Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
On the walk up to my apartment after saying bye to my mother, I decide to bite the bullet and text Conor.
ME: You home?
A ball of anxiety coils in my gut once I hit send. After ignoring him for two days, he’d have every right to have written me off by now. I was kind of a bitch the other night, I’m well aware of this. Despite his lack of social graces, Conor hadn’t meant to offend me, and there was no reason to storm off the way I did. None, except that I was feeling insecure and vulnerable and generally sick of myself, so I took it out on him rather than explaining how I felt.
The screen lights up.
CONOR: Yeah.
ME: Coming over, k?
CONOR: Yeah.
Back-to-back “yeahs” aren’t exactly promising, but at least he hasn’t ghosted.
When he answers the door ten minutes later, hastily yanking a T-shirt down over this bare chest, I’m hit with the same flutter of desire I felt during our kiss, like pin pricks of electricity zipping up my spine. My lips remember his. My skin buzzes with the memory of his hands sliding up my ribs. Oh boy. This is going to be much harder than I expected.
“Hey,” I say, because my brain is still half in the parking lot outside Malone’s.
“Hey.” Conor holds the door open and nods for me to enter. His roommates are either out or hiding as he leads me upstairs to his bedroom.
Fuck. I’d even missed the way his room smells. Like his shampoo that smells like the ocean, and whatever cologne he wore Tuesday night.
“Taylor, I want—”
“No.” I stop him, holding my hand out to keep some air between us. I can’t think straight when he’s in my bubble. “Me first.”
“Okay then.” Shrugging, he takes a seat on the small loveseat while I gather my nerves.
“I was shitty to you the other night,” I say ruefully. “And I’m sorry. You were right—I was embarrassed. I don’t like attention—good or bad. So having a room full of people staring at me is like the fucking worst. But you only did that silly lap dance because you thought you were saving me from a much worse fate, and I didn’t thank you or at least give you some credit for trying. That wasn’t fair. And then with the…” Somehow I don’t think I can say “kiss” out loud without moaning, “…the outside stuff, I panicked. That wasn’t your fault.”
“Well, except for when I started in with the fashion advice,” he points out with a self-deprecating smile.
“Yeah, no, that one was all you, jerkface. You shoulda known better.”
“Trust me, I know. I already got an earful from both Demi and Summer. Friends’ girlfriends,” he clarifies when he notices my blank look.
“You talked to your friends’ girlfriends about our fight?” For some reason, I’m oddly touched.
“Yeah.” He shrugs adorably. “Needed someone to tell me where I fucked up. Apparently the clothing critique was a crime against your womanhood.”
I snort.
Conor holds up his hands in surrender. “And it wasn’t even what I meant to say. My brain just short circuited after…” Mimicking me a little, he winks and says, “the outside stuff, and I lost all control of my better judgment or the part that stops me from making an ass of myself.” He flashes that cheeky smile that never fails to make my heart race. “Forgive me?”
“You’re forgiven.” I pause. “Forgive me for bitching out on you?”
“You’re forgiven.” Tentatively, he stands, inching toward me. He towers over me with his athletic frame. “So. Friends again?”
“Friends.”
Conor pulls me in for a hug and it’s like I never left his arms. I don’t know if I want it to stop. I don’t know how he does it, makes me feel so comfortable with just a hug or a smile.
“Want a ride to campus with me? I’ve got class in an hour. We can grab some coffee?”
“Sounds good.” I sit on his bed as he gets dressed and comes in and out of his bathroom gathering his stuff. “I was wondering something.”
“Yeah?” He stops in the doorway with his toothbrush in his mouth.
“Would you want to hang out this weekend? Maybe come shopping with me in Boston?”
Conor holds up one finger and disappears. A few seconds later, he returns wiping his mouth with a washcloth. “I can’t, babe. I’ve got a semi-final game in Buffalo.”
“Oh, shit, right. I knew that. No biggie. Some other—”
“Take my Jeep.” Conor tosses the washcloth in his laundry hamper.
“What?”
“Yeah, come to my game,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “You drive down to Buffalo in my Jeep and I’ll ask Coach for permission to skip out on the bus ride back. We can stay an extra night and go shopping, hang out, whatever.”
“Are you sure? I feel like that’s a big ask.”
He aims his crooked smirk at me. Pulling out the heavy artillery, I see. “If we win, I want you there to celebrate with us. If we lose, you can get me drunk and help me feel better.”