I drop my hands and look at him skeptically. “You just like her because she’s already obsessed with you.”
Connor smirks. “Can’t blame her.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now too. “Don’t let it go to your head. You just happen to look like a sexy brooding love interest from one of her favorite novels.”
My cheeks heat the second the words leave my mouth, because apparently I just called him sexy.
Connor’s mouth curves slowly. “Sexy, huh?”
I groan, my face completely on fire now. “For a middle-aged woman? Sure.”
Connor snorts, shaking his head with a hint of mock annoyance.
For a second, neither of us says anything. We just look at each other, both still smiling.
Then Connor suddenly stands and moves toward his suitcase. In one fluid motion, he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head, casually tossing it onto the chair by the window.
My brain short-circuits.
He stands there half-naked, his back to me, completely unself-conscious. The muscles in his shoulders and back shift as he unzips his bag, the black and gray tattoos rippling with the movement. His body looks carved—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined but not bulky. The kind of body that makes you think of athletes, not gym rats.
I stare for way too long before I realize what I’m doing and quickly look away, heat spreading down my neck.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” Connor says, turning around. “Long drive.”
I make the mistake of looking at him again. The front view is even worse—or better, depending on your perspective. I mean, I saw him shirtless two days ago, during my drunk late-night visit to his apartment, but seeing him now, while I’m fully sober, is something else.
His chest is broad, his pecs defined. The little black dachshund tattoo is still there, right over his heart, and my eyes catch on it for a second before drifting lower, following the lines of his stomach to the sharp V of muscle disappearing into his jeans. There’s a faint trail of hair running down from his navel.I catch sight of that tattoo dipping below his waistline again and wonder what the hell it actually is. A dragon tail? The stem of a flower? An arrow?
“Okay?” Connor says, catching my gaze.
I jerk my eyes up so fast they almost sting.
“Sure,” I manage to choke out, suddenly very interested in the view from the window. “Go ahead.”
Connor nods, grabbing his toiletry bag and a clean T-shirt before disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him.
God, did he have to look like that underneath his clothes? It’s not fair.
And did I really have to stare at him like an idiot?
A second later, I hear the water turn on, and my mind instantly conjures an image of Connor standing under the spray, water running down his chest, over the tattoos, following the lines of his—
Nope. Not going there.
I need to get a grip. I have actual problems to deal with—like the fact that in a matter of hours I’m going to come face-to-face with Rick for the first time since he broke my heart. Compared to that emotional landmine, being weirdly attracted to Connor should be the least of my problems.
And yet my pulse still won’t calm the fuck down.
I exhale slowly and pull a pillow over my face.
CHAPTER 4. Connor
The pancakes melt in my mouth, sweet with blueberries and warm butter, but I’ve reached the point where every bite feels like a challenge. My stomach protests quietly as Caroline appears at my elbow with another stack, her smile so warm it feels almost criminal to refuse.
Noah, who sits next to me at the table, catches my eye, his expression somewhere between amusement and sympathy as his mother adds what must be a fifth serving to my plate. I force a grateful smile and pick up my fork again, trying to calculate how many more bites I can manage before I reach my absolute limit.
“Mom, stop force-feeding Connor,” Noah says, shooting me a look that clearly expects backup. “He’s already full.”
