He was so damn good.
And even though it felt wrong, it also somehow felt right. Like some switch had been flipped between us, that the current of hatred had been altered irrevocably and in an earth-shattering way that we would feel the reverberations of forever.
Or maybe that was just the damn thunder shaking the ground around us and the tree he had me pinned against with his hard body and even harder cock.
Heat floods between my legs, and I have to draw in a deep breath to try to get the sudden flare of need under control. Because dragging Connor into this bed with me right now would not be a good idea.
For either of us.
He needs to read what’s written there. He needs to know everything and understand the whole story, the hidden one that is only coming to light because I busted my ass to ensure it did.
The story that’s incomplete until his experience is part of it.
I can tell when he reaches the spot where my battery died because his lips droop down slightly, as if the fact that the story isn’t finished yet is a disappointment.
He leans back slightly in the chair and releases a little sigh.
“I wrote more in the notebook…”
My voice sounds thick with sleep, and he still doesn’t look at me, almost as if he can’t. Slowly, he directs his gaze to the notebook beside my computer that I tried desperately to continue my train of thought in once I lost the ability to use the technology I’ve become so attached to.
He stares at it for a moment, then flips it open and starts reading again.
I chew on my bottom lip as I watch and wait.
I’ve spent years writing stories for other people—for editors of online magazines, international news sources, and various websites that focus on specific topics of interest that usually have very little interest for me, other than a needed paycheck. I’ve waited hours, days, even weeks sometimes to receive feedback on them, to see what they love, hate, or want changed. But I’ve never been nervous the way I am watching Connor and reading every slight change of facial expression.
Each tilt of his brows.
Every twitch of his mouth into a frown.
Even the tensing of his hands around the notebook.
I can’t help but analyze them all, trying to determine his impression of the story…and what he thinks of me and my ability to tell it.
I can tell exactly what part of the article he’s on now.
While my computer was still running, I spent pages outlining the Lorells’ sordid background to set the stage for their present-day crimes and betrayals. So much of that information came from what Barry and my other sources relayed to me. Ultimately leading to Lucky and what happened on McBride Mountain…
That’s where I stopped because the only person who truly knows the events of that night is sitting right there reading the article.
When he finishes, he closes the notebook slowly and sets it back on the table, then finally allows his eyes to drift over to me. His dark gaze tells me very little, though.
I can’t tell if he wants to talk about the story or not, so I start with an easier question than the one I really want to ask. “How’d you get my computer back on?”
A light thump fills the cabin, and I glance down to see the toe of his boot pressed against a black box under the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Solar generator. I pulled it from the storage shed behind the cabin and charged it today.”
I gape at him. “You asshole! You had a generator this entire time and never told me?”
The corners of his lips twitch, but he doesn’t offer an apology or explanation. Nor does he need to. I know why he didn’t tell me he had a generator—because Connor McBride is a prick.
All those years, I wasn’t imagining his rudeness or the way he loved to rile me up just to get under my skin. It was all very real. But I did the same to him, so I can’t really fault him for any of it.
He stares at me and the tension between us grows.
I shift up on the bed, still draped in his same over-sized shirt that he put me in last night and I pulled back on when I came to bed tonight, and his eyes move from mine down over it, his gaze heating.
