Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary

Chapter 8

All week, I’ve managed to keep things professional between Connor and me.

Of course, it helps that I’m still working from home and have kept uber busy helping Justine finish up an edit.

Still, today I plan to maintain that professionalism. There is absolutely no reason to be awkward around him. So what that we kissed (Kayla later that night: “I demand to know why there was no tongue action!”) and I became embarrassingly clingy (I blame the booze!)? That’s all water under the bridge.

You think if I say a thing enough times, it becomes true? (Asking for a friend.)

Regardless, today I step out of Kayla’s Prius (I’m still waiting for insurance to pay for a replacement car since mine was totaled in the landslide) and walk toward the Japanese Friendship Garden in Balboa Park. Apparently Connor processes better when moving, so he’s invited me to take a stroll before diving into my manuscript critiques.

When I told my housemates, they waggled their eyebrows and called it a date.

I’m certain it’s NOT.

Because wouldn’t a guy who was interested in me send more than one text the last seven days? Wouldn’t he have kissed me senseless when he dropped me off after the wedding shower a week ago?

Exactly. The serial-dater-slash-huge-flirt didn’t give me a second thought. Or maybe he’s just smarter than me.

Because liking someone you work with is a bad, bad idea—especially when you’re up for the same promotion.

As I walk down the street toward the garden, I puff out my chest and hold my arms in the air. Yeah, Kayla’s power poses got me into trouble at the shower, but they do give me a surprising burst of confidence after a while. By the time I see Connor standing near the entrance to the garden and drop my arms back to my sides, I feel powerful. We’re about to talk story, and that’s my area of expertise. I know this stuff. I can help him improve his book.

I’ve got this.

And afterward, I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Our deal will be half over and I won’t be beholden to him anymore.

He waves and darn it if he doesn’t look as good in chino shorts, a navy T-shirt that hugs his muscles, and a pair of boat shoes as he does in a suit. At least today I’m all covered up, although I did allow Kayla to pick out my white shorts, pink smocked waist top with flutter sleeves, and jeweled sandals. I feel pretty and girly, and Connor’s appreciative look as I come closer gives me an extra boost. “Hi.”

“Hey, there.” For a second, it looks like he might go in for a hug, but then changes his mind. “Thanks for meeting here. This place always calms me, so I thought it would be a good place to meet while you rip my story to shreds.”

I laugh, thankful that things are more relaxed between us than the last time we saw each other. “I don’t rip stories to shreds.”

“Sure, you don’t.” He winks and turns. “Come on. I already bought our tickets.”

I follow him past the Tea Pavilion restaurant and through the front entrance, where we begin to stroll the path. Thankfully, because we came early, the garden isn’t all that crowded yet, and the hum of quiet is just what I need for the stress of the workweek to melt away. As we explore the luscious garden, the small gravel crunches beneath our feet and water trickles down rock-strewn streams.

I gasp as a grouping of cherry blossom trees in full bloom comes into view. The air is filled with the perfume of their scent, and I stop, close my eyes, and breathe it in. When I finally open them again, I feel Connor’s gaze on me. I turn to find him unabashedly staring at me, but then he breaks our eye contact. “Pretty nice, huh?”

“I think it’s … pulchritudinous.” I smirk.

He leans closer and drops his voice to a husky undertone. “You’re pulchritudinous, Webster.”

My stomach drops to my feet. Keep it professional, remember, Evie?

“What’s that mean, anyway?” He winks and starts walking down the path again.

I’m seriously so confused. Does he know pulchritudinous means beautiful or is he just messing with me? Neither? Both? My head hurts as I rush to keep up with him. We walk under an arch of sweetly scented purple wisteria hanging in clusters over our heads.

Connor reaches up and touches one. “This was my mom’s favorite flower.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Some might even call it pulchritudinous.” A sad smile inks its way across his lips, and in that moment, two things are confirmed.

One: There is so much more to Connor Bryant than I ever thought possible.

And two: I want to know it. All of it.

But can I trust myself? I clearly don’t have the best track record with men—or people in general. I trust too easily. Give my heart too quickly.

And in the past, it’s cost me in big ways.

But right now, I don’t much care about all of that, which is why I lay my hand on Connor’s arm. “You said it was your mom’s favorite. Did she …” I lick my lips. “Is she …?”

“Yeah.” Connor stares down at my hand for a few seconds before reaching for it. He keeps hold of it as we stand looking up at the wisteria. “Ten years ago. Just before I moved to San Diego to take the job at Evermore. Breast cancer.”

“I’m so sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

He weaves our fingers together, his gaze still on the flowers. “She was the only reason I moved back to Los Angeles after graduating college. Once she was gone, I had no reason to be there anymore.”

“Is your dad gone too?”

“No.” His lips go flat and he huffs. “And my older brother lives in New York. He’s a family man and a surgeon—someone my dad can really be proud of.”

“I’m sure he’s proud of you too.”

He finally finds my gaze again, an amused but pained smile on his lips. “You’re sure, huh?” Then Connor cocks his head. “You think the best of everyone, don’t you?”

And it’s been my downfall. “Well.” My voice squeaks. I desperately need to change the subject. “I haven’t always thought the best of you.” Then I do an outrageous thing—I wink.

The tension breaks and he lets loose a relieved laugh. “I haven’t always given you a reason to, have I?” Then he starts walking again and I’m right there with him, still hand in hand, wondering where in the world we are going—where this is going.

“Trust yourself.”Kayla’s voice is in my head again. We did more “confidence lessons” this week and her words keep popping randomly into my brain at the most inopportune times.

But this time, I choose to listen. To relax. To just … be.

After we’ve walked most of the garden, Connor tugs me toward a bench in front of a koi pond. He places his arm along the back of the seat and turns his body toward me, finally letting go of my hand. “So, time to lay it on me. How bad is my book?”

The sun is higher in the sky now, its rays breaking across the garden and adding a sparkle to the pond. “It’s not bad at all. Actually, I loved it. Well.” I place my hands on my knees. “Except for one thing. Okay, two.”

“And what are those?” He crosses his leg with his top foot pointed toward me. According to Kayla’s body language exercises, that means he wants to be closer. If he didn’t, he’d have crossed his legs the opposite way.

Stop reading into every little thing and just enjoy the moment.

Right.

“Okay, well the first is more of a question. I know it’s a personal choice, but why not use your real name? Why a pen name?”

He huffs. “My dad.”

“Your dad? I don’t get it.”

“What’s the second thing?”

Okay. Touchy subject, obviously. Hopefully he won’t take offense to my next critique. “The ending.”

His shoe—the one that is now hovering close to my knee—taps my hands. “You didn’t like it?”

“Did I like when the main character left the woman he loved behind because he wanted the best for her? No. I hated it and so will every romance reader who picks up your book.”

Connor raises his eyebrows. “I thought it was poignant. Sacrificial. Noble.”

“Forget that.” Waving my hand in the air, I scoot closer to him—not realizing I’ve done it until it’s too late. But I have to make him understand this point or his career as a romance author is over before it’s begun. “Romance readers want an HEA.”

“A what?”

“An HEA. Happily ever after.”

“But that’s not realistic.”

Oh no. Is he one of those—a romance author who doesn’t believe in love? “I don’t agree with you, but let’s just say for a minute that what you said is true. Here’s the thing—it doesn’t matter. Romance readers read to escape. They don’t want realistic. They want adorable and romantic and passionate and all the feels.”

“You’re really getting fired up there, Webster.”

“Clearly I feel strongly about the subject.” I smile. “But I’m serious. The hero needs to sacrifice for the heroine in such a way that they can be together in the end.”

His nose scrunches. “But what if he’s just not good enough for her?”

“He needs to be or we won’t love him in the first place.” I can’t help it—I grab his crossed foot and shake it. “Connor, your hero is good enough. No, he’s not perfect, but he is perfect for the heroine. And he’s a good man. He just doesn’t see it for himself. That’s why he needs her.”

“Because she makes him a better man?”

“Yes and no.” I consider my words. “I think rather than her changing him, she goes on a journey with him toward that change. She’s the encourager, the cheerleader, the truth teller.” Now the words are rolling off my tongue. “She sees things in him that no one else sees, and it’s she alone who can help him see that he’s been believing a lie all this time. Because when she looks at him, she doesn’t see a failure. She sees a man who is worthy of love—a man who is good simply because he is himself.”

“Evie.” And then he’s looking at me with such longing that I feel it all the way down to my toes. “Does a woman like that really exist?” He shakes his head. “I mean, of course she does. My mom was like that, even though I never thought my dad deserved her love. But I guess I wonder …” He’s quiet, contemplating something much deeper.

Much more personal, if I had to hazard a guess.

I swallow. “What is it you wonder?”

But he’s far away, and either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to answer. So we sit there in companionable silence for a while, watching the fish swimming in the koi pond. The garden is getting more crowded now and our peaceful retreat is broken.

Connor stands. “You ready to go?”

I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to delve deeper, but he’s clearly not ready. Maybe he never will be. “Sure.” I follow him back down the winding path and out through the gate as we return to the parking lot.

When we come to his car first, he looks around. “Where are you parked?”

I point across the lot. “Over there.”

Connor pulls his keys from his pocket and flips them around in his palm. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”

“It’s not that far.”

“Come on, Webster. Just let me give you a ride.” Then he unlocks the doors and ducks inside.

And because I don’t want our time together to end, I follow suit. The inside of his car smells like him—warm and citrusy—and I buckle myself in.

But he doesn’t put the key in the ignition. Instead, he turns toward me, his hand on the wheel. “Can you send me your notes on the book?”

“Of course.” I tap the seatbelt buckle with my fingernail as I wait for him to drive.

But still he sits there, considering me. In here, we’re closed off from the world, and it’s a cocoon from everything that might distract us.

It suddenly feels very intimate. And his gaze, it’s intense, slowly burning fire through my veins until I have to look away.

“Evie.”

“Yeah?” I study the gray car dash as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You’re pretty great, you know that?”

His words unleash a thousand butterflies in my stomach. I run a sweaty palm down my leg. He means you’re a great editor. That’s it. “Um, thank you.”

“Which is why I don’t understand why you allow your ex and his fiancée to treat you like garbage.”

Huh? My eyes dart back to him. Where had that thought come from? “I thought we were talking about your story.”

“We are. Kind of.” He frowns. “Has no one ever told you that you’re good enough—that you don’t need to put up with idiotic jerks and the trash they spew?”

The muscles in my stomach are acting like they’re at the track and field Olympics and it’s time to jump hurdles.

“I mean it. Don’t you know that you’re twice the woman that Stephanie is?”

My heart is seriously about to beat out of my chest, and I’m sure I resemble a trout the way my mouth is flopping open. I’ve never heard Connor Bryant talk to a woman like this. Flirt and falsely compliment? Sure. But this is … deeper.

And I think he feels it too, because suddenly he’s clenching his jaw and making a fist that taps the steering wheel. “I loved a girl like Stephanie once. Beautiful, effervescent—how’s that one for you, Webster?—and cruel.”

There’s pain in his eyes as he tells his story. I settle my cheek against my seat’s headrest and watch him, longing to reach out and smooth away the frown lines framing his eyes. “What happened?”

“We were high school sweethearts. Together for three years. I was supposed to play basketball at USC. Had a scholarship and everything. But Victoria, she was going to Florida State, and she begged me to come with her.” His fingers rub his stubbled neck, right over his Adam’s apple. “I was head over heels and afraid to lose her, so I decided to follow Victoria to the Sunshine State.”

I have a bad feeling about where this is going.

“She broke up with me after two months on campus. Two months. Apparently she liked all the shiny new objects that Florida had to offer.” He shakes his head. “And I was the dummy with a broken heart, now stuck paying out-of-state tuition at a school that didn’t hold any interest for me. I transferred to another school after the first year and made myself a promise.”

“What promise?” I feel like I’m reading a novel and at the very crucial moment when we find out the hero’s wound—the thing that has kept him from being able to love the heroine.

“To never again give up anything I want for anyone else—especially a woman.”

Boom. Mic drop.

But instead of feeling happy that I finally understand Connor a bit more, a rock settles in my stomach. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Just … don’t let people take advantage of you or treat you like you’re nothing.” His eyes trace my face and the urgency in his expression steals my breath. “Don’t let them diminish your glow, because you’d be robbing this world of a lot of light if you do.”

Kill me now. I can die happy.

And I can’t deny it anymore—don’t want to deny it.

Connor Bryant is the unexpected hero in this story, the one unfolding before my eyes.

He just doesn’t know it yet.