by Leigh, Ember
Like we’ve been doing this for eons. How strange it is to fall into a rhythm like this with a relative stranger. Even though we’re no longer strangers, a week ago, we were. And now, we’re waking up at nine each morning and having oatmeal together. Sharing the newspaper and commenting on politics and staring out the sliding door into the backyard to see which birds we can identify.
And honestly, my life before Connor has almost faded into distant memory. This jaunt—whatever it really is—has been a much-needed respite from my underwhelming work and social life back in San Diego. I love waking up beside him. I love giggling over sudoku after breakfast. I love all the sex, which is hands down the best I’ve ever had in my entire freaking life. Not like he had much competition, but I’m also positive he will continue to reign supreme if, for some reason, I decide to shack up with anyone else.
But I probably will, I remind myself. Because Connor is not The One. He is posing as The One. And damn, he does a good job at it.
So good that he’s even fooling me. The man picks out my underwear each morning, for God’s sake. How am I supposed to not let that sway me? He has a vested interest in my plain panties, which speaks volumes about him.
Apparently my sixteen-year-old self-picked a good one. Because Connor was my dream man then and still is now.
The more I get to know him, the more I want him forever.
Which means that having only one week left with him is cuing the panic.
As if I haven’t been confused and anxious about all this enough. I do a good job hiding my anxiety via nervous jokes and staring off into the distance, imagining ten million improbable outcomes for any given situation. So it’s not like I think Connor knows I’m a nervous wreck about this la-la-land fantasy coming to an end.
I really enjoy our slow mornings together, and the way he’ll randomly pull up the picture with the seagull zoomed in right on the angry bird face. I haven’t laughed this much since college, when I lived around my friends constantly. Honestly, Connor would have fit right in with my group.
He fits in with me in a lot of ways, I’m finding.
But when I find him set up on his laptop in the breakfast nook the following Wednesday after breakfast, I remember that for all the ways we fit together in Bayshore, he still has a whole other life in San Diego that I know nothing about.
I sit next to him, running a comb through my freshly washed hair. “Whatcha doing?”
He glances at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses that are both hipster and elderly. “Guess.”
“Coding.”
He shoots me a thumbs up. “Except not just that. I’m finishing coding.”
“You mean you’re quitting?”
He expels a frustrated noise. We haven’t talked much about work while we’ve been back home—okay, we haven’t talked about it at all—but that one noise catches me up on all I need to know about his position at E-bid.
“That’s what this app is going to help me do. Get out of E-bid. I’ll never quit coding, though.”
I tug my comb through some tangled strands at the ends. Tiny droplets occasionally flick his way.
“I thought you liked it at E-bid,” I say.
He grimaces. “I do. But it’s just…” He glances around, like checking for eavesdroppers. “There’s nowhere else for me to go there. I’ve maxed out, and I don’t want my boss’s job. I need something better.”
I nod, focusing on the black comb I’m pulling through my long strands. “Yeah. I feel the same way.”
Curiosity spikes in the air between us. That’s another thing we haven’t talked about at all—Tamara. It’s not like I’ve forgotten that they used to date and she’s my boss. It’s been easy enough to overlook in the hullabaloo of being back in Bayshore.
When his gaze meets mine, questions dance there, though he says nothing.
“I don’t want to badmouth her,” I add. “She’s…not what I expected.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Connor clears his throat, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. His gaze flits back to the laptop, and he clicks his mouse randomly for a moment. “Does she give you trouble?”
“That would be putting it nicely.”
His fingers tap on the keyboard and my hair goes swish as the comb swipes through. “What does she do?”
I sigh, pausing in my combing. The laundry list is honestly so long. But half of the items might sound like I’m paranoid or complaining, even though I know that Tamara is out to get me somehow. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it yet, though.
“You know how some people have this constant, underlying sense of dread or doom that someone’s going to die or get in a plane crash or make their life awful?”
Connor nods.
“Well, that’s how I feel about Tamara. There’s something about her that I don’t trust. Nothing has played out yet, but I’m still not convinced it won’t.”
Connor squints at me. “So you’re nervous about losing your job?”
“It’s not that. Every time I have a suggestion or policy modification or process tweak, she finds at least ten reasons why that idea is completely unactionable or useless. And I’m really bringing my A game here.” The words are tumbling out of me. “I showed up at E-bid ready to make things better. To, I don’t know, shine or something. But there are roadblocks at every turn. I can’t make any progress.”
He huffs. “Sounds familiar.”
Our shared experience is only minimally comforting, though. Sure, we can commiserate. But what’s the next step?
“Yeah. Sounds like we need to find new jobs,” I finally say.
“Hopefully this app will get me there.” He pauses, his eyes darting back and forth over the tabletop. “Are you sure you really want to be in HR?”
“I love the atmosphere. I love the work involved. I just wish…” I shake my head, wondering how much more I should complain about his ex to his face. He hasn’t given me any sign that he agrees with me. Hell, he hasn’t given me one iota of information about her, and I’m too chickenshit to ask. So I guess we’ll keep avoiding it. “I wish I had Tamara’s job. I think I could do it better.”
“In what ways?”
“My interactions with people aren’t fraught with power plays.” Jeez, the dirt is spilling out now. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. “I don’t emotionally manipulate people. Just for starters.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
A laugh escapes me. “Yeah. Well. You’re getting the brunt of it, because I don’t really have anyone else to tell. Tamara would be the person, except she’s also the problem.”
Connor leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks as he brings his palms behind his head. “I think the whole structure is messed up at E-bid. I have a list of a hundred things I would change.”
“Same here.”
Silence settles between us. When Connor finally looks over at me, he says, “So where would you go if you had your pick?”
A sigh billows out of me. I resume combing my hair. “Honestly? I have no idea.”
“You don’t have a dream job?”
“I do, but it’s not…available, I guess. It’s more of a concept.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Explain.”
“I don’t know. I want something creative within the formality of the business world. I feel like Tamara doesn’t respond well to my creative ideas. She wants the black and white, nine to five, so she can clock out and say she did her job. But so much more could be done if she’d give a damn and think outside the box. I’ve presented so many efficiencies, so many new approaches, so many projects that would solve the redundancy and bitch work. But it goes unnoticed, unutilized. And if that’s how the corporate world is, I don’t know what company is going to accept me like I am.”
I’m aware of how much I’m complaining about my job, but hell if I can shut up now. Besides, there’s something sexy about Connor’s thoughtful questions and
the fact that he’s really listening to me.
“And truthfully? I’m not inspired to start a job hunt only to find out that the next job has me in the same position as this one.”
Connor nods. “Yeah. I’m right there with you. So we should start our own businesses.”
I snort. “Sure. In what? You have plenty of options. But in the HR world, I’m so green, I couldn’t even convince a college student to hire me as a tutor.”
Connor inspects his hands as he runs his thumb over his knuckles. “Right. But you’ve been in a professional environment for two years. You have the drive. You have the creativity. That makes up for the other areas you might not be as well-developed in.”
I toss the comb on the table. “All right. Find me the job and tell me where to apply.”
His grin goes ear to ear. “You know, as an app developer, I take that as a challenge.”
“Good. Make me the app that tells me which is the right risk to take. Because honestly? I don’t even know anymore. Let’s make an algorithm figure it out. That’s what they’re good at, right?”
He snickers, but I’m only half joking. I would pay money at this point for a life coach to analyze my bullshit and tell me whether it’s time to walk away from E-bid or I’m just being a flighty little jerk. Part of me wishes that I could blame my dissatisfaction on some sort of personality defect. Standards too high. Must work harder at becoming satisfied with life’s offerings.
But the other part of me knows that something isn’t right. And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up the charade that I enjoy the corporate environment.
And at age twenty-five, this feels so overwhelming in a way that I never saw coming. I should be well on my way in my career by now, but instead, I’m single, unhappy, and stilted, with no idea how to fix things.
Worse yet, I hate myself for being unhappy, because I should have the world at my fingertips and relish it. So it’s an anxiety cycle that accomplishes approximately nothing. Hence why I don’t talk about it much.
Connor is the only one I’ve opened up to about it. I haven’t even told my girlfriends yet, because they’re all flying high in their careers. I don’t want to bog them down with directionless malaise.
Footsteps scuff softly down the hallway, and Grayson appears a moment later. He’s squinty-eyed and shirtless. “Hey, guys.”
Connor makes a big display of checking his watch. “Musta been a late night.”
“I was tearing up flooring until two a.m.” Grayson yawns loudly as he stares into the fridge. “Which, by the way, if you’re ever bored…”
Grayson started renovating the house he inherited from their grandmother while he’s trying to sell it. I expect Connor to scoff and brush off his brother’s comment, but he squints up at Grayson like he’s thinking about it.
“You need help today?”
Grayson nods. “Yeah. I need help every day. Weston helped yesterday; I’m gonna rope Mav in too.”
“I’m in.” Connor turns to me, genuine excitement radiating off him. “You want to help too?”
His eagerness is endearing, but I can already sniff out that this is a sacred brother’s project. The type of thing that the three of them just need. “No, I don’t think so. I’m gonna go out on the lake with my mom today, but I’ll be back for dinner.”
Connor nods, searching my face for a moment. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips. “Promise?”
I’m toying with the tip of my braid, biting back the start of an impossibly huge grin. “Promise.”
Chapter 18
KINSLEY
My day on the boat with my mom leads to a ridiculous sunburn in the shape of an open book on my stomach. Because I’m that girl who falls asleep on the bow while reading Into The Wild. Apparently wilderness survival puts me to sleep.
At any rate, I’m hot and unevenly burnt when I head back to Connor’s parent’s house. He meets me outside, lifting the strap of my sundress.
“You look toasty.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. “Another casualty of Bayshore summer sun.”
He slides his hand over the small of my back as we go inside. His forearms look dusty, and that’s when I notice he’s wearing a t-shirt and dirty jean shorts. He’s been working with Grayson all day, clearly. I head up the stairs, and he follows me wordlessly. Once we’re in the bedroom and I’m dropping my things, he’s got that look in his eyes. The one that says he’s hungry.
For me.
“You gonna take a shower?” he asks.
“I thought I might rinse off.” I can’t hide the smirk. “Why, you want to fuck me against the shower wall again?”
His eyes go hooded. “Yeah, I thought that might be nice, actually.”
My gaze washes over him. Dirt is streaked up his forearms, his knuckles are caked with who knows what. It’s sexy, I can’t lie. When he steps closer, I catch a whiff of his sweat-drenched scent. Hello, pheromones! I start sliding my sundress off immediately.
“That was fast,” he murmurs.
“How can I resist you when you’re all dirty and manly like this?” My sundress crumples to my feet, and I run my hands over the broad ridge of his shoulders. “What did you do today?”
“Fucked up some cupboards,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “Painted some banisters.” The scent of him steals my breath. Something raw and true sears through me: I never want to be without him.
But this isn’t the time, and I’m probably being emotional. I bury the feelings, because they have no place here. Because I want to enjoy what few precious days we have left together here on this unexpectedly perfect vacation.
“Mmm. You want to paint my banister?”
He grins through a kiss. “That wasn’t as sexy as you were intending it.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
He tugs at the tie of my bikini top until it releases, and the strings fall away behind me. He cups both of my cool—and very white—breasts in his hands while he coaxes a deep kiss from me. His thumbs make lazy swipes over my nipples, which prompts a gasp from me.
“You always go straight for the nips.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” His head dips and he sucks on one breast, hard. “You have the most perfect tits.”
I must look as shocked as I feel on the inside, because he lifts a brow. “What’s that look for?”
“Sorry. I can’t believe you said that.”
“Sorry. I can’t believe you can’t believe that.” He swipes his middle finger along the curve of my breast, then down the bumpy ridges of my rib cage. “Have you looked at yourself?”
“I honestly try not to.”
He glances sharply at me, which feels like a slap. “Kinsley.”
“What? I’m a tall, skinny, awkward girl with barely-B’s and no hips to speak of. I didn’t luck out in the physical department.” And it’s true. I got the recessive Cabana gene. My sisters have bigger boobs and sharper dips in their waists than I do, a fact I always noticed once puberty hit. I kept waiting and waiting for my curves to appear, and then…surprise. They never showed. Like the worst ghosted date.
Connor sighs with frustration, guiding me back onto the bed. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that you’re sexy?”
Emotion clamps my throat, and I focus on tracing the tip of my index finger along the grooves of his abs. It’s because I dated a man who made sure I knew how frumpy and undesirable I was. Because growing up, when my older sister and I fought, her attack would always center on how ugly and tomboyish I was and how nobody would ever see past my weird ears and flat chest.
Because it fucking sucks being a woman sometimes, even though it can also be great.
Instead, I say, “Because you haven’t submitted proper documentation for the Kinsley Board to review.”
He snorts. “Fine. Here’s your documentation.” He bends my knees at his sides. “I’m going to make a note of every part of your body that has turned me on.”
“In a twenty-fou
r-hour period or all time?”
“All time.” A cocky grin curls his lips. His hands grip my ankles. “Starting with here.” He slides his hands up over my calves. “And here.” He pushes the heel of his palm over my thighs, pausing to add, “And here.”
“There are a lot of areas for the board to review.”
“Mm-hmm.” He pushes his hands beneath the fabric of my bathing suit bottoms, cupping my bare ass. “And all this back here.” He squeezes my butt, then brings his hands to my hip bones. “And especially here.”
I buck my hips as he smooths his hands back and forth over my mons, getting close to but not touching my most sensitive areas.
“This part right here, times a hundred.”
He pushes his hands up my waist, squeezing my sides. His gaze falls to the obvious book-shaped white spot on my belly. “Oh, damn, what happened here?”
“I fell asleep with a book on my stomach.” I cover my eyes with my hands.
A laugh meanders out of him as he assesses the area. “Weird tan line or not, this counts too.”
“You get turned on by book-shaped whiteness?”
“Oh God, yes. And here.” Then he cups my breasts. “Obviously here, but especially here.” He pinches both my nipples at the same time.
I shriek, wriggling beneath him. “Not fair.”
He comes onto his knees as he pushes his hands up over my chest and over my shoulders. “Also here.” Then he runs his thumb over the outline of my lips. “And here, like, all the time.” Then he pauses, staring into my eyes. “I’d poke your iris if I could, but I won’t even attempt it.”
“Thanks.”
“And here.” He smooths his hand over the top of my head, then all the way down to the tip of my braid.
“My braid?”
“Your brain, and also your hair.”
I can’t hide the grin anymore. I’ve never been so idolized. Still, it’s hard for me to accept it. I want to move on. I know that this is only about sex for him. I’m fighting hard not to get disillusioned.
“You forgot to mention my wrists,” I tease, clamping my thighs around him. I tug him close, so our groins connect. “You touched my wrist three times on the first night at the bar. So clearly, you’re pretty attracted to it.”
