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As Connor slides into the booth, I will myself to keep my attention off him. It’s not easy. Miguel is leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his focus on the game. If I only tilted my head a smidge to the right, boom, Connor would be right there, tempting me like a guilty pleasure.
“Game’s going well,” Miguel says, drawing Connor into a serious discussion of baseball.
They break down Boston’s lineup and I sneak glances in Connor’s direction, cataloguing the details. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that is neither too tight nor too loose. I think of it as the Goldilocks of garments, hugging his muscular chest and arms just enough to ensure I miss my mouth when I bring my drink up for another sip.
Miguel says something like blah blah batting average blah blah and it’s only important because it makes Connor smile. It’s as if a stagehand is holed up in the rafters of the pub shining a beam of light down onto him. Connor glances over and his eyes lock with mine behind Miguel’s back. My chest constricts. We’re two feet apart, and those two feet are the width of an ocean.
I don’t look away immediately, and his frown deepens.
I wish they served margaritas by the pitcher here. I’m close to finishing my second one and then what will I do with my mouth? Speak eloquently? Not likely.
“So Natalie, you were telling me about why you decided to take on a fellowship after your residency,” Daniel says, drawing my attention back to him.
I give him a tight smile and push my hair behind my ear, trying to think of a good answer. In the end, I give him the truth with a shrug.
“There was no real decision on my part. It felt…natural. I knew after my first rotation in the BICU that I wanted to go into burns. There’s not another specialty like it.”
He chuckles. “You sound like Con.”
I purposely don’t look in Connor’s direction.
Do I sound like him? I know he loves the burn unit as much as I do. Our experience with Jade showed me how much he cares for his patients.
A waitress approaches our table and leans down to ask Connor’s order. My hackles go up and I watch with careful attention as she nods and tosses him a friendly wink before heading back to the bar.
My reaction infuriates me given the fact that Connor kept it together quite well when he first showed up and found me sitting here with his friends, right smack dab beside a man he knows is interested in me. There was no jealous fit of rage or snide comments. If he can control himself, so can I.
“How are the renovations going at your place?” Lindsey asks him.
“They were originally supposed to be finished next week, but now we’re shooting for next month.”
I already know this, though I heard the information from Noah, not from Connor.
“Dang, that sucks,” Lindsey says with a sympathetic nod. “At least you have a good place to stay, right?” She winks at me. “Natalie tells me you’re a pretty good roommate.”
“Is that right? What else does my roomie say about me?”
“Oh, let me think…”
“Lindsey,” I warn through gritted teeth.
Kieran laughs and leans toward her, ready for some serious tea. “C’mon, now you have to tell us.”
My eyes scream at her to keep her lips zipped.
“It’s fine,” Connor says with a cool laugh as he accepts the beer from the waitress, who looks slightly disappointed when he doesn’t engage her in further conversation after a polite nod of thanks. When she walks away, he turns to the group, eyes on me. “I can guess what she says about me, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’m a good roommate. I clean up after myself, I fill the fridge, and I remember to replace the empty toilet paper rolls.”
Then he sips his beer as if to say, Checkmate.
I snort. “Okay, slow down. It’s not like you’re the world’s most perfect roommate.”
He is though. Truly. I never find day-old dishes piled in the sink or a bread bag lying open on the counter with only the butts left inside. He takes out the trash and the recycling and he unloads the dishes in the morning before I wake up. If that’s not sexy as hell, I don’t know what is.
“Oh okay,” he says, turning to prop his elbow on the table so he can get a better angle to stare me down. Poor Miguel is in the line of fire. He fidgets awkwardly and then leans back, trying to fuse himself with the back of the booth. “Since we’re airing grievances”—Connor tips the neck of his beer in my direction—“I want my T-shirt back, the one you stole from me.”
Oh crap. He knows about that?
I play it cool.
