Or call out the bull when someone tries to pull a fast one on me?
Argue with Lexi when I can no longer hear each subtle nuance and emotion underlying her words? Miss making her breath catch when I lean in close . . . Her laughs, her vexation, her sass, her moans . . .
It changes the entire game.
Adapting to this doesn’t sit right. Sure, people are born with hearing problems and lead great lives—I respect that. But this feels like it’s tearing away part of me.
My whole persona—my success, my charm, my authority—it’s all tied to how I communicate. If my hearing goes and I have to relearn how to connect with people, then what? Who am I without those tools?
Right now, I hear everything. The doctor’s voice, a car backing up outside, someone coughing in the hallway. All these sounds I’ve always just ignored, and now they hit differently. Hanging out with Killian, cracking up at stupid movies with Teagan, blasting music. Even the everyday stuff—the delivery guy, office chatter, the toaster.
The background audio of normal life I never appreciated before.
All those daily sounds I never truly heard until now.
If I can keep hearing them just as they are, I’ll be grateful every damn day going forward. No amount of money in the world can buy back something so vital once it’s taken away.
THIRTY-FOUR
Lexi
The moment I spot the sleek black sports car cruising down my street, my first thought is Deano, despite Connor’s assurance that he’s handled it. I pick up the pace, eyeing our run-down building longingly and wishing there were a handy manhole on this block I could disappear into.
As the car’s dark tinted window slides down, my heart skips for a completely different reason. Connor’s piercing eyes catch mine from the driver’s seat.
“Lexi, hold up.”
I halt reluctantly, bristling with nerves. “What are you doing here?”
He matches my pace, the engine humming softly. “Get in.”
I bristle at his entitled command. “Um sorry, what? Why?”
It doesn’t take long for passersby to start rubbernecking at the sight of Mr. Moneybags trailing me in his luxury ride.
When I remain glued to the sidewalk and don’t immediately swoon into his passenger seat, he scrubs a tense hand over his stubbled jaw. “C’mon, just get in. Give a guy five minutes here.”
“Don’t answer a question with an order,” I snap back, gripping my bag tighter and picking up my pace. Like hell am I inthe mood for more emotional whiplash from him. “I’m not going to jump in just because you say so.”
Even in a T-shirt and ballcap, he’s unfairly attractive behind that expensive wheel. I staunchly ignore my pulse’s opinion on the matter.
“Lexi, wait.” His tone softens slightly, almost like he’s just realized I’m not one of his people to order around. “I just want to talk, that’s all. Please.” He must be trying to give politeness a test drive.
“I’m pretty sure we covered it all, Connor. If this is about the care funds, I appreciate it, but my stance hasn’t changed.”
“It’s not about the cash. Just get in before someone thinks I’m stalking you and calls the cops. We’re drawing attention.”
I let out an irritated huff. “If you didn’t insist on trailing me in your flashy sports car, we wouldn’t have drawn a crowd.”
Seeing Connor again is like stirring up a cocktail of feelings I do not want to deal with.
Why does he keep inserting himself back into my life after making it abundantly clear nothing real is possible for us?
I just want us to go our separate ways already. I need things to be calm and predictable, not this emotional rollercoaster he keeps dragging me onto.
I can almost hear that podcast psychologist’s “helpful” dating advice echoing in my mind. Guys like Connor are all about power plays. I refused his offer of help and now here he is, likely trying to reassert his dominance over the situation.
“Lexi.”
