my neck and colors my cheeks.
Brian looks up, either sensing someone standing over him or maybe noticing my gaze shifting to Conor. “Can we help you?”
“You can’t,” Conor says. “But just so we’re on the same page, I’m stealing your date.”
“What?” Brian sputters, the sheepish, incredulous look of a guy who cums too fast crossing his face. “No fucking way, man. She’s here with me.”
“She came here with you, but she’s leaving with me,” Conor insists, his voice low. “Come on, Little Bee. You’ve tested my patience enough for one night.” He jerks his head in Brian’s direction, eyes locked onto mine but darting to my lips like he can’t help himself. “I’m not a violent guy, but you sure make the idea appealing.”
I think my cheeks are on fire. “You really are a hoverfly. How did you find me?”
“Rose,” he says simply.
The little traitor. I told her not to mention my date with Brian to anyone, especially not the Hayes.
Conor curls his finger under my chin, tilting my head back. “Are you done, or are there more vomit-themed stories you’re dying to hear?”
The glint in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the resolve etched in his face… stick a fork in me. I’m done.
I give up, and so does the little devil on my shoulder.
I’m too intrigued to fight him.
The pull is too strong.
“Fine.” I throw my hands up in defeat. “You win. One date, Conor. Make it count,” I say, turning to Brian. “I won’t lie to you. This wasn’t fun. Maybe it would be if you weren’t high…”
Brian nods like his clockwork’s running down. “Yeah, that’s fair, sweet cheeks. In my defense, I’m always high.” He leans forward, elbows against the tabletop, fingers interlocked to support his chin. “Tell me more about you, beauty.”
My eyes widen as I try to understand what’s going on. I can’t believe this sudden personality switch-up. Maybe it’s the slow-release effect of whatever he’s smoking, or maybe I was too distracted by the rush of disappointment that it wasn’t Conor taking me out to notice Brian is exactly what Abby said.
Stupid.
The disappointment, I mean. It’s stupid because I called off the date, but isn’t this how women are built? We change our minds a lot, and I have the added difficulty of my sluggish brain.
I’ve always been a slow thinker, prone to all-consuming irrationality, courtesy of ADHD, that worsens with Conor’s proximity.
Maybe if I weren’t overthinking whether shooting him down too many times to count was a good idea, I would’ve noticed my date with Brian was headed for disaster the moment we entered the diner.
“What’s her name?” Conor asks, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.
“I know her name,” Brian clips, “But I like calling her cutie.”
“You called her beauty. Come on, man, dinner is on me if you tell me her name.”
Brian frowns, his brain cells working overtime, gaze unfocused, and I’m even more embarrassed.
“Thought so,” Conor says, taking my hand to help me up. “Since you’ve already eaten, how about we visit the arcades?”
I growl a defeated sigh, shoving my arms into the jacket he’s holding. “Sounds like a plan.”
***
This is surreal. I’m in the passenger seat of Conor’s Mustang, looking out the window once I’ve successfully peeled my eyes away from how he grips the steering wheel.
My insides tingle. The air buzzes and crackles, the tension unnerving but exciting all the same.
Something as unimportant as how he rests the inner side of his wrist on the rim, his relaxed fingers hanging over, has hundreds of butterflies flapping their wings in my belly, sending tiny sparks of energy shooting through my fingertips.
I peek again. He’s so intriguing. Hot and cold. Sweet and stern. Tall, broad-chested, eyes dark and deep but playful despite the powerful aura buzzing around him. I think it runs in the family. All the Hayes I’ve seen at the Halloween party exude this crushing confidence.
He turns left, spinning the wheel one-handed, his long, slim fingers arrow straight while the middle of his palm does the work. Careless, so freaking sexy.
‘Get a grip. He’s just driving!’
“Where did you find that guy?” Conor asks, draping his arm over my seat as he turns around, looking out the back window while parking between two cars.
The air moves. The smell of his expensive, decadent cologne clouds my other senses. I doubt he needs to look over his shoulder. The car has cameras and motion sensors, but I don’t point it out. The warmth of his arm behind my head makes my body react in a slow sizzle. Unconsciously, I shift closer to the middle of the car. Closer to him.
Like a moth to a flame.
‘I’m gonna get burned.’
He’s everything I’m not interested in: rich, entitled, privileged… and yet if I focus long enough to see past that, he’s everything that makes me tick.
“Long story,” I say, pulling down an inconspicuous breath.
It’s not a long story, but I won’t tell Conor I grabbed the first opportunity to go out with someone. Anyone, really.
Anything to stop thinking about the guy beside me.
Brian and I had only exchanged five sentences last week. Might be why I didn’t notice he’s not remotely close to my type. Or maybe I noticed but purposely ignored the red flags.
“Okay, don’t tell me.” Conor kills the engine, a small smile twitching his lips. “C’mon. I’ve got an order to fulfill.”
“An order?” I step out of the car, coat in hand because Conor turned the heating up to eleven. Now, chills gallop across my skin as the cool evening breeze nibbles my bare shoulders. “What order?”
“You’ll see.” He rounds the hood, takes my hand, and weaves our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s not.
My spine turns rigid, a metal pole so taut it could be played with a bow. My palms grow cold, but flames lick my flesh, a glimmer of panic spiking through my system. This feels too nice. ‘I could get used to him holding my hand…’
His scent swirls in the air, potent, drugging, sending my heart flapping along my ribs. Confusing doesn’t begin to cover the turmoil running rampant inside my head.
“It’s not even been a minute, and you already want to ditch me?” Conor asks, his voice playful as he leads me down the busy street.
“No, of course not.” It’s the last thing on my mind. “Where did you get that idea?”
His eyes are alive, sparkling with intensity as he stares through me. “You’re shaking, Little Bee.”
Oh… I take a deep breath, calming my racing pulse. I’ve never felt this self-conscious. The newness of his fingers pumping gently around mine makes me ridiculously aware how close he is. How well my hand fits in his. Like they were made to fit together. How smooth and warm his skin is.
How fucking nice this feels.
I’ve dated a few guys since high school. Although dated might be an exaggeration. No meaningful conversations, cuddles, or hand-holding. I was too busy working and helping my family to indulge in a real-deal relationship, but… a girl has needs, so we made out and fucked.
We were mostly intimate in an erotic way. Even when I sat in their laps at parties, their hands roamed the sensual parts of my body: thighs, ass, boobs. Every touch a prelude to sex.
No dinners, movies, or late-night beach strolls. We met at parties or school and got together spontaneously. No grand we’re a couple, or you’re my girlfriend declarations. It was kind of a given. Exclusive while it was fun. An odd dynamic that always worked fine.
‘Now… holding hands? That’s a first.’
“Get used to it,” Conor says and my eyes snap to his. “I’ll hold your hand a lot.”
My mouth parts, but words don’t escape as the realization hits me… I’ve been mumbling again.
God, I have no self-control around this man.
“You’re very sure of yourself.” I swallow the bitter aftertaste of embarrassment. “What makes you think you’ll have the chance to hold my hand a lot? What if I don’t enjoy tonight? What if this is our first and last date?” I glance his way, slightly tilting my head to see his face and I catch him smiling.
“If you decide you don’t want to see me again at the end of the evening, I’ll wave a white flag and leave you alone. Deal?”
A sinking feeling settles in my gut.
Why, I don’t know. Too many conflicting emotions hit me to decide what I want right now, so I bob my head, frowning more when Conor smiles wider, glancing at our interlocked hands.
“What?” I ask, following his line of sight to find my fingers squeezing the life out of his so hard my nails turned white with the effort. “Sorry,” I mumble, loosening my grip but not letting go.
“Do something for me.” He tugs me closer, spins me around, and pulls me in, my back flush against his chest, his arms boxing mine, one hand covering my belly. It’s possessive how he holds me, his fingers splayed wide.
Possessive, hot, protective.
Firm but tender.
“Close your eyes,” he urges.
“Why?”
“Trust me for one minute, will you? Close your eyes.”
I huff my exasperation but do as he says, blocking out the bright, colorful lights flashing and twinkling over the street and reflecting off the shop windows.
His heart beats softly against my back, my mind catching the steady rise and fall of each breath in his chest.
“Now what?” I whisper, surrendering myself to the feel of him behind me, my blood running a fever.
“Focus on the smells.”
I want to ask what, but I don’t. He’s going somewhere with this. He’s isolating my mind, encouraging it to switch off some senses and amplify others.
Smells take a direct route to the limbic system, extending to the olfactory bulb in the brain. It’s well-known that smells evoke powerful memories. I think that’s what Conor’s trying to achieve. He’s wiring my brain to associate the smells around us with this moment, so I’ll think about tonight whenever I get a whiff of something similar.
“Cotton candy, caramel-coated nuts, waffles,” he lists, brushing his nose up my cheek.
I inhale, concentrating on the sweet aroma mixing with the saltiness of the sea, creating a distinct, uniquely coastal scent.
“And then there’s you.” His lips graze my ear, introducing a brand-new avalanche of desire. “You smell like fresh linen. Soap, spring rain… Warm, soothing. I can’t get enough of it.” His grip engulfs me, firm and full of longing.
I’m caught between fear and desire. Half of me considers pulling away. The other half sways dangerously close to surrender. I’m scared how quickly he’s tearing apart my defense walls but excited he knows how.
“Now listen,” he whispers, his warm breath kissing the shell of my ear as his fingers trickle down my arm.
My stomach tightens on cue. One simple touch makes me question every assumption I’ve made about him thus far.
I wait, shepherding the sudden pang of desire coursing through me, expecting him to whisper, but he’s silent. “What?”
“Jesus, woman,” he chuckles. The amusement cocooning his tone arouses more butterflies. “Listen to the sounds around us.”
“Oh, okay…”
The air is pierced by the buzz of people enjoying their evening. Excited chatter spills onto the sidewalk. The arcades nearby come alive with cheerful shouts and the sound of coins clattering into slots.
“Remember this.” His warm lips skitter along my skin, arms tightening their hold, curling me further into him… and I fit so well. Perfectly. “I already know, Little Bee.”
“What do you know?” I ask, my eyes closed as the smells and sounds infect my senses, the moment imprinting itself on my hard drive. I wiggle out of his embrace, spinning to face him. “What do you know, Conor?”
He takes half a step back, eyes heavy with some emotion I can’t place. Maybe if I had more time, but it’s gone in a fraction of a second, blinked away. His whole posture changes back to his usual carefree casualness.
“That it won’t be our last date.”
It makes sense.
Perfect sense considering what I said, but at the same time, I have a nagging feeling that’s not what’s on his mind.
