Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“They’re teammates. That’s different.”
“What about Kodiak Bowman?” Kodiak and his wife attended Tristan and Rix’s wedding this past summer.
Connor makes a noise but doesn’t disagree.
I hug his arm and tip my chin up. He bends to give me his ear again. “I think you’re so used to being the scapegoat that you’ve forgotten you can be something else.”
His expression turns wry. “What are you, an inspirational calendar?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, fuck you.”
His grin turns lascivious. “As I’ve mentioned, I’m happy to write that into our agreement anytime.”
Henrick clears his throat.
I drop Connor’s arm and put a few inches of space between us.
Henrick’s face has turned red. “Your private tasting session is through here.” He motions to a set of doors.
We follow him into a small room where a table has been set for two. Low lighting and flickering candles give it a romantic air. Connor steps up before the waitstaff can and tucks my chair in, then takes his own.
Two servers put our napkins in our laps and pour us water, then offer us a selection of handcrafted cocktails. I opt for a lavender-rose gimlet, and Connor declines, noting that he’s the driver. The servers bring out the first course, which is a decadent lobster bisque, drizzled with lemon butter and garnished with tarragon. Next is fresh pear and walnut salad on a bed of baby greens, sprinkled with gorgonzola cheese, including a vegan option for those who don’t consume dairy. Every course looks like art and tastes divine.
Connor samples each item wearing the same intense expression. It’s hot, but also, it defeats the purpose of this adventure.
When we have a moment to ourselves, I lean forward. “Isn’t this supposed to be fun?”
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
I motion to the crab-stuffed mushroom caps. “This is probably the best food I’ve ever tasted, and you’re over there looking like you’re being graded on your table manners.”
His jaw tenses, and his gaze shifts to the side.
My smile fades, and I sit up straighter. “Oh my gosh, were you actually graded on your table manners?”
Last year when we spent Christmas Eve with Roman, eating Thai takeout, I was entirely too fascinated by his impeccable table manners. Especially when I was used to Flip and the way he protects his food like someone’s going to steal it before he can finish. Connor is meticulous to the point of being rigid. But maybe it’s not because he wants to be. Maybe that’s how he has to be.
“My father kept a wooden spoon on the table,” he admits.
I glance at his elegant hands, his knuckles scarred in places. I assumed hockey was the culprit, but maybe I’m wrong. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He forces a smile. “Good table manners were an expectation in my house, and I always had to learn everything the hard way.”
“It’s not fine, Connor.” I cover his hand with mine as a long-buried memory surfaces, and for some reason, I feel compelled to share it with him. Maybe so he doesn’t feel alone? “One of the foster homes I stayed in briefly was very…strict. Especially with portion control. It was…tough.” We were always hungry. It made us feral. Unruly. Punishable. “On my first day, one of the boys tried to sneak an extra roll, and the foster dad hit him so hard the wooden spoon and the boy’s hand broke.”
His name was Wyatt. He’d been eight at the time, and I’d been seven. By then the number of foster homes I’d been to was nearing double digits.
Connor’s fingers close around mine, voice low and gritty. “How long were you there?”
“I made sure I was enough of a problem that they got rid of me almost right away.” Bad behavior could be effective, but it often came with painful consequences. Sometimes they were worth it, but not always. By the time I was eight, I’d learned that saying the right thing in front of the right person could be just as good a way to escape the bad stuff.
“I did the same,” he whispers. “But they never really got rid of me.”
“Lucky for me, I guess.” Our worlds are so different, but now I know it’s true—underneath we’re the same. Broken. Discarded by the people who were supposed to love us the most. But Connor has been turned into a villain, and I became a savior. Maybe even now I’m becoming his. Would it be so bad to have my own villain? To be a soft place for him to land?
“More for me, I think.”
I shake my head. “Always so content to be the bad guy.”
“I’m good at it.”
“You’re not the only one.” I move my chair so I’m beside him, shove all my silverware into a pile, and prop my elbows on the table.
He laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound.
The server brings the next course, and his eyes go wide at the mess the table has become. He steps in to fix the silverware.