Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary
Chapter 4
This is pointless.
It’s only been a few hours since Connor dropped me off, and in between texting my friends and family—my phone won’t make calls, but can send messages for some reason—all I’ve done is sit at my desk, staring at my computer. No matter how hard I try to focus on Elizabeth and Isaac, the only story I care about at the moment is the one that has me trapped inside a building practically starving.
Because it’s been hours since I ate. And did I mention I’m starving?
Also, my feet hurt despite the two Advil I downed when I got back to my office.
Also also, I’m still shaken from my near-death experience. And yes, I’m aware that I’m being dramatic—and it’s embarrassing, okay?
I’ve tried to avoid the internet, which is working after all, because my nerves are still a bit too raw to flip through stories about the damage caused by the earthquake. But according to Kayla, it wasn’t actually as high on the Richter scale as it felt. There are definitely areas of town that got it worse than others, like where Connor and I are, and ours isn’t the only landslide. It’s too early to tell if a lot of people are injured or just as lucky as Connor and me.
So for now, I wait.
My stomach grumbles for the eightieth time (see? soooo dramatic!) and I finally swivel away from my computer. “All right, all right. You win.” I ease out of Connor’s jacket and check my shirt. Stained, but dry.
Then, as slowly as possible, I try to put weight on my feet.
Nope, nope, nope.
I sit. Gritting my teeth, I turn my feet so I’m walking on the outside of each like a strange kind of monkey. I make it to the door—oh so proud of myself—before the bones in my feet start to really hurt.
That’s it. I have no choice.
I drop to my knees and crawl toward the break room. Although I have no food in the fridge, maybe one of my co-workers will have left something behind. Of course, under normal circumstances I would never dream of stealing someone else’s food, but this is most definitely not normal. Especially because Connor could pop out of his office at any moment and see me. That will surely add to his stellar opinion of me.
Although honestly, I’m guessing he doesn’t think about me at all. He’s probably sad he’s not stuck instead with one of the many rail-thin beauties who work here. A past—or present—fling.
As I crawl, I try to ignore the fact that I’m now super close to the nasty carpet I was just thinking about earlier today and that it smells like a combo between wet dog and the flowers that bloom on the orange tree outside of my window every spring. My hair swings forward, touching the ground. Ew, ew, ew. I try to move forward, but keep tripping over it.
Well, this won’t work.
I stop to tie my hair in a knot on top of my head—and thank goodness it’s so caked with dry shampoo today, because it actually stays. I mean, I’m sure I look like some sort of bride of Frankenstein, but desperate times, right?
Sweat starts to form at my temple as I continue my trek down the hallway. Seriously, when did it get so long? My knees are aching and little bits of debris are digging into my flesh.
A door opens somewhere behind me. “Please no, no, no,” I whisper.
“Going somewhere?”
Aw, come on. Couldn’t I have maintained just a tiny bit of dignity in all of this? Maybe if I ignore Connor, he’ll go away. I put my head back down and keep crawling like I’m in the army and this is basic training.
But in a flash, he’s standing directly in front of me. “Why are you crawling?” If I’m not mistaken, there’s amusement in Connor’s tone.
Oh, sure. Laugh at the injured girl. Maybe sometime in the distant future, I’ll be able to laugh at this too. But right now? I’m so not in the mood. Part of it is the hunger that’s inducing a headache and twisting my stomach into knots. Add to that the lingering anxiety over our entire situation here and it’s a fierce mixture—which is why I can’t help the biting tone in my voice. “Move, Connor.”
“Whoa there, Evie. No need to get testy.” I’ve heard that teasing tone before, when he flirts with women. But he’s not flirting right now. He’s mocking me.
Isn’t he?
The confusion makes my head hurt even more. “I said, move.”
I need food. Stat.
“Where are you going?” He pauses, but just for a second. “Do you need me to carry you?”
For the love of all that is good, just let me pass.“To the break room for food. And no, I’m perfectly capable of doing it on my own.”
“I can see that.” He’s still standing in front of me as he chuckles.
That’s it. I’m out of options, and I tried being reasonable …
I head butt his legs.
He lets loose a disbelieving laugh as he falls onto his butt and bangs his elbow against the wall.
I sit up on my knees, eyes wide. In my haze of hunger, I’ve gone too far. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“What did you do that for?” He’s rubbing his arm and staring at me like I’m the most confounding creature he’s ever seen.
I press the palms of my hands against my closed eyes for a moment. “I was hangry.” Then I peek at him again.
Sitting this close to him, I can see the gold rimming his eyes.
Still rubbing his elbow, he cocks his head. “Hangry?”
“Yes. You know. Hungry and angry?” I bite my lip. Surely he understands.
But he just shakes his head. “I wouldn’t think an editor would use made-up words.”
“She would if no real word existed to adequately describe the state in which she finds herself—and right now, that state is hangry. You were blocking me from my quarry, so I tried to move you.”
I shrug and attempt to look apologetic. Because I am. Sort of. On another level, it was kind of nice to finally knock Connor Bryant down a peg—literally. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
After a few long seconds of blinking at me, his face breaks out into a huge grin. “Quarry. Now that’s more like it, Webster.”
My nose wrinkles. “Webster?”
“Like the dictionary?” Connor stands, dusts off his pants, and holds out a hand to me. “Come on. I’ll help you get to the kitchen and we can get some food into you. Then I can update you on my call with emergency services.”
Now he has my attention. I stand and allow him to pick me up again, trying to ignore how good it feels to be momentarily nestled against a man’s chest. It’s been so long …
He’s just being polite, Evie.
I clear my thoughts and refocus on what Connor said about emergency services. “So you got through?”
He walks the rest of the way down the hallway to the break room and sets me down in a chair. “Yeah, finally.” Heading to the fridge, he rummages around. “I was just coming to get you when I saw your … journey to the break room.”
I’m never going to live that down. I just pray he doesn’t tell the rest of the office. He’ll probably describe it to everyone at our next staff meeting. “What did they say?”
Connor emerges from the fridge with two plastic containers, removes the lids, and sticks the Tupperware into the microwave. “Not surprisingly, they have a long list of emergencies and well checks to perform before getting to us.” While the food is heating, Connor faces me again and leans back against the counter.
“Why are we so far down on the list?”
“We aren’t, necessarily. The list is just long. They have a lot of people in more dire situations than us, and when I told them we were mostly okay, they said they’d have someone out as quickly as possible. But it may not be until tomorrow. Possibly Sunday.”
I’m seriously going to stink if I don’t get a shower for forty-eight hours. I probably already do, unlike Connor, the poster boy for a cologne ad.
But that’s a super shallow thing to think about right now. After all, we’re safe, have a plethora of vending machine food, and cell phone service. Everything else is just a minor inconvenience.
“Aren’t they concerned about land shifting even more during the aftershocks?” I try not to think too hard about the possibility that more damage could occur—that we aren’t really safe after all.
The microwave whirs behind him. “I guess it could happen, but apparently that’s a risk they’re willing to take.”
“I’m assuming that there’s no way out of here on our own?”
“Not that I could find. Access to the outside via the stairwell door is totally blocked by rocks, and there aren’t any open windows on what is now the ground floor.”
“Boo.”
“Yeah.” The microwave beeps, so Connor removes the heated containers and brings them to the table where I’m sitting. He places one in front of me. It’s a creamy chicken pasta dish that smells divine—like something I’d get at my favorite Italian restaurant.
My stomach contracts. “Who did you steal this from?” Not that I care. I’m totally eating it.
He slips me a fork and smiles. “I always keep a few extra meals in the fridge.”
“Just in case a natural disaster strikes and you get stuck here?”
“Or in case I have to work late.”
“Oh right. That.” I prick a twisted noodle with the fork and bring it to my mouth, groaning at the garlic that pops on my tongue. “Oh my goodness. This is so good. Did you make it?”
“Yep.” He dips a spoon into his dish, which looks like a potato soup of some sort. “My mom taught me how to cook before …”
Oh. It sounds like he’s remembering something painful right now. Not knowing what to say, I place a bite of chicken into my mouth and wait for him to continue. The stars and moon are bright outside, streaming in through the windows, which must be why Connor didn’t bother turning on the lights in the break room. It creates this cozy sort of atmosphere and also adds a kind of haunting sadness to the moment.
“She taught me when I was a teenager. I liked spending that time with her.” He shifts in the hard plastic chair and shovels a bite of soup into his mouth.
I don’t quite know what to make of this Connor. And in this moment, I realize I don’t really know him at all—not the important stuff—and maybe I’ve judged him too harshly. Because any man who talks about his mom with such tenderness and nostalgia can’t be all bad.
And I have the sudden urge to comfort him somehow—maybe even take his hand. But that’s going just a bit too far. Still, I can offer words. I’m good at words. “My mom did her best to teach me the ropes of the kitchen, but I was a very bad student.” My lips twitch at the memory. “One time I was cooking bacon on the stovetop and placed the hot skillet onto a potholder to take the cooked pieces off. But when I moved it back to the burner, I didn’t realize that the potholder was stuck to the bottom.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah. It totally caught fire.”
His eyes are wide as he laughs all staccato and throaty. “What happened?”
“As you may have ascertained”—I emphasize the word with a smile, a nod to his earlier Webster comment—“I am not the best in emergencies. So while most sane people would have simply removed the skillet and thrown some water from the sink over the potholder, I raced outside and grabbed the hose.”
Now he’s full-on laughing, and I love that he snorts all undignified-like. Somehow, it makes him slightly less demigod and more human. “You didn’t.”
“Oh yes, I did, sir.” And I’m laughing too, my stomach hurting for a different reason now. “My mom still won’t let me anywhere near her kitchen. After that, I was banished to helping my dad outside with the cows.”
“Cows?”
“Oh. Yeah. I grew up on a dairy farm in Iowa.”
“How have I worked with you for so long and never known that about you?” His spoon clinks on the glass container as he taps it against the edge. “In fact, how is this the first time we have ever really talked about something other than work?”
“I don’t know.” I chew my bottom lip, letting the silence between us hang there, almost a living thing. “I guess you’ve always preferred the company of everyone else in the office.”
Great. That kind of sounded like I’m jealous.
Which I am not.
As if I can erase what I just said, I wave my hand quickly in the air. “What I mean is that you’ve always seemed more interested in talking to the other women …”
Nope. Not any better.
He sits back in his seat. “No, no. Go on.” That cocky and amused grin he likes to wear is back.
It’s always annoyed me before. But right now, in this ridiculous situation, I laugh. Like, full-on belly laugh. And he joins me. We sit there like a couple of fools laughing our heads off.
And for the first time since the earthquake scared the daylights out of me, I actually feel … okay. Calmer.
Like I’m not alone.
Because … I’m not.
I wipe the laugh tears from my eyes while he gathers the empty dishes and takes them to the sink, then turns back to me. “Time for some dessert.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls loose his wallet, and heads to the vending machine. “What’s your pleasure?”
I squint. “Are there any Reese’s Pieces left?”
He whirls, jaw slack. “Is that your favorite or something?”
“One of them.” His reaction is strange, like I just told him I’d seen a ghost. “Why?”
Shaking his head, he puts in money, makes his selection, and an orange box drops to the chute. “Last one.” When he has it in hand, he comes back to the table and places the box between us.
“Aren’t you going to get anything for yourself?”
“Oh, were you planning to eat the entire box?” he teases.
“Maybe,” I tease back. Lifting the box, I peel at the cardboard top and the candy shakes inside like pinballs in a machine. When I’ve got it open, I drop several into my hand and scoop them all into my mouth, where flavor explodes and soothes. “Mmm. Peanut buttery goodness.”
“Indeed.” Connor takes a huge handful and sets them onto the table, then arranges them into groups by color—orange, yellow, brown. It’s adorable. “You know, these are my favorite candy too.” He glances up at me, winks. “Looks like we may have something in common after all.”
“It’s a good thing to have in common.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Wearing his usual mysterious smile, he picks up a yellow candy and sticks it in his mouth. “But unlike you, I like to savor them one at a time. No blending together of the colors for me.”
“Are you serious? No way.” I take another handful and shove them all in my mouth at once, sucking the outer shells away, chewing, and finally swallowing. “Besides, I don’t taste a difference in the colors.”
Now, his smile is different. Softer, somehow. “That’s what she always said too.”
I freeze. “Who?”
“My mom.” He picks up an orange Reese’s, turns it in his hand. “We used to watch the movie E.T. together. The one with the little alien who eats them? And we’d gorge ourselves until I felt sick.”
He talks about her as if she’s not around anymore. Like she left. Or died.
I clear my throat. “I remember that movie. It was one of my sister’s favorites when we were kids.” Talking about my sister always jabs me in the lungs, but … I don’t know. This time, the memory is only tinged with a ring of sadness instead of being consumed by it.
Almost as if, by sharing it with someone else—with Connor—it’s a little easier to carry.
Which sounds kind of absurd, considering he doesn’t even know my whole story and I don’t know his.
Regardless, when our gazes connect in that moment, something inside of me shifts. And now I totally understand all of the story tropes in which characters bond after experiencing hardships together.
In which they fall for each other.
Because while I’ve always found Connor physically attractive, I’m actually starting to like him as a person too.
And that is obviously a very bad idea. After all, he’s my competition for the associate publisher position. And he’s … Connor. He’s still the biggest flirt I know, and I’ve always thought he was super shallow. Was I wrong? All this time? Because from where I’m sitting, he’s actually been very level-headed and kind.
Almost … sweet.
Before my thoughts can go ring-around-the-rosy another time, I push away the box of Reese’s. “That was very good. Thanks.” I fake a yawn and stretch my arms overhead. “I think it’s about time for some shut-eye.”
“Some shut-eye, huh?” He grins. “All right, Webster. Let’s go.”
And once again, I’m in his arms. This time, for the briefest second, I allow my head to find a pillow against his chest while he carries me back to my office. He sets me in my chair and I feel suddenly cold. I tug his suit jacket on again. If he thinks he’s getting this back tonight, he has another thing coming.
Connor studies me for a minute, and a muscle in his jaw flexes. “Be right back.” He spins and leaves, returning a minute later with a few blankets that I recognize from Justine’s office. The woman always has a blanket across her lap while she works. I don’t know if she’s just perpetually cold-blooded or really likes the comfort a good blanket can provide. “I thought I could make a little bed on the floor.”
Okay, forget I said he was “almost sweet.” This is next-level. Which means that Connor Bryant is a total and complete sweetie pie.
Am I having a mental breakdown?
Stop it, Evie. No matter how sweet he is acting, you cannot fall for your totally hot co-worker. Because you are competitors. And you have to keep your eye on the prize, not on the guy who is suddenly more than you thought he was this morning.
Of course, maybe he hasn’t changed at all. But my impression of him … that’s what is shifting.
All of this internal pep talking has taken I-don’t-know-how-long and Connor is still standing there with his arms full of blankets and waiting for me to stop being an idiot and answer him.
“Great idea. Thanks.”
He studies me for a minute more, then nods. “No problem. There’s plenty here, so you hopefully won’t be too cold.” After arranging them on the ground between the door and the desk, Connor grabs the door handle. “Sweet dreams, Evie.”
Sweet dreams? Yeah, right.
I doubt I’ll sleep a single wink tonight.