There’sahardsetto his jaw and a line between his brows. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, and there’s something sullen about the way his top lip rests on the bottom. His gaze is piercing. Pissed off. His eyes are as blue as they are arresting. Captivating and a little concerning. At least, it would be concerning if not for the intense vulnerability written all over him. There’s something so forlorn in his expression that the light that should be shining from him is dampened. Tiny cracks, clearly visible in a stony façade. Deep gouges in a surface that should be solid.
He’s sad, I realize. And he’s angry about it.
He’s complicated and confusing.
It’s strange. I often get a read on people when I meet them, but not like this. I usually don’t see or feel this much at once.
As he stands on my threshold, his scowl deepens, and despite everything, despite the rage and the sorrow, despite the slant of his chin and the way he’s looking at me, one thing stands outabove everything else. He is, without doubt, the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
If this were before, and I was still in mylife’s all about meera, I’d be flustered by him.
But it isn’t. And I’m not.
I look him dead in the eyes and smile. His shoulders tense visibly, as though I’ve shocked him somehow. He freezes for a split second, and though the scowl remains firmly in place, I notice tiny striations lighting up.
His eyes soften, and soften again.
He looks at me like someone who needs a lifeline.
I know the feeling better than most, so I throw him one.
“Lennon, right?” Two seconds tick by, then he nods. “I’m Connor.”
“Connor.” His voice is wispy and uncertain. Hesitant and hoarse. He says my name like a question more than a statement of fact. “It’s…nice to meet you.”
I hold my hand out, and he takes it. I expect his handshake to be firm. Unforgiving. A brazen attempt to send a message. I’m right about all that, but what I’m not expecting, what I’m not ready for, what shocks the unholy shit out of me, is what happens when we touch.
My joints lock.
My fingers clamp tightly around his.
A flash of heat rushes up my arm and fucks with my heart.
11
Lennon
“Sothat’sprettymuchit,” Connor says once he’s shown me the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and the bedroom that’s on offer.
For good measure, he shows me his bedroom too. He goes into his room. I don’t. I stand in the doorway and crane my neck as I give it a once-over. I’m not sure why he’s showing me his room, but I suspect it’s an attempt to sell me on the apartment. An attempt to show me what can be done with four walls, a ceiling, and a little imagination.
The apartment is small and boxy. The rooms are exactly as big as they need to be to fit the necessary furniture and not an inch bigger. The space has been designed to be functional above all else. It should be entirely lacking in character, but it isn’t. There’s a ton of art on the walls, and the shelves dotted here and there are all groaning with things. Small things, big things, interesting things that don’t go together but somehow stillmanage to look curated. Antique trinkets and vintage objects that tell a story.
It’s nothing like what I was expecting.
I expected bland. Beige, with a family or team photo here or there. Photos in those basic black frames you get in bargain bins or reject stores. I expected a jock-approved blue quilt on his bed. Maybe blue tartan, or a broad stripe, at a push. Instead, I’m faced with this: a nice rug on the floor, a jewel-toned kantha on the bed, and a large, sensual painting hanging over it.
The painting is good, and that upsets me.
He isn’t supposed to have good taste.
The whole apartment is such a stark contrast to what I imagined that it throws me completely. I have less of a clue now about what to say or how to behave than I did when I arrived, and that’s saying something.
I sure as shit didn’t know what to say or how to behave when I got here.
I follow him back down the hall to the kitchen, taking care not to get too close to him. The kitchen is a small room that looks more or less like it should, except for the charm lent to it by jars of spices and preserves arranged on an open shelf and the large container with an assortment of wooden spoons and spatulas.
He offers me a soda, and I take it, mainly to stop myself from asking where he keeps his fabric softener.
