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“I realize that,” Connor says evenly. “He ate some shrimp. No—he’s okay—but he’ll probably still be out of it tomorrow from the antihistamine.”
Stacey is supposed to get the boys every other weekend, but Connor told me it’s never been a rigid routine. In the last year her visitation has whittled down to only a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Sometimes she cancels and when she doesn’t, Connor feels that the boys are old enough to decide for themselves if they want to spend time with her or not. Recently, especially with Aaron and Brayden, it’s been a not.
“It’s a long story . . . ” he says.
Connor’s told me they met in college, got married after graduation, had Aaron when Connor was in medical school. She was a stay-at-home mom and wasn’t a fan of his work hours, and when things ended it wasn’t exactly amicable.
“ . . . there was a mix-up with his food and he got shrimp empanadas by mistake.”
Connor leaves out that Spencer got the empanadas from me. Someone he’s seeing, someone he’s in a relationship with, his girlfriend.
“Yeah, I know that. Fine. I’ll have him call you in the morning when he wakes up.”
The omission doesn’t worry me, there are reasons—valid reasons—like that they’re not on friendly terms and she doesn’t seem to be someone Connor is eager to share his personal life with. Or maybe he just doesn’t want the first mention of me to be in connection with the fact that I poisoned their child.
“Okay. Bye.”
But still . . . I can’t help but notice.
* * *
Two weeks after what is now branded in my mind as the Taco Saturday from Hell, Connor and I have plans to meet up with a group of people from work at a bar called The Piano Man.
On our way out the door, I start to tell Connor’s youngest, “Remember, Spence, don’t—”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t eat any shrimp. I know, Violet.”
I may have reminded him once or . . . sixty times before.
But I can’t help it if I’m more traumatized than either he or Connor. And I’ll get over it . . . eventually . . . like when he’s eighty.
The Piano Man is a bustling, old-school bar with gleaming mahogany trimmings and supersonic speakers connected to a jukebox. Every stool along the bar is filled, the round tables are packed, and the dance floor is hopping with hip-shaking, head-bopping people dancing to the best singable tunes.
And at the center of it all is our rowdy group of medical professionals. Because if anyone knows how to have a good time, it’s people who work in the business of life and death every single day.
Two hours after we arrive, I’m on the dance floor, arms high and liberated, my feet stomping to Simon & Garfunkel’s “Cecilia.” I’ve lost count of the number of Hawaiian pineapple cosmos I’ve ingested, but what can I say . . . they’re tasty. My limbs are loose, my vision is hazy around the edges, and my heart thumps with sweet, giddy happiness on every beat.
Connor’s at the table, laughing at something Tanner just said. But his eyes are riveted on me—observing, like I’m something fascinating and rare. Like he could go his whole life never looking at any other woman and he’d be perfectly, absolutely content.
It makes me feel powerful. And emotional. Protected and wanted and rapturously sexy. He makes me feel everything.
The song changes to something slower that begins with a moving piano solo. The girls
I’m dancing with—Effie and Alice, the latter a mild-mannered anesthesiologist with a wild streak—head back to the table to wet their whistles.
But I stay right there.
Because Connor Daniels is on the move . . . and he’s moving straight to me.
He wraps one arm around my lower back and folds his other hand into mine as the male singer’s voice croons through the speakers. And I realize I know this song, I love this song—it’s “Chances Are” by Bob Seger and Martina McBride.
“You look like you’re having fun.” His warm breath tickles my ear.
“Understatement.”
I’m a little unsteady on my feet, but I don’t have to worry . . . he’s got me.
“Are you having fun?” I ask.
His grin is a little bit dirty, kind of suggestive—all ruggedly beautiful.
“Watching you? You have no idea.”
I sink against him with a relaxed sigh. It’s the sound you make when you’re submerged in a warm, scented bubble bath and you don’t have any worries or troubles because the heated water cradles you, surrounds you, and in that moment everything is just perfect. Connor is my happy place.
“This is a great song,” he says above my head.
“I was just thinking that.” But then another thought flits through my brain and out of my mouth. “This wasn’t like your and Stacey’s wedding song or anything, was it?”
