Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary
Chapter 11
The last week has been pure torture.
I’ve seen Connor a lot in the office, but almost always around other people. As usual, our jobs have kept us pretty busy during the day and at night we have gone our separate ways—him to work on his manuscript and me to read and evaluate manuscripts that my assistant has pulled from the slush pile for consideration. (I know, I really need to get a life, right?)
We did manage to text a decent amount, mostly emojis and inconsequential stuff, and I have to admit that my flirty text game is definitely improving. (Kayla mentioned how proud she is that her confidence and dating lessons have paid off. I assured her that I still have a long way to go.)
Other than texting, I’ve had to satisfy myself with meaningful looks and winks across the boardroom table, one brush of our hands as he handed me my lunch out of the fridge in the break room, and one fleeting moment yesterday afternoon when he rushed into my office, closed the door behind him, leaned down to kiss me square on the mouth, and pulled back immediately, whispering, “I can’t wait for tomorrow night” before hightailing it out of there again.
Essentially, I did not get enough of Connor Bryant this week. Not even close.
Which is why now I’m bouncing on my tiptoes on the stoop of Connor’s modest-sized Chula Vista home as I wait for him to answer my knock. After a morning and afternoon that dragged on forever, the night has finally arrived and I’ve made sure to look my best while still keeping it casual in a pair of jeans, sandals, and a cap-sleeve black polka dot blouse.
For our first real date, Connor asked if he could cook me dinner—and hello, I’ve seen enough romcoms to know that if a man wants to cook for you, you say YES! Even though some women might prefer to be wined and dined at a fancy restaurant, I actually love that our date will be more low-key and out of the public eye—just me, him, and this bottle of red wine that I’m clutching.
Oh yeah, and his dog, Bruno.
When Connor opens the door, a golden retriever races out to attempt tackling me. “Bruno! Heel!”
The dog halts and looks up at me with mournful brown eyes. I laugh and squat to nuzzle him, allowing him to lick my cheek. “Good boy.”
“What’s it say that I’m jealous of my dog?”
I look up to find Connor leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. Standing, I take a step toward him and lose all train of thought, because how does a man make a black T-shirt and jeans look so good? “Hi.” I hold out the wine.
He gently takes the bottle and tugs me into his embrace, giving me a kiss on the cheek—the one the dog didn’t just lick, of course. “Hi. You look resplendent tonight.”
I laugh and nudge past him, the dog following closely on my heels. My jaw drops as I take in his great room. It’s probably the most stylish bachelor pad I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen a lot—with its high wood-beam ceilings, vintage leather furniture, velvet throw pillows, and a large piece of abstract artwork on the wall of the eat-in kitchen. “Wow, you really have a knack for decorating. Your place is lovely.”
Some sort of heavenly scent wafts from the kitchen—garlic and oregano, if I’m not mistaken—which opens up into the room where we’re currently standing. Even though it isn’t large by any means, the stainless steel appliances, white shaker cabinets, and tile backsplash with a blue swirl pattern give it a luxurious air.
Either Connor makes more money than I do or he’s able to save more than I can—possibly both.
He doesn’t need the promotion like I do.
Nope. Not going there. Not tonight.
I clear my throat and pivot as he passes me into the kitchen and puts the wine on the counter. “Something smells amazing.” Running my fingertips over the smooth wood of the countertop-height table, I then hang my purse on the back of one of the eight chairs.
“My mom’s lasagna.” Connor puts on potholders and leans down to pull a nine-by-thirteen dish from the oven. The cheesy air bubbles deflate as he removes it from the heat and places it on the island. “It’s my go-to.”
Oh. And suddenly, the whole thing loses a tiny bit of its luster. “For dates?”
He must notice the disappointment in my tone, because he turns, slips off the potholders, and walks toward me with such purpose that I retreat a few steps until the back of my legs hit his large couch. But then he places his hands on my shoulders. “Webster, I have never, in all my dating life, cooked for another woman.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
And before I can lift up on my tiptoes and show him how much that means to me—after all, cooking was the thing he did with his mom—he sweeps away again, back toward the kitchen, where he pulls a lidded bowl from the fridge. “The wine you brought will go great with dinner.” He pulls the lid off the bowl, revealing a salad with bell peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes, then points to one of the cabinets. “Would you get down a few glasses?”
“Of course.” As we finish prepping dinner, he gives me an update on his manuscript. “I’m going to start querying agents.”
“Yeah?” The wine falls from the bottle into the second glass, a stream of delightful purply red. “I’m so excited for you. Who are you going to query?”
We chat all things agents and editors as we sit down beside each other to eat the salad, lasagna, and garlic bread he pulled from the oven (which are all absolutely delectable, by the way). Then our conversation ebbs and flows across a variety of topics—from our favorite childhood memories to our favorite movies (his is Braveheart, and when I admit I’ve never seen it, he declares that we are totally watching it after dinner) to our ideal vacations (mine = reading on the beach, while his is hiking and staying at a mountain retreat, cuddled up with someone special while binge eating Reese’s Pieces).
I can’t believe how quickly the time has flown by when he serves cherry and almond crumble for dessert, and I lose myself in the pleasure of tasting the tart fruit mixed with sweet vanilla ice cream that he apparently made from scratch because of course he did. “I have one more change to make to your manuscript before you query.”
His eyebrows lift as he pushes aside his empty ramekin. “And what’s that?”
Using my spoon, I point to my last bite of dessert. “The hero needs to cook for the heroine.”
“Is that right?” His hand inches toward mine, and a tiny thrill shoots up my spine at the contact—the way his thumb gently strokes the length of my forefinger.
“Yes.” My eyes flick upward, and I lick my lips.
I’ve been waiting for his kiss all night—all week, because that little peck yesterday didn’t count—and I wonder if it’s finally going to happen.
But then he says something I don’t expect. “You know, you’re the only person in my life who would see my writing as a good thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad has made it very clear that the arts are not something he wants his sons to pursue.”
“I’m sorry.” And I sense he has something to get off his chest, so I squeeze his hand and wait.
That seems to be the reassurance he needs that, yes, I want to hear about his past. The good. The bad. The everything in between.
“I don’t know if I’ve told you this or not, but my dad is a surgeon in Los Angeles. He wanted me to go into medicine too, like my brother did. I think he’s always seen my job in sales and marketing as kind of … I don’t know. Disreputable.” He shrugs. “Whatever his reasons, he’s always acted like what I do isn’t good enough for the Bryant name. So if he ever found out I wrote a book, that I want to be an author …”
“Thus why you wanted to use a pen name.”
“Exactly.”
“But you’ve decided to use your real name anyway.”
“Yeah. Screw him, right?” He says it light-heartedly, but I can tell by the frown lines around his mouth that he doesn’t mean it. That he’d like nothing more than to be accepted by his dad for who he is.
“Maybe he’d be more accepting than you think.”
“There you go, Evie. Always thinking so well of everyone.” A bitter laugh ricochets from his throat. “But you’re talking about the man who called his eighth-grade son a wuss for deciding to secretly try out for a musical instead of the basketball team.”
“What? That’s terrible.”
“What’s terrible is that he interrupted dress rehearsal and declared me an embarrassment in front of all my co-stars, then refused to let me participate in the show.” His gaze is dark like a storm brewing on the horizon, one that’s about to unleash a thousand pounds of water on your head. Not that I blame him. What kind of father does what his did? “After that, I committed to basketball so hard that I went full-court jock, got a scholarship, the whole she-bang. He was finally proud of something I did—and then I lost it all when I followed Victoria to Florida.”
Ugh. “I can see why you don’t think he’d be supportive of your writing.”
“Especially since I write romance novels. I mean, how much more wussy can you get?” Suddenly, he stands. “All right, enough of my sob story. Ready to watch a movie?” Then he charges away from the table and toward the television. As he’s getting Braveheart queued up, I clear the dishes from the table and put them in the sink to soak.
He turns off the lights and the room goes dark other than the blue glow of the TV. I sit on one end of the couch and am surprised at how comfortable it is.
Connor flicks a glance at me and sits on the other end of the couch. I’m momentarily depressed that he chose the spot farthest away, until he holds his arm out toward me. “I wouldn’t mind some company over here.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. As he stretches out against the back of the couch, I lie down in front of him, the small spoon to his big spoon. His arm pulls me back against his chest, and my head rests half on the throw pillow at the end and half on the crook of his arm underneath me. Connor clicks on the movie and gives me a soft kiss on the neck before settling his chin on my shoulder. His breath glides past my collarbone, just under the lip of my blouse’s collar, and it feels like an intimate caress with invisible fingers.
At first, I’m completely aware of every single place his body and mine are making contact. But as the movie progresses, I’m sucked into the story. And then I’m crying when love is lost, rejoicing when victory is had, and lamenting when it’s over.
As he hits the Stop button, I shift toward him slightly so I’m on my back and he’s angled just above me. “That was so tragically beautiful.”
“Wasn’t it?” One strong arm is still lying across my stomach, his fingers skimming my waist as he plays with the bottom of my blouse. “There were also some really cool fight scenes.” His lips twitch.
“Right.” I roll my eyes, laughing. “That too.”
The whole room is quiet save a static buzzing from the still-lit television. This is my idea of heaven, just being in Connor’s arms, being enveloped by the manly scent of his deodorant and shampoo, his golden-brown eyes watching me. I wonder what he’s thinking.
But instead of asking, I absently trace his bicep tattoo—which is normally covered up—for several long moments. And then I realize that it’s wisteria, the plant we stood under at the Friendship Garden. His mom’s favorite flower. “Did you get this for your mom?”
“Yeah.”
And my heart melts into goo at how much he loved his mother, how much he misses her, that he would memorialize her forever in ink on his body. “You’re a sweet man, Connor Bryant.”
“You’d better not tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.” He grins.
But instead of grinning back, the reminder of his reputation gives me pause. Makes me frown. Because there’s still something I don’t understand—something that makes me wonder if I’m once again trusting too easily.
I don’t really think I am, but …
He cocks his head. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” The thought is too embarrassing. I could never ask him outright.
Could I?
Surprisingly, he doesn’t prod me further, just holds me while I process. The ceiling fan above us is turning and I become aware of a clacking sound that I didn’t notice before, like it’s slightly off-kilter.
I swallow, and my throat is as dry as the desert in a drought. “For years, I watched you flirt with almost every female in our office. I even heard rumors that you went out with several of them. That you …” I don’t want to repeat what exactly it is I heard that he did with these co-workers, but let’s just say it’s not rated PG.
“Aw, Webster …” He sighs. “After Victoria dumped me out of left field, I kind of swore off dating. Not going out for drinks and hooking up afterward—real dating. I’m not proud of my actions, but it’s the truth.”
It makes sense and I’m glad he’s being honest with me. “Thank you for sharing that. But …”
His brow creases and the hand that’s holding my waist gives a little squeeze. “But what?”
“It’s just …” I bite my lip. “You never flirted with me.”
“You had a boyfriend.”
“Not for the entire ten years that we’ve worked together.” I pause. “I know that I’m quiet and quirky and make too many Jane Austen references and I’ve got nothing on the other women looks-wise—”
“Stop.” His fingers leave my waist and find my lips, resting against them softly. “I’ll admit, at first I didn’t really notice you. I was a superficial jerk who was hurting and looking for a quick score.”
I flinch as the brash truth hits me in the face.
But Connor continues, and I listen. “Then you said something in a meeting one time—I honestly don’t even remember what—and it made me smile. And I started paying attention. You were always doing things to make others smile, Evie. You still are. And it was at that point that I also noticed what an incredibly stunning woman you are.”
My cheeks go hot under his gaze. “So if you noticed me …”
“Why didn’t I ask you out?”
I nod. I’m so pathetic, but I really have to know.
“Because instinctively I knew that you wouldn’t be the kind of woman who would want a fling. You’re the kind of woman who wants—and deserves—champagne and roses, not cheap wine coolers and dandelions that will blow away in seconds. I knew that I would just hurt you. So I didn’t even let myself consider you as a possibility.”
His words both thrill me and terrify me. Because what’s changed? “And now?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“I am still pretty positive that I’m not good enough for you. But …” He smiles, shakes his head. “I like seeing myself through your eyes. I like seeing the world through your eyes. You’re special, Evie, and … I don’t know. I guess I feel like maybe I finally could be the kind of man who hangs in there for the long haul. You make me feel that way.”
Okay, I’m definitely glad I asked.
I reach my hand up and cup the side of his face where it hovers just inches over me. The stubble is rough against my palm. “Connor.”
And before I can fully breathe out the word, his mouth descends onto mine. My lips part and I let my tongue dart out to taste him, to taste the lingering sweet cream from our dessert on his lips. He shifts so he’s no longer beside me but on top—and as he presses me back against the pillow with his kisses, I can’t help but sigh. Deeply.
Apparently, Connor likes this, because he growls and deepens the kiss. One of his hands is tangled in my hair, the other skimming the skin just under my shirt, along the top of my jeans. His touch is like wildfire—and it’s spreading, containment zero percent, no water in sight.
I pull him as close as I can because I never want to know a world where Connor and I aren’t this connected. He claims my mouth with his own over and over, then my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder.
Now it’s my turn and I greedily angle my lips so I can reach the soft spot just below his ear.
When I take the very bottom of his lobe gently between my teeth, his hand flexes on my waist and he moans—like he’s holding back but doesn’t want to. “Evie.” And then he’s got his lips on mine yet again and there’s no hesitation, no fear, nothing but pressure and passion and—
My phone rings.
And rings.
And rings, till I groan and stop kissing him. But he just moves his lips to my neck. “Ignore it.”
So I do, till the ringing becomes so persistent that it makes me worried, effectively killing the mood. “I’m sorry. I need to check.” And probably, I should come up for some air—let the haze of fiery desire fizzle off just a bit before we go farther than I’m comfortable with tonight.
He sighs and scoots away, tugging down his shirt, which got pushed up his torso sometime during our flurry. I blush at the disappearing wink of his abs then stumble to my feet.
Connor looks equally dazed, something akin to awe on his face. He scrubs his jaw as I hurry to the table where my phone rests in my purse. Fumbling around, I finally find the device so I can silence it.
But then my stomach drops. My mom has called ten times. There are ten voicemails.
And one text: Call me ASAP. Dad had a heart attack.
My world goes black as my shaking hand drops the phone.