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“No. The club is closed on Sundays.” A steadfast rule. No matter how my father grumbles over lost revenue, my employees deserve a day off.
“That’s good news.”
“Why?”
Conner leans closer until his shoulder brushes mine. “Because now I get to keep you for the evening.”
I can’t avoid staring at his lips, wondering how they might taste after time in the sun. “Who says?”
He pushes my hair aside, an unnecessary move since it wasn’t really in my face. It’s an excuse for his fingertips to linger on the pulse point of my neck, as if he has studied the art of seduction. “You need to eat. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”
Part of me wants to poke a bubble in his superior confidence.
But that part is too small to win.
I check him out and cluck my tongue. “Since we’re going to a restaurant you’ll have to put your shirt back on.”
“Nope, can’t do it.” He’s so close. His hot breath skims over my face. I can see flecks of green swimming in his deep blue eyes.
“Because you’re a shameless exhibitionist?”
“Because you like me so much better when my shirt is off.”
Sort of true. And because it’s true, I don’t have a rational argument. Might as well be straightforward.
“I won’t be fucking you tonight, Conner.”
He huffs like the notion is preposterous. “Did you forget how I already said sex is off the table for today? I sure as hell didn’t forget. I bet you’re getting dehydrated again. You ought to sit in my lap and drink some more water.”
I snatch his shirt off the rock and push it at his chest. “Quit running your damn mouth and let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
Chapter8
Haven
Conner’s favorite restaurant turns out to be a pirate-themed, kid-friendly seafood place, the kind that draws the whole family out to celebrate birthdays and straight A report cards.
The manager, obviously adapted to the sight of Em City’s famous quarterback, greets him without much fanfare. We’re ushered in through the back door and seated in a private dining room that’s likely reserved for high school graduations and sweet sixteen parties.
I’m pleasantly surprised by Conner’s low key taste. I’ve never had much use for five star dining and three hundred dollar bottles of wine. A basket of fried chicken strips and a cold beer suits me just fine.
Members of the staff must have instructions not to trouble Conner with autograph requests. Different faces keep lingering at the doorway but only our waiter, a youngish fellow with a Spanish accent and an oversized eyepatch that keeps sliding over his cheek, interacts with us directly, chirping ‘Ahoy there!’ whenever he stops by to top off our water glasses, which happens more than it really needs to.
Our food arrives in record time but the waiter is so busy yelling ‘Ahoy there!’ that he nearly dumps the meal in my lap. Instantly, I feel sorry for him. Serving food to the irritable public is a tough way to earn a living. With effort, I scrape together a smile to set the guy’s mind at ease so he doesn’t break pirate character and start crying.
Conner is already digging into his food with the zeal of a horse at the trough. As I dump an excessive amount of ketchup on my plate, my stomach unleashes an audible rumble.
Conner hears and lifts an eyebrow. “My fault for keeping you out too long. You need some extra nourishment.” He ordered a double meal of lobster and steak. Now he’s trying to shovel a loaded fork into my mouth from across the table. “Here. Eat.”
I fend off his fork and pick up a sweet potato fry. “Feed your muscles. I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”
He drops his fork on his plate and instead pushes over a plate stacked with buttery dinner rolls. “At least take some of these off my hands.”
I’ve never been a girl to turn down carbs. “I can do that.”
Being around Conner is oddly comfortable. Yeah, he’s oversexed and screwball jokes fly out of his mouth nonstop. In addition, his reputation for bed hopping is constant tabloid fodder.
Yet the guy’s streak of decency isn’t faked. He has his wounds. Deep ones. And still he’s probably the most radically honest person I’ve ever known.
