Page 45 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

My. Best. Friend. I’m a creep. A pervert.

But he’s so pretty I could cry!

I suppose the only saving grace is he works so much during the summer, I’m saved from being a Peeping Tina, at least during the light of day.

If I’m lucky, the mountain air cools enough once the sun goes down and Connor puts on a full shirt or a hoodie. My fingers still itch to touch him, but the visual temptation is concealed.

Connor’s intolerably attractive at his worst. My brain short circuits when he’s dressed and groomed for a normal day. The ball cap goes on and dear god…

I’ve gotten in the habit of dabbing the corners of my mouth like a nervous tic for fear I’m drooling over him.

And because lady universe is a raging bitch, she likes to compel Connor to flip that goddamn hat backwards. I’ve been known to suddenly have somewhere I need to be, or a phone call I have to take when his hat is backwards. He’s so attractive it’s categorically unfair.

My self-control only stretches so far. And apparently, that distance is the one-eighty degree turn of the brim of his cap from front to back.

I swear to god, if he ever put on a cowboy hat, I’d spontaneously ovulate. My eggs would jump the cliff down my tubes screaming PICK ME! PICK ME!

Unsatisfied, I check my phone and am crestfallen to find no text from Connor. Even with the widening distance between us, he texts me every day, and I don’t like this one bit.

A hot-cold flash of anxiety coats my skin in a sweat. Three days. I haven’t heard from Connor in three days. He was supposed to be home from this job three days ago. I would’ve understood if he was too tired to drive home after his shift ended and he found somewhere to sleep. But it’s the night of day three and he should’ve been home by now.

His absence and the cavern of distance between us is why my blue bestie is getting re-charged daily. When I’m not masturbating for distraction, I’m stress cleaning at eleven at night. Our downstairs neighbors must hate me for the noise I’m making pacing around the apartment.

My cheeks are tight from dried tear tracks, eyes are bleary from exhaustion.

I’ve texted. I’ve called. I called CJ incessantly until he answered. Quincy hasn’t heard from him either.

It’s taking everything in me not to take off on a one-woman search and rescue mission. But I have no idea where this job even took him. My head pounds with unanswered questions.

What if he’s hurt? What if he’s dead? Why didn’t I tell him I love him? What if I never see him again?

I blindly fumble around for the wall for support as I collapse onto the floor. Panic and regret consume me. My lungs refuse the gasps of air I’m struggling to pull in. Dark spots obscure my vision, and I know I’m about to pass out or have a panic attack.

The deadbolt on the front door clacks open and I jump to my feet, leaning against the wall for support.

I’ve never been so relieved as when Connor’s tattooed hand opens the door.

Our bodies have always had a sixth sense about where the other is, and his eyes find me immediately, like they always do.

“What’s wrong?” In a split second, his bag is on the floor, and he’s rushed to me.

My face falls and uncontrollable sobs wrack my tired body. I’m in his arms before I know what’s happening and he coos comfort and reassurance into my neck.

I draw back to get a good look at him to see if he’s injured in any way.

Chocolate eyes skate across my face, concern written all over his. Furrowed brows silently question what’s wrong. My brain tells my mouth to say I’m fine. That I was worried but am happy he’s home safe, but no words come out.

My heart has no words. It has a strong, steady beat, screaming his name.

The pounding of my heart’s desire is too loud to ignore, and my mouth crashes against his and I kiss him with every ounce of desire and regret I’ve suffered these past days, weeks, months, and years.

I pull away when my brain registers…he’s not kissing me back. I slap a hand over my mouth, back out of his hold, and flee. The bathroom door slams behind me, and I sink to the cold tile floor.

What have I done?

24

Delilah’s pretending to be asleep when I come to bed. I can’t blame her.