Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary

Chapter 5

Ido sleep—and, apparently, drool.

Something startles me awake and I sit up straight in my office chair. I blink as I swipe at the wetness pooling at the corners of my lips.

What time is it? I squint at the clock on my wall. Six-something. Makes sense considering that outside my window, there’s just a tiny shimmer of light on the horizon. My computer is asleep, displaying my screen saver (which, yes, is totally Mr. Darcy staring straight at me … le sigh), and whew, it’s cold in here. Maybe the heat doesn’t come on overnight.

A shiver works its way through me and I pull the lapels of Connor’s jacket tighter—and yes, inhale the still-there scent of him.

Memories of last night flood in. How I tried to get comfortable on my floor but couldn’t sleep. How I came back to my desk and worked for a bit. How I then pulled out David and Stephanie’s wedding invitation and, in my weakened and emotional state, cried.

Apparently after that, I conked out at my desk.

I rub a crick in my neck. Enough is enough. That invitation has already caused plenty of turmoil. Kayla said I should just throw it away and she’s right. So I snag it once more—the stiff cream cardstock paper rough under my fingertips—and stand, surprised when my feet don’t protest too loudly. Hallelujah. No more crawling for me.

I step gingerly around my desk and walk, ready to drop the invite inside the trash next to the door. But no. If I put it there, I’m liable to grab it out again—feeling guilty that I didn’t RSVP.

Feeling guilty that I didn’t go.

Which, honestly, is ridiculous. I know that it’s ridiculous, and yet, I can’t help how I feel. Because I should want the best for my ex and his future wife, right? I shouldn’t be bitter. I should forgive and forget. Move on.

I have.

Have you?

With my annoyingly persistent subconscious’s voice in my mind, I open my door and head slowly down the still-dim hallway toward the bathroom—because, hello, I have been holding it all night. Also, the trashcan in there is much deeper and I definitely won’t go digging back through it once I regret tossing this sucker in.

As I reach the bathroom door, I hear music drifting from Connor’s office. It’s the pump-it-up kind that I imagine they play at the gym—wouldn’t know since I’ve never been to one. (Okay, I went once but immediately turned tail and ran when I caught sight of all the gorgeous women wearing sports bras and tiny shorts, their hair and makeup perfect. I, on the other hand, wore long basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail and not a stitch of makeup on my face. How silly of me to think that one goes to the gym to … I don’t know … work out.)

I expected Connor would be sleeping still, but if he can sleep through music like this, then color me impressed. Ever so quietly, I sneak up to his door, which is cracked an inch or two …

And it’s totally enough space to see a shirtless Connor punching the air.

That’s right, folks, he’s just wearing gym shorts and doing some sort of boxing routine, shuffling his feet and jabbing one-two, one-two, and there’s a tattoo snaking up his left bicep and, oh my goodness, his chest is every bit as chiseled as I’d always imagined.

Not that I spend a lot of time imagining it. Just … oh, shut up.

ANYWAY, I can’t seem to pull my eyes off of him as he moves in time with the music. His hair is mussed in an adorable I-just-rolled-out-of-bed way and there’s sweat dripping down his temples and running from his neck down the center of his chest toward his abs and I can’t look away and now I’m sweating and KILL ME DEAD because he just caught me staring at him!

Whirling as fast as my injured feet will allow, I book it back down the hallway. But in my haste, the invitation flutters from my hands somewhere in between the bathroom door and Connor’s office. Do I go back for it? Dare I risk him coming out of his office and catching me? If I go into the bathroom right now, I can deny the Peeping Tom incident. (Wait, what’s the female equivalent of Tom? Tammy? Am I a Peeping Tammy? Oh, Lord!)

But before I can make a decision, Connor’s music cuts out and his door opens all the way as he steps into the hallway. His smirk is bigger than the state of Texas. He totally knows I was checking him out.

This is bad. Really bad.

“Morning,” I squeak, because what else can I say?

“Hi, there.” He’s got a shirt balled up in his hands and I will him with my mind to put it on—you know, so I can think like a rational human being instead of staring at him like some sort of pathetic woman who hasn’t been so much as hugged by a man in more than two years.

Oh, wait. I totally am that woman. (And no, him carrying me yesterday didn’t count as a hug.)

Groan, groan, groan on a stick.

“Um. So. Did you sleep well?” At this point, I’m clutching the frame of the bathroom door behind me. It’s propping me up, thanks to my gelatin-for-legs.

“I did. You?”

“Mmm hmm.” Finally, my eyes meet his gaze.

He laughs and tugs the quick-dry shirt over his head.

Oh, thank goodness. The tension in my shoulders eases. I clear my throat. “My feet are feeling better.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

His features soften. “I’m glad to hear that. We should take a look and make sure they’re not infected or anything.”

“I’m sure they’re—”

“Fine. I know.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “But it’ll make me feel better to check.”

Oh. I bite my lip and nod. “Yeah, all right.” Man, this is awkward. What would a normal person say right now? Food. Food is always a safe topic, right? “Are you hungry? I figured I’d scrounge up some breakfast from the vending machine. My treat since you fed us last night. I think I saw some Pop-Tarts in there.” I pause, straighten, then fidget with the sleeves of his jacket. I should probably give this back to him.

Not yet.

“Breakfast of champions.” His eyes twinkle. “That sounds good. Just give me time to get cleaned up. Guess it’ll be a good old-fashioned sponge bath in the bathroom sink for me today.”

Don’t you dare picture that, Evie Denmark.

“Great!” I blurt out. “Well, I’ll let you get to it, then.”

“Okay.” And just before he goes back into his office, his gaze flickers to the ground.

To the invitation.

No!

He starts toward it and I scramble. “Oh! That’s mine, actually.”

But Connor gets there first. He squats, picks it up, and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

I clutch it to my chest as if I’m thirteen and it’s my diary. “Thank you.”

“Am I allowed to ask why you’re walking the halls with a wedding invitation?”

Yeah, why would any sane person be doing that? Maybe the truth is the least crazy thing I can say. “I’m throwing it away.”

He doesn’t reply, just stands there, watching me. Waiting … for what?

I lick my lips. “The thing is … the invite is for the wedding of my ex-boyfriend and his fiancée, who used to be one of my best friends.”

“And they invited you? Were they trying to be jerks or something?”

My finger trails the edge of the fancy paper, over the raised bumps and grooves. “We’re kind of still in touch.”

“Like, you’re friends?”

“Maybe.” I cringe at the crackle in my voice, so I rush on. “I mean, not really, but we’ve gotten together over the years to catch up once or twice.” Or six times, but who’s counting?

And those were the most miserable memories of my life—sitting at a restaurant on one side of a booth, the two of them on the other, David’s arm slung around Stephanie’s shoulders like it used to be around mine. Each time, I came home and cried, and Kayla scolded me for going in the first place.

But I couldn’t say no to Stephanie’s invitations to dinner, because … I don’t know. It’s like I had to prove that I was the bigger person. Or maybe I can’t stand the idea that there’s someone out there I’m at odds with.

“Were you and your ex serious?”

I know what he’s implying—that maybe this isn’t a big deal. Maybe we only dated for a short amount of time and I gave Steph my blessing to date my ex.

A breath shudders in, out. “We dated for three years.”

“Wow, I’m sorry.”

I kick at an invisible pebble on the carpet and shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Apparently he spent half of those pining after my friend who finally agreed to date him if he dumped me.” Ugh, why did I tell him that? It will only add to his pathetic image of me—the dowdy editor who is not only a glutton for punishment, but unlovable to boot.

“So are you going to go to the wedding?”

I sigh. Because even though I’m throwing the invitation away, I know myself. And in five weeks, on April second, I will most likely be sitting in the audience at David and Stephanie’s wedding. “Probably.”

“Like … alone? Or is your boyfriend going with you?”

That makes me laugh—one of those short, disbelieving laughs. “You think I have a boyfriend?”

A hand runs over his stubble, which is more pronounced today. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, I don’t.” I lift my chin ever so slightly. “I’m focusing on my career right now.” Yeah, that’s right. It’s my choice. Because I love my job and want to go even further at this company.

My lack of a romantic relationship has nothing to do with the fact I’m terrified to fall in love again with someone who doesn’t love me back.

Nope. Not at all.

“But you’ve at least got a hot date lined up, right?”

My face flushes. “My roommate Kayla will probably come with me.”

He gently takes the invitation from my hands, and I willingly let it go. Staring at it, he shakes his head. “You’re a much bigger person than me. Not sure I’d be able to attend an ex’s wedding—especiallywithout a proper date. Don’t you want to make him jealous?”

Is he kidding? Nothing I do will ever make David jealous. Why would it? To him, I’m not worthy of notice—not when someone like Stephanie is around.

And yeah, it would feel good to somehow prove to them both that I’ve moved on, that their actions don’t affect me one bit.

But short of paying someone to date me, I’m not seeing that as an option. “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.”

He takes one step closer, and I can smell the salty sweat on his skin. And there’s a whiff of some sort of body spray too. “Sorry if I upset you. I just think you should show that jerk what he’s missing.”

I stiffen at his words, at the smile—and tease?—in them. Is he flirting with me? No, no. He’s just being nice again for some reason.

Nevertheless, his words make me equal parts want to laugh and cry. I point at myself. “And just what would that be? My luscious head of greasy hair? Or maybe the stained grandma clothing? Or, I know!” I waggle my eyebrows as I lift my skirt an inch to show off my right knee. “Would it be the milky white skin? Or—”

“Come on, Evie. You don’t give yourself enough credit.” And then he’s staring at me, and for a moment, it’s almost as if he’s seeing me … really seeing me … for the first time. But then he steps back, gives a short laugh, and runs his hand through his hair. “But for real. You should find yourself a handsome date and wear something hot and dance all night and give Mr. Atkinson an eyeful of what he gave up.”

The tiny hairs on my arms rise at the mental image of me doing exactly what Connor is suggesting. And sure, Kayla could stuff me into a suitable outfit, do my hair and makeup, the whole nine yards. Maybe I could even take dancing lessons so I don’t look like a total idiot on the dance floor.

But there’s one little problem with his suggestion. (Hint: It’s not a little problem. It’s a very big one.)

I drop a hand to my hip. “We don’t all have a thousand potential lovers waiting in the wings.”

At that he grins again. “You don’t need a thousand. You just need one.”

I tap my chin like I’m considering alllll of my options—what a laugh. “Can he be fictional?” Because other than Sir Isaac, I’ve got nada.

“You don’t need someone fictional. You’ve got me.”

“You?” I sputter. Did he just say …? He’s joking. He has to be.

“Yeah, me.”

What. Is. Happening? My heart thrums against my chest.

He lifts a hand and gently presses my chin upward to close my gawking, open mouth. “Why not?”

Why not? I know plenty of why nots, starting with the fact that we’re competing for the same job. But the real question isn’t why not … it’s why?

I push his hand away, and his fingers leave my skin warm and tingly. Still, I narrow my gaze at him. Because after working together for a decade and never once having a personal conversation, this has to be a joke. What is this guy playing at? “Why would you do that for me? And what would you want in return?”

“I’d do it because I’m a really nice guy.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, so casual—as if his suggestion that we go on a date together hasn’t just rocked my entire world and everything I thought I knew about him. “As for what I want in return, I can think of one thing …”

And the way he trails off lets me know exactly what that one thing is.

I hold back the urge to slap him, but I can’t keep my eyes from flashing my rage. “Seriously, Connor? What happened to being a nice guy?”

“What?” His face morphs from amusement to confusion to something twisted like horror. “No, Evie! How could you think that’s what I was talking about?”

“With your reputation, what else would I think, Connor?” But as we stand there, eyes locked, I start to doubt myself. “It’s just that you’re always flirting …” Nope, that’s not better. I expire a steady breath. “Sorry.”

But it’s too late for an apology because something in his gaze closes off. “No worries.” He holds out the invitation for me a final time.

I take it, my fingers trembling. Before I can open my mouth to apologize again, he steps away. “I think I’m going to eat breakfast in my office. There’s something I forgot I need to do before Monday. Might as well use this time to get it done.”

He turns and strides into his office, and this time, the door shuts all the way.

* * *

For the next few hours, I try to work.

But my mind can’t handle the intricacies of Regency England at the moment—I’m stuck in the present, where a very attractive man has offered to be my date to my ex’s wedding.

Where I was a jerk and made assumptions about him and his motives.

Still, my mind keeps circling back to what he was talking about. What would Connor want in return for going with me?

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I hobble into the break room, buy a load of snacks, and haul them into Connor’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk, staring at the computer screen. When I walk in, his gaze clouds and a frown appears. “What can I help you with, Ms. Denmark?”

Oh, we’re back to the formalities, are we? “Hi, Connor.” I step forward. All of my visits to his office have been fairly brief in the past—and this one might be too, depending on how he reacts to me. His walls are littered with awards for various sales and marketing campaigns, and the only thing on his pristine desk other than his computer, lamp, and pen holder is a photo of him with a large golden retriever.

He lifts an eyebrow at me. Once again he’s wearing his dress shirt. It’s no longer crisp, but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tan, corded arms that lead to powerful, slightly calloused fingers. I imagine those hands wrapped around my waist, holding me close on the dance floor at David’s wedding.

Delicious shivers wind up my spine.

Why did I come in here again? Oh, yeah. I dump my armful of goodies onto his desk and wave my hand at the pile, which includes a bag of pretzels, Skittles, a Clif bar, and chocolate in various forms. “I thought you might be hungry.”

He takes me in with his darkened brow, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Internally, I’m just begging him to crack a smile, make a joke. But in one quick motion, he sweeps the snacks out of his way and turns back to the computer. “I’m not.”

I groan and flop into the chair opposite of him. “Come on, Connor. I’m really sorry for what I said.” Except … it was the truth. The part about his reputation, anyway. But that’s neither here nor there. “And I’m here to ask what it is you would want in exchange for going with me to David and Stephanie’s wedding.”

Because I’ve decided that I very much would like that. It’s not as if I want David back—not after the way he discarded me like a used tissue—but I love the idea of proving to everyone (David, his family, and all of the friends I stopped hanging out with when they supported Stephanie instead of me) that I’ve moved on.

Proving that I’m not falling apart.

And that’s honestly the truth—I’m not falling apart. Not anymore. I’ve got a job I love, roommates I adore, and parents who need me. But unfortunately, none of those facts will be as effective at convincing my former social circle of my transcendence as if I show up with a hunky man on my arm.

Speaking of said hunky man, Connor is being really quiet. Maybe he’s rethinking our deal—not that we have a deal. Yet.

But my itching fingertips are proof of just how much I hope we can come to one. And it has nothing to do with the fact I’d get to go on a date with him.

NOTHING.

Because I. Don’t. Like. Him.

And he definitely doesn’t like me.

After what feels like hours, he swivels in his chair to face me. Snatching up a pen from his desk, he clicks the end a few times. “I thought you already knew what I wanted.”

“You said I was wrong.” I want so badly to look away, but I also want him to know this isn’t a game to me. “I’m giving you a chance to explain.”

“How magnanimous of you.” His lips twitch.

I exhale a relieved breath. If he’s almost smiling, then we’re going to be fine. “Who’s Webster now?”

“Touché.” He sets down the pen and opens his desk drawer, pulling out a large stack of papers that are secured together with a thick rubber band. Connor gazes at it fondly, tapping his fingers along the top before nodding and scooting it across the desk toward me. “I want your help with this.”

“What is it?” But before he can answer, I’m reading the top typed paper—The Girl Next Door by Bryant Purcell. My nose crinkles. “A book?”

I turn to the first page and read a few paragraphs. Then I flip farther in, read more. It appears to be a contemporary romance, and from what I can tell, the author is very talented. Obviously I’ve only read a little, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years. And my instincts are telling me that this is the kind of book that will make me grab one of those chocolate bars on Connor’s desk, lock myself in my office, and devour the whole thing in one sitting (the chocolate and the book).

“So what’s the favor? Did you discover this author and want me to consider contracting him? Because you know we only do historicals.” Maybe this Bryant guy is a friend.

Wait. Bryant.

As in … Connor Bryant?

I glance up and flinch at the intensity of his stare. When our gazes collide, he looks away and fiddles with his computer mouse.

“Is this yours?”

The tips of his ears look red, but it’s kind of dim in here—the lights are still at half power and it’s a cloudy morning in San Diego, surprise, surprise—so I could be mistaken. But I don’t miss the subtle nod he gives or the way he coughs.

Almost like he’s embarrassed.

But plenty of guys write romance novels. We publish quite a few. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. “Hey, this is really good.”

He whips his head around. “It is?”

“Yeah.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Is this the first time I’ve ever seen Connor look unsure about something? It’s kind of adorable. “How many books have you written?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “A few. But this is the first one I’ve felt is decent enough to show to someone else.”

And I get to be that lucky someone. “So how can I help?”

“You’re obviously brilliant when it comes to editing.”

His words of praise shouldn’t make me blush, but they do. “Thank you.”

“Just speaking the truth.” Connor points to the manuscript. “Could you just … I don’t know. Read it and give me your thoughts?”

“Sure. Absolutely.” I run my fingertip along the smooth rubber of the band holding the papers together. “And you’d really go with me to the wedding?”

“If you’d still want me to … despite my reputation.”

I cringe. “Connor, listen—”

“It’s fine, Evie. Don’t think anything more about it. I know what people say about me.” His full-on Cheshire grin returns as he stands and rounds the desk, leaning back against it—right in front of me. “It’s hard being so popular, but someone’s got to do it.”

There he goes again, making me laugh at his bravado. “Oh, brother.” But then I sober up quickly, because I need something clarified. “Just to be sure we’re on the same page, you’ll be my date to the wedding. What …” I fidget with my skirt. “What would that look like?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. I could just be a stand-in date. Arm candy, if you will.” We both laugh.

Then he pauses, cocks his head, studies me, almost like he’s unsure again. “Or we could pretend like we’re, you know, together. Just for show, of course.”

“Of course.” It’s ridiculous that disappointment pinches that spot between my lungs. “And you wouldn’t mind? Pretending, I mean?”

“No way. I have absolutely no qualms with putting that ex of yours in his place.”

Even though there’s a flutter of a warning in my chest—lying of any sort twists me up inside—I appreciate the strength of his dislike for David simply because he’s hurt me.

And yeah, gotta admit I don’t hate the idea of pretending for a night that a man like Connor Bryant—who could pretty much have any woman he wants—is interested in me.

“Okay.” I pause, considering. He’s probably going to say no to my next question. Then again, he’s asking me to invest a lot of hours of my time in reading and critiquing his manuscript, so I feel like I have the right to ask him to commit the same number of hours—probably fewer, actually. “Do you think we could tack on the wedding shower as part of the deal too? Apparently it’s a couples thing.”

Wait, what am I thinking? Pretending to date me at one event is one thing. To ask him to spend a few extra hours pretending … I just don’t want to push my luck. So I plow on before he can answer. “You know what? Never mind. That’s too much to ask.”

And wow, I’ve overstayed my welcome, haven’t I? I tap the manuscript in my lap. “When do you need this back by?”

It isn’t until I stand that I realize how close we are—just inches from each other. I can smell the soap he must have used to wash up in the bathroom earlier. Can hear my blood whooshing in my veins (it’s super loud and I really hope he can’t also hear it). Can feel the intensity he’s capable of, pulsing off of him.

Can see his Adam’s apple bob.

Can almost mentally taste his lips—and if I were to simply lean forward a single inch, I’d be able to taste them in real life too.

For a moment, his pupils seem to dilate as he watches me. “Evie.”

I’m mesmerized by the husky vibrations in his voice. “Yeah?”

“It’s not too much to ask. I’m happy to go to the shower and the wedding with you.”

“Are you sure? Because the shower is next weekend.”

Then Connor’s hand slides up my lower arm, his touch feather soft, catching my elbow and continuing on to my shoulder—all the while, leaving a trail of wildfire in its wake. Then his fingers land on my cheek, the gentle pressure sending heavenly tingles throughout my whole body. “I’m sure, Webster. And as for the manuscript, get to it when you can. No rush.”

Before I can squeak out a reply, there’s a strange persistent knock coming from the front of our office.

Connor’s eyebrows knit together and then lift. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “I think we’re being rescued.”