Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I don’t immediately move because I want to hold on to the dream I was having, cling to it for just a few minutes longer. Connor’s arms were just here, banded around me on the couch. I was so warm, so content. We were breathing together, doing nothing but talking and laughing and falling into easy silence. While my body slowly wakes up, the remnants of a bone-deep sense of connection and intimacy lingers until the fog of sleep clears and it hits me what I just dreamed: Connor and I were living together.
That’s how you know he’s the one.
I’ve never wanted to live with anyone. Is Jess right? Is that what this is? This sense of being known, being loved, being safe in the quietest moments with him? But why does that feeling of safety and connection have to come intertwined with the outright terror of giving over to the powerlessness of it all, of putting my heart and well-being in Connor’s hands?
I think about what it would feel like to never touch him again, and a raw stab of pain spears me. His hands, his lips, his laugh, his weight, his deep melodic voice, his steady gaze, yes—okay—his magnificent… presence. I want to dig my fingernails into the floorboards at the idea of giving that up.
It’s midnight, but urgency floods my veins as I reach for my phone on the coffee table. There are no missed calls from him, no messages. I push on, not letting myself wonder what that might mean.
Are you up? I text him. I hope so because I’m on my way over.
I don’t wait for a response. I don’t stop to think. I shove my phone into my purse, stuff my feet into my shoes on the way out, and don’t even bother to lock my front door.
Outside his place, I climb out of my car and look up at his dark porch, dark windows.
I’m here, I text.
Nothing.
I call but it rings, and rings, finally going to voicemail.
This is when I have a brief internal meltdown. It’s Sunday night. I think Stevie’s at Nat’s because Connor came to the wedding with me, but what if he picked her up today? I don’t want to wake her with a Romance Heroine Banging on the Door move, but if his phone is on silent I could pace out here at the curb until morning and he’d never know I was here. How do people in books and movies make their big-feelings confessions when there are potentially kids fast asleep in the house!
I tilt my face to the sky, groaning. Real life is so much harder!
There’s nothing to do but text again. Hi. Yes, I really did drive over here at midnight. Please tell me you’re up.
Finally, after I stare menacingly at my phone for a good thirty seconds, three dots appear. My heart leaps into my throat.
Just saw these. I’m up.
His porch light goes on as I jog up his walkway. Connor opens the door, leaning a shoulder in the doorframe. Does he know how good he is at this? No one leans like him: with patient confidence, one hand tucked into a pocket, one foot crossed over the other.
He has my favorite soft hair falling over his forehead, a gray crewneck sweatshirt, faded and worn jeans, and bare feet. But most of all, it’s just him, the whole package: the solid mass of his body and his kind eyes and full mouth and the sharp line of his nose. Our eyes meet, and even with the carefully guarded wariness I see there, I think it would take an approaching semi truck to get me to look away.
Connor gives me a quiet “Hey” before he steps back, letting me in.
“Hey,” I say when he turns to face me, shutting the door behind us. The air between us warps with heat. I want to sink to my knees and worship him. I have never in my life felt such attraction or such devotion.
“I’m glad you were up,” I say, breathless—I hope from excitement and not the jog up eight steps to his porch.
“Sorry, I had my phone on silent.”
“It’s okay.” I can’t catch my breath. Bending, I put my hands on my knees, sucking in air. “Sorry, I think I’m just nervous.” I straighten, finally getting my bearings. I’ve written this scene a thousand times but, wow, it is way scarier to live it. “I have two things I want to say,” I tell him.
“Okay.” He swallows, lifting his chin. “Let’s go sit.”
An excellent plan: apologies first, confessions second, sex third.
I lead us into the living room and sit in the middle of the couch, patting the space beside me. He eyes it for a beat before sitting, but it’s hard to miss the way it feels like he’s trying to keep as much distance between us as he can.