Page 41 of Can’t Say No

“Well, he’s quite the looker, isn’t he?” a lady with impeccable makeup and short white waves says, nodding towards Connor across the hall.

My choir girls giggle but don’t blow my cover.

With an eye roll, a woman in a bright blue sweater that matches her eyeshadow spits out, “Janice, he is literally fifty years younger than you.”

Perfect Makeup Janice just shrugs in response as a third lady adds, “Don’t be such a prude, Reyna. No harm in looking.”

All three residents track Connor like hungry lionesses as he walks confidently toward our table. He flashes our group his winning smile and the ladies audibly swoon.

“So, this is where all the pretty girls sit. Were you three models? Because you are stunning.” Connor winks at Janice as the other women join my choir girls in a fit of laughter.

I know he’d never admit to it, but Connor is a damn good flirt. Smooth, charming, and well, just plain hot. These poor old ladies don’t stand a chance.

Our ring leader, Janice pipes up, “Were? Baby, we still are models!” She waggles her brows at him, which sends the table into another round of giggles, and I don’t miss the subtle blush that creeps onto Connor’s face.

Janice is my new best friend.

Connor slides into the empty chair beside me and scoots closer, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Pardon me, of course you still are.” He throws another wink her way before turning his attention to me.

“You need anything, babe?” He says it so sincerely and naturally that I almost forget it isn’t real. His bright eyes connect with mine and I let myself live in this false reality for just a second. This cozy little pretend world where he holds me close and calls me babe and takes care of me without being on my payroll.

I like this world more than I should.

Reyna, our tablemate in blue, lets out a low whistle, breaking the moment. “Well shit, Janice, it looks like pretty boy here is spoken for.”

Connor beams back at her. “Since we were kids.”

He says it sure and heavy, throwing it out like an anchor instead of a flimsy lie.

He says it like it’s the truest thing in the world.

The old ladies flirt their way through the rest of dinner, unaffected by Connor’s very possessive arm that never leaves my shoulder. But me? I’m affected as hell.

Since we were kids.

My heart races, replaying his words the whole drive back to the lodge. It can’t be true, for so many reasons. But I try the words on anyway, expecting the weight of a decade’s worth of love to feel too heavy, too oppressive. Any moment now, my cute little fear of intimacy will kick in and I’ll be able to shake off Connor’s words as nothing more than a practiced lie, one that I’m literally paying him to say.

But that moment doesn’t come. Instead, a little glimmer of something that feels an awful lot like hope sparks inside of me.

And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

Past Delaney made some stupid mistakes. Showing up late to the Late Show, so late that the taping was over by the time I got there, forgetting to wear underwear on the red carpet, twice, and taking Matty’s dog Pookie out for a walk while I was crossfaded. Turns out I was dragging a stuffed animal on a leash. Not my finest moment.

But this. This takes the cake.

Three hours ago, I called over to the main lodge to let them know we’d be fine staying in our current chalet. No need to switch to the original reservation since the students were all settled. And sharing a bed with Connor hadn’t been a big deal.

But Three Hours Ago Delaney didn’t know that Present Delaney would be borderline panicking over Connor’s fake, offhand comments. The thought of sharing that teeny tiny futon again with Connor is making me freak the fuck out.

“Yo, Mr. Majors!” Simon hollers as we all trudge off the bus. “Do we have stuff to roast marshmallows again this year?”

I follow his gaze, and sure enough, down a short sloping hill behind the chalet, there’s a fire glowing in a pit against the setting sun. The early autumn chill is a welcome reprieve from the brutal Tennessee heat, and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia, remembering nights much like this spent out in the back forty of the orchard with Connor and his family. At the first sign of fall, Mr. Majors would bake a shit-ton of apple-based goodies from the early harvest and we’d roast hotdogs and make s’mores. The memory is so idyllic it almost seems fake.

Connor nods towards Simon in affirmation, then turns to me.

“If only we had my dad’s apple turnovers.”

My jaw drops a little. I cannot deal with Connor reading my thoughts. Not when my mind is still racing.