“Perez was interesting,” he said, an edge lacing his words.
“Seemed it,” I replied, and I swear he growled. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
“Liar.” I told myself I was reading too much into it, that it meant nothing, that there was no need for him to be jealous.
His teeth captured his lip. “I didn’t like him.”
“Okay?”
His jaw flexed as he took a breath, eyes fixed on the road. “He was… watching you.”
I turned my head. “That’s kind of the point when you stand in front of a group.”
“Not like that.” He paused. “He looked at your ass more than your face.”
I choked on a laugh, then stopped when I caught the color high in his cheeks and the way his hands stayed rigid on the wheel. What was that?
I realized quickly that he was jealous, and that knowledge would’ve given me a boost, had we’d been in college, had I’d been able to use it against him, but this was different. It fed a part of me that was growing, evolving, becoming—god help me—interested in him.
That knowledge festered the entire journey until I thought I might explode.
By the time we pulled up outside my place, the adrenaline still hadn’t faded. If anything, it had turned inward, coiled and tense, making my hands feel too warm in my lap. He parked, cut the engine, and I knew I should move. I think I’d just forgotten how.
The quiet settled around us, dense but not awkward. I flexed my fingers once, grounding myself in the sensation, then reached for the seatbelt. The click felt final, somehow.
“Thanks for driving me,” I said, because it was true and because it gave me something to say.
He nodded. “Anytime.”
“I’ll have to drive you next time.” Immediately regretting opening my mouth, I cleared my throat as heat crept up my neck. “I mean, if there is a next time. Not that there has to be. Obviously. I just—” I huffed out a quiet breath, cutting myself off before I dug the hole any deeper.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t ramble. I didn’t fill space just because silence made me uncomfortable. Except apparently, I did, when it was him.
I pressed my lips together, annoyed at myself, and finally risked a glance in his direction. Connor hadn’t moved. One arm rested on the steering wheel, relaxed, his body angled toward me just enough that it felt intentional. He was watching me with that infuriatingly calm patience, like he wasn’t in any rush to escape the moment I was tripping over.
“So,” I said, incapable of stopping myself now. “You’re probably… really busy. With, you know… captain things. Meetings. Important hair appointments or something.” I winced even as the words left my mouth. “Not that you wouldn’t be, um, welcome. I’m sure you’re just busy. I mean. If you weren’t busy, then… Which you are. Probably.”
Mortified at the lack of sense spewing from my lips, I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second. What I actually wanted to say wascome upstairs. What I actually wanted was to be standing in my kitchen with him, the door shut behind us, having a moment together. But instead, I was doing this—talking in circles like I was afraid of my own want.
When I looked back at him, my face felt warm enough to light the car. His mouth twitched and those brown eyes glittered at my expense.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “Ignore me. I’ve forgotten how to speak like a normal human.”
“Mm,” he murmured, eyes warm. “Happens to the best of us. And for the record, my hair appointments aren’t that important.”
“Good to know.” My heart started doing that stupid, unsteady thing again, and before I could overthink it—before I chickened out—I blurted again. “You could come upstairs. If you want. Not like you have to. I just—my apartment is right there, and I have coffee and… a couch.” I gestured vaguely toward the building, then dropped my head into my hands, mumbling, “God, that sounded way more desperate than I meant it.”
I held my breath, waiting to see if I’d just ruined everything. I wasn’t good at this—relationships, people, men who looked like him. I’d never been shy a day in my life, except right now, and it was hilariously inconvenient.
Two warm palms closed gently around my wrists. He drew my hands down from my face, wrapping his fingers around, thumbs brushing over the backs of my hands. I think I’d stopped breathing, or maybe I’d just forgotten to start again. His face was close now, close enough that I could almost feel the gravity pulling us together.
My pulse was erratic under his fingers, and there was no way he didn’t notice.
“I’d love to come upstairs.”
28
