by J. M. Paul
“I was helping a friend.” I smirk and take a tentative sip of the red concoction. It tastes like magic, and my eyes briefly close at the perfect mix of tang and spice. It’s also light on the alcohol, thank goodness.
“Helping him do what? Grow a chubby?” There’s no humor in his features.
“With a problematic ex.” I pluck an olive off the skewer and pop it into my mouth. “If Trey got a stiffy, that’s on him, not me.”
Connor’s form is rigid. “Do you make a habit of kissing random guys?” His tone causes my back to go straight as a rod.
“And what if I do? What’s it to you?” I jut out my chin.
“I don’t like it.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I don’t care what you do and don’t like, Butterball.” I bat my lashes before I crunch into the celery stalk.
Even though I pretty much devoured the entire frozen pizza I’d purchased from the store earlier today, I’m famished.
“Noel …”
I release an exaggerated sigh and plop my arm against the edge of the bar.
“Even though I’ve only known Trey for about a minute, he’s not some random guy. He’s your best friend, Cami’s friend, and someone I see myself developing a fun friendship with. We get on well, and he makes me laugh.” I shrug. “What’s the big deal?”
“Trey doesn’t do platonic relationships with women.”
“Who said our interaction would be strictly platonic?”
It’s a bluff, but my lip quirks at the hardened expression on Connor’s face. He’s trying so desperately to hold back his unwarranted anger.
Noel: 1. Connor: 0.
What Connor doesn’t know is that I’m not the least bit attracted to Trey. Sure, the guy seems entertaining and is easy on the eyes, but he doesn’t cause butterflies to tangle in my stomach the way Connor does.
Freaking disobedient butterflies. I’ll have to send those Team Connor cheerleaders to training. No one likes traitors.
“Are you kidding me right now?” He unwinds his arms from his chest, rests his hands against the bar, and leans in toward me. “You’re not dating my best friend, Journal Girl.”
I set down the celery stalk I was nibbling and bend closer to him. With our eyes locked in a glaring match, I say, “Watch me.”
I don’t know what it is about Connor, but he makes me want to challenge him at every turn. Bickering with him is exciting. If something solid forms from whatever Connor and Cami’s relationship is or becomes, I’m in serious trouble. I enjoy Connor’s attention way more than I should.
Connor’s eyes hold mine, not backing down. And, as horrible as it is for me to admit, the way he looks at me—angry and relentless—sends tingles of arousal through my body, hitting certain places more than others.
Down, girl, down. Shame on you, I tell my nether regions, which is not even remotely shy about responding to him.
As he studies me with his lips pressed together, my eyebrows jump in challenge. I won’t back down, and his rigid stance communicates he won’t give in either. We’re at war, and holy hell, it’s hot.
Cami is singing her heart out in the background, and I’m so proud of her. She is incredibly talented. If a music executive really is here tonight, they would be an idiot if they didn’t sign her immediately.
“Connor,” someone calls from behind the bar.
Connor doesn’t budge, his gaze staying glued to mine, and he acts as if he didn’t hear the person yelling his name.
I tip my head, and my lip twitches as I try to suppress a smirk. Whoever breaks a staredown loses the game and their pride—and no one’s requesting my attention.
“Yo, Connor!” a guy shouts louder, so he can be heard over Cami’s lyrics and the background noise of the bar. “There’s a problem with this keg. We need your help.”
Dropping his shoulders, Connor finally breaks our battle as he tips his head back toward the ceiling. When he lowers it, his face is determined.
“This isn’t over,” he warns.
Before I can rebuke, Connor strides toward the guy who called him.
I do a fist pump in my head at the small victory.
Noel: 2. Connor: 0.
I start absently chewing on my celery again as I watch Connor interacting with his coworkers. His movements are jerky and agitated, but there’s no hesitation in his efforts to solve the problem.
“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice says next to me.
Shifting my attention from Connor, I see a stocky guy dressed head to toe in expensive threads with not one dark hair out of place and a watch that probably cost more than my Jeep Wrangler.
“Depends.” I swallow a bite of celery.
“On what?” His smile exposes his over-whitened teeth.
Mr. Overdone is either full of himself or has no self-esteem whatsoever and feels he has to make up for his shortcomings. The writer in me wants to dig deeper.
“Your intentions.” I turn slightly toward him, making myself appear approachable and as if I welcome his interruption.
“My intentions?” The skin between his brows wrinkles, and it makes him look ten years older.
“Yep.” I swing my legs.
“Um …” Mr. Overdone studies me for a moment and looks around the bar, confused, and then back at me. “To sit here and have a drink while I wait for my friends.”
I don’t need anything else from him to confirm his appearance is used to mask his inadequacies.
“Shame,” I mumble to myself about Overdone’s character. An overinflated ego would have been fun to play with.
“What?” The guy leans closer, and I almost choke on his strong cologne.
“Nothing. Have at it.” I gesture toward the stool before I dig out my journal and turn back toward the bar.
I’m humming along to Cami’s melody and elbow deep in written words when I hear, “Watch out for this one. She bites.”
“Only the best ones do,” I reply without raising my head.
When I finish my sentence, I look up to see Connor watching me. His gaze slides to my journal, and I slap the cover closed.
“Can I help you?” I rest my chin on my propped hand.
“Nope.” Connor turns his attention to Mr. Overdone and places a Harry’s cocktail napkin in front of him. “What can I get you?”
“A glass of cabernet. Your most expensive, please,” Overdone answers.
Overdone asked for the most expensive, not the best cabernet available. Yep, he’s trying to compensate for something. My guess is, the little man in his pants—with an emphasis on little.
Connor eyes me with an expression that says, Who does this prick think he is? Then, he walks to retrieve Overdone’s drink.
My nosy inner self comes to the surface, and I can’t hold back from digging into his psyche—for research purposes, of course.
“So …” I turn toward Overdone and place my hand on his forearm, giving him my most charming smile. “What did you say your name was?”
I know he never told me his name.
He stills before he stutters, “Ri-Richard.”
It’s Richard, not Rich or Chard or whatever nickname can be derived from there.
Richard doesn’t make eye contact and stumbles over his own pompous name, which means one of two things: he’s either nervous around women or he’s not used to being around women. Both explain a lot. If I were the betting type, I would place my unfinished article on the fact that he’s meeting a girl or a group of friends that contains a female he’s crushing on hard.
“Well, hiya, Richard. I’m Noel. It’s nice to meet you.” I stick out my hand for him to shake.
Richard cowers, as if I were offering him a wet, slimy fish carcass to hold.
“Don’t leave me hanging, dude.” I wiggle my fingers that linger in the air between us.
Richard takes it in his limp grip and bobs our conjoined hands once before he shrinks back into himself and into acting like I’m not near him.
Shouldn’t
have sat next to me, Overdone.
“So, tell me your life story, Richard.” I pick up my Bloody Mary and jiggle the ice before I take a long swallow. The alcohol is starting to make me warm from the inside out.
“Where are you from? What do you do? Why are you trying so hard?” I swish my hand up and down, indicating Overdone’s attire. “I’ve decided you’re overcompensating for something.” I lean closer and whisper, “You have a micropenis, don’t you? That’s what you’re trying to hide.”
Richard chokes on air, and I know my eyes shine like the Grinch who just stole all the Whos’ Christmas decorations.
Bingo.
“Noel,” Connor scolds me.
I lean back, trying to look innocent but it’s useless. I’m like a naughty child who has gotten caught snooping through her holiday presents.
“Do not harass my customers.” Connor narrows his eyes before he sets down a glass of red wine in front of Richard and gives him a sympathetic smile. “I apologize for my friend’s loose tongue. She doesn’t play well with others.”
Richard clears his throat and takes a large gulp of his overly expensive cabernet.
Turning his attention to me, Connor says, “I swear, she gets off on making people uncomfortable.”
Connor’s right; I can always hunt out the weak prey. It makes me a horrible person, but sometimes, focusing on other people’s shortcomings takes my mind off of my own. It’s wrong on so many levels but effective.
“I’m not your friend,” I grumble and finish my Bloody Mary.
“And she doesn’t know how to hold her liquor.” Connor rips the glass from my hand and puts it behind the bar.
“Hey.” I scowl and point my finger at Connor. “I didn’t want that drink; you’re the one who forced it on me.”
There’s a loud squeal and then, “Richie Rich!”
I squeeze one eye closed at the shrieking voice and turn to see a living version of Miss Holiday Barbie wrap her arms around Richie Rich. Richard pats the elaborate girl on the shoulder and seems to be as stiff as a board.
When Miss Holiday Barbie leans back to look at Mr. Overdone, there are hearts in her eyes, and I swear, I see sweat bead on Richard’s forehead before he gives her a genuine smile.
“Hey, man. Long time no see.” A large guy pats Richard on the shoulder a little too hard and then wraps his arm around Barbie’s shoulders, pulling her into his side.
Territory marked.
And the plot thickens …
“Corinne got us a table in the restaurant,” Barbie says as she glances around the bar area, as if it were the inside of a nasty barn.
“O-okay.” Richard clears his throat and turns toward Connor. “How much do I owe?”
“It’s taken care of,” I chime in with an apologetic smile. I was a complete bitch to him moments ago. “Have a great night and enjoy yourself.”
Richard nods his thanks before he turns to follow the couple through the bar and toward the restaurant portion of Harry’s.
When I face forward, Connor’s smiling.
“What?” I fiddle with my pen.
“That was nice of you.” Connor jerks his chin in the direction Richard walked.
“I can be nice once in a while.” I scratch my ear. “Besides, it was the least I could do after how I behaved.”
Wow, look at me, being all adultish.
“I’d like to see that side of you more often,” Connor says quietly.
“Yeah, well, a man can dream.” I arch a brow.
“And she’s back.” Connor grins.
“Who do you have to know to get some food around here?” My stomach growls as backup.
Connor slaps a menu in front of me. He starts to leave, but I stop him with a, “Hey!”
He looks over his shoulder at me.
“Can I have another Bloody Mary? That was good.” I point to where he discarded my glass.
“I think you’ve had enough, Miss Micropenis.” Connor smirks.
“I’m fine. I’m just hungry and cranky.” My shoulders fall, and I slouch back against my stool.
“Decide what to eat, and then we’ll revisit the subject.” Connor moves away.
“You’re a shitty bartender,” I yell at his retreating back.
He shakes his head but keeps walking.
A few patrons give me the stink eye at my foul language, and I give one right back.
After scanning the selection, I tap my fingers against the menu, waiting for Connor to get his fine ass back over here to take my order.
I’m going to shrivel and die of starvation.
Dramatic much?
Cami thanks the crowd, says she’s taking a short break, and then heads in my direction. It’s a good thing the stool Richard vacated minutes ago is still empty. I’m not certain why someone wouldn’t want to sit next to me with my charming personality, cussing, and scowling.
“Hey.” Cami scoots onto the seat without hesitation.
I give her a one-armed hug. “You’re rocking it up there, CC.” I lean back and beam at her. “If a music exec really is here, you’re as good as signed.”
“Yes, and I’ll be whisked away to live a privileged life with millions of adoring fans. What ever will you do without me?” She pats her hand against my cheek and laughs.
“Live a life of misery and wither away, alone, pining for what was once my best friend’s companionship,” I say it as a joke, but it’s closer to the truth than I care to acknowledge.
“Ha! Yeah, right.” She sets her elbows on the bar. “You’ll become some famous writer or journalist before I can support myself with music. I’ll have to sing on street corners to afford a plane ticket to visit you in New York, Paris, London … wherever super-successful writers end up.”
“Don’t be silly.” I playfully pinch her arm. “I’ll pay for your ticket, but I’m not springing the money to put you in first class.”
“You bitch.” She smacks my shoulder and chuckles. “I heard the exec isn’t here.” She sticks out her bottom lip but then sits straight and leans toward me. “But you’ll still let me mooch off of your hospitability and move into your condo tomorrow, right?” Cami gives me her doe eyes.
Cami broke up with her boyfriend a couple of months ago, and when Kyle moved out, the apartment rent was more than she could afford. I immediately offered to let her take over the spare bedroom in my condo.
“You’re moving?” Connor gives me another Bloody Mary and slides Cami a Stella in a bottle.
“Yeah. You wanna help?” She winks before she tips her beer back.
“When?” Connor grabs my menu.
“Tomorrow,” Cami says after she swallows her mouthful.
“I’m available in the morning. Will that work?” Connor’s eyes bounce between me and Cami.
Cami regards me to answer.
“Uh, sure.” I shrug.
“Okay, I’ll text you,” Connor says to Cami.
“Text Noles, too. I’ll be distracted with packing, and I might miss your text,” Cami says.
“I don’t have her number.” He blinks.
“For good reason,” I grumble.
“Gimme your phone.” Cami does grabby hands toward Connor until he hands over his cell.
“There you go.” Cami drops the device back in Connor’s hand after she enters my digits.
Thanks for asking for permission, girl.
He clears his throat. “I’ll see if Trey’s available, too.”
“Sweet. Thanks, darling.” Cami kisses the air in his direction.
“Consider it done.” Connor nods.
Moving Day
Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Connor …
Unknown Number: So … I have your digits now. This could be fun …
I read the text messages for the umpteenth time this morning. Connor texted me while I was asleep last night, so I didn’t see them or answer him back.
It’s now nine o’clock in the morning, and I still haven’t replied. The first thing I can
think to say is that he likes ellipses, which is stupid but awesome because I do, too. The second thing is that I think it’s a bad idea for us to text. People tend to find the courage to say things they wouldn’t say to your face.
I don’t want or need to know what Connor can’t say to my face.
Scratch that, I totally do. But I know it’s wrong.
I don’t want to know what I wouldn’t say to Connor’s face because I pretty much speak my mind out of my mouth.
Yes, us communicating this way can be dangerous.
But Cami’s the one who gave him your number …
That damn voice in my head is a traitor. Or it’s a genius. I haven’t quite figured it out. Either way, I enter Connor’s name into my phone, so I can at least stare at the pretty letters that comprise his identity.
“Noles!” Cami calls from somewhere in her bedroom.
I’m standing in her tiny kitchen, packing the last few glasses, plates, and silverware she needed to use.
“What?” I wrap her I really Alto stay out of Treble coffee mug, put it in the box, and tape it closed.
“Connor texted that he and Trey are outside the building. Will you open the door for them?” Cami yells down the hall.
I curse my heart as it flops like a fish out of water in my chest.
Just as my phone pings an incoming text, something loud thumps in Cami’s apartment, and she groans an, “Oomph.”
“You okay down there?” I yell.
Cami grumbles some sort of reply, and I take the fact that she’s able to breathe enough to respond as good enough.
I retrieve and unlock my cell.
Connor: Can’t wait to see you, Journal Girl. ;)
I shake my head, and before I can stop myself, I press that stupid device to my breasts and give it a hug.
Stop reacting this way, Noel. Get your head out of your vagina and shape up! I give myself a pep talk before I open the door.
When the entrance swings open, two gorgeous men are facing me with matching smiles.
I frown in return. No one should ever be this happy this early on a Saturday morning.
“G’mornin’, Journal Girl. You’re looking”—Connor clears his throat as his eyes travel up and down my body—“lovely.”
