“Tradition after a win,” Conor explains, his eyes never leaving mine. “You game?”
"Absolutely,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. The last thing I want is for this night to end.
Slice Heaven is only two blocks away, a cozy pizzeria with red checkered tablecloths and Edison bulbs hanging from exposed beams. The team claims a long table in the back, and I find myself seated beside Conor, our knees occasionally brushing under the table in a way that sends little jolts through my system.
As pitchers of beer are distributed and massive pizzas arrive, the conversation flows easily. I learn that Jess used to be a professional dancer before moving into marketing, that Raj has five sisters and can braid hair better than anyone on the team, and that the quiet woman named Mei is actually a champion poker player in her spare time.
But it’s Conor I’m most fascinated by. He listens intently to everyone, remembering details about their lives that demonstrate his genuine care. He deflectsquestions about his success with self-deprecating humor. How his eyes crinkle at the corners when he really laughs.
Halfway through the dinner, I catch myself staring at Conor’s hands as he gesticulates during a story about a disastrous investor pitch. They’re strong hands, capable, with neatly trimmed nails and a light dusting of dark hair across the knuckles. I wonder how they’d feel against my skin, then quickly chase the thought away with a large gulp of beer.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath warm against my ear. “You went quiet."
“Just enjoying the show,” I say, nodding toward Raj, who’s now demonstrating how he had to crawl through an air duct during a college prank gone wrong.
Conor studies me for a moment longer than necessary, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You’re a terrible liar, Betsy Miller."
“And you’re very observant, Conor Campbell."
“Only about things that interest me.” His voice drops lower, meant just for me despite the noisy restaurant.
Heat blooms across my chest and up my neck. I reach for my water glass to hide my reaction, but my fingers fumble, sending it tipping toward his lap. Conor catches it with impressive reflexes, our hands colliding in the process.
“Sorry,” I mutter, mortified.
“Don’t be.” He rights the glass, his fingers lingering against mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to hold your hand all night.”
The directness of his statement knocks the breath from my lungs. This is nothing like the games Devon played,the constant guessing, the deliberate withholding. Conor’s honesty is as refreshing as it is terrifying.
“That’s... forward of you,” I manage.
“Too forward?” His confidence wavers, and I find I like this glimpse of vulnerability even more than his self-assurance.
“No,” I admit. “Just unexpected.”
The relief in his smile makes something twist pleasantly in my stomach. Under the table, his knee presses more deliberately against mine, and I don't move away.
The evening winds down gradually, team members peeling off in twos and threes until only Conor, Jess, Raj, and I remain. When Jess yawns widely enough to crack her jaw, Raj offers to share an Uber with her.
“Looks like that’s our cue,” Conor says, throwing down enough cash to cover more than his share of the bill. “Can I drive you home?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility.
“Yes,” I say simply.
The night air has cooled considerably when we step outside, and I shiver in my light jacket. Without a word, Conor shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over my shoulders. The fabric is still warm from his body, carrying that same intoxicating scent of sandalwood and cedar.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, though I’m genuinely touched by the gesture.
“My mother would haunt me from the grave if I let a woman shiver when I could do something about it.” His hand finds the small of my back again as we walk, guiding me through a group of rowdy college students spilling out of a nearby bar.
The streets of Brooklyn are never truly quiet, but there’s a different energy now—more intimate somehow, as if the city is settling in for the night. Headlights sweep across us as cars pass, momentarily illuminating Conor’s profile. I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the slight bump in his nose that suggests it was broken once.
“See something you like?” he asks without looking at me, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Maybe.” I pull his jacket tighter around me. “I’m trying to figure you out."
“What’s to figure out? I’m an open book."
