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“That’s definitely the one,” he sighed, his eyes now locked onto my rear-end. I’d fallen into his trap. Not that I’d been trying all that hard to avoid it…
“How’rya feelin’?”
“A little sore,” I admitted. “I mean, when I first saw the gym I was more than impressed. But I never imagined you’d have an entire—”
“No, not your body lass,” Connor grinned. “How are youfeelingfeeling?”
He was talking about the estrogen, and more recently, the progesterone. I was taking both drugs to coordinate my cycle with Sherri, the egg donor. So far the side effects had been minimal, although I wasn’t looking forward to the Lupron shots.
“Well some of those prenatal vitamins can leave a nasty aftertaste, but otherwise I feel fantastic,” I said truthfully. “You?”
Whatever his answer Connor certainlylookedfantastic, and all pumped up from the gym. At least he was wearing a shirt this time. It was sleeveless though, and currently showing off his ripped, glistening arms.
Probably on purpose, a little voice in my head theorized.
“Movie night?”
His proposal was abrupt and out of nowhere. But not unwelcome.
“What? Me and you?”
“Sure, why not?” he replied. “The others are away until tomorrow, and I’ve got flatbread pizza ready to go into the oven.”
“Isn’t all pizza flatbread?”
Connor stared back quizzically, his face contorting in a hilarious way. He looked like a puppy who’d just gotten its tail stepped on.
“I mean, pizza’s always been flat,” I said. “It’s always made on bread dough. Only recently everyone’s been calling it ‘flatbread’, for some trendy reason I can’t for the life of me figure out.”
The man in my doorway scratched at his beard and grinned. “You’re a fucken genius,” he declared. “Ya know that?”
“I try.”
“No, really,” he said. “You just blew my mind. As a matter of fact…”
He trailed off, suddenly noticing the one area of the entire room I’d finally decorated with my own stuff. Walking over, he picked up one of the many medals hanging from the wall and cradled it in his big palm.
“What the hell are these?”
“Marathons mostly,” I said. “Some half-marathons, some 10k’s.”
His eyes lit up as he looked back at me again.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“You wonallof these?”
“Well I neverwonany of the marathons,” I chuckled. “But I finished them.”
His gaze dropped to the lacquered mahogany dresser, just beneath my medal wall. A half-dozen photos stood scattered across it, in mismatched frames.
“What in the savage hell—”
He picked one up, turning it a few different directions before pointing with a calloused finger. “Thisyou?”
“Uh huh,” I admitted. “I lived in Utah for a summer. I did a lot of rock climbing.”
