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She takes a breath and gives me a smile.
“Good night.”
I turn around and take two steps toward my truck.
“Connor?”
I turn back.
“Yeah?”
“Were you serious about us . . . running together?
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. They’re great trails—you shouldn’t miss out on them. I’m up to go running anytime you are. You could text me . . . ”
“Yes! That would be awesome.” She bounces a little—seeming both relieved and excited.
And again . . . her boobs jiggle fantastically. It’s almost hypnotic—I could stare at them all day long.
“Perfect,” Vi continues. “I’ll text you and we can figure out when we’re both free this week?”
“Sounds great.” I smile, drifting back toward her like I’m being magnetically pulled.
“Good,” she says with a nod, slightly breathless.
If this was a real date, with a normal woman my age, this would be the moment when I’d go in for a good-night kiss. Maybe a simple brush on the cheek, maybe something near the corner of her mouth—a feeler kiss—to see if she was open to the real thing.
And if she was . . .
I would skim my palms up her hips and slide them around her back—holding her gently and pressing her close. So she could feel how tightly wound I was, so she would know how much she’s wanted. Desired.
And then I would lean down and press my mouth against hers, so soft at first, to relish the velvet feel of her lips. And when she was stretching up on her toes, pushing her breasts and stomach against me, craving more—I would taste her. I’d take my time and delve into her warm, tight mouth, again and again—drowning in the sweetness and sensation—until we were both weak-kneed drunk.
“Daaad, come on!” Spencer whines out the window of my truck. “You’re taking forever and I gotta go home and take a poop!”
I sigh. Tilting my head up to the starry night sky, to laugh, and ask God why.
“And on that note, I should probably go.”
Violet covers her mouth, laughing behind her hand.
“Okay—good night, Connor.”
“Night, Vi.” I get in one long, last look of her before turning toward my truck. “Sweet dreams.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Violet
I don’t think I’ve ever truly understood the expression on cloud nine before. But now I do. Because in the weeks after Dean and Lainey’s wedding, I’m walking on cloud nine, ten, and eleven.
There’s a floatiness to my steps, a sparkling fizzy sensation beneath my skin, and a constant current of happiness swirling in my stomach. The sun is shinier, colors are more vibrant, the air seems cleaner, fresher.
Because not only are Connor Daniels and I meeting up to jog together on a regular basis . . . we’re also officially texting. And that’s only one letter away from sexting.
Granted, most of the time it’s about jogging:
Free tomorrow morning?
They’re calling for rain on Wednesday, don’t forget your jacket.
How’s Sunday evening looking for you?
But after a few days we start to have inside jokes, experiences that only the two of us can relate to.
“Hey, Vi,” Connor catches me in the hallway one Tuesday afternoon when we’re on the same shift at work. “I think I spotted Horny in my yard this morning. He was sneaking out of a tree at the crack of dawn looking guilty as hell.”
He’s referring to the nickname we bestowed on a fat, furry, squirrel we saw humping a rock on our run two days earlier.
I shake my head, grinning. “I told you he was a player. He’s probably got a different girl squirrel in every tree in town thinking she’s the only one he shares his nuts with.”
Even my clumsiness around Connor begins to improve—thank God. Although when we’re jogging I still devote at least fifty percent of my attention to not colliding with a tree or plunging down a ravine . . . just in case.
“If you had to describe your sense of self in only one adjective, what would it be?” I ask him halfway through a sunset jog on a Friday.
Because we also talk as we run. Nothing complicated or deep, but short, light conversations in between breaths that I replay in my head afterward over and over.
“Studly,” he answers automatically.
I roll my eyes. “I’m being serious.”
“Me too. Ask anyone—studly isn’t just what I do—it’s who I am. Some guys are just born with it.”
“Okay, Maybelline,” I tease.
We get closer. Comfortable. We get to know each other better. And the more I get to know Connor, the more I like him. And I really didn’t think that was possible.
“Is this one of those personality quizzes from Facebook that’s supposed to reveal your inner Disney character?”
“Maybe it is,” I reply. “Do you want to revise your answer? You don’t want to end up with Gaston. He was studly—and a dick.”
We joke with each other. Tease. There are even a few exchanges that could be considered flirtatious—as well as a whole bunch of covert sniffing on my part.
