“I’m not acochon,” I say forcefully.
His eyebrows dip. “A what?”
“A pig. I’m not a pig. Mère used to say?—”
Connor interrupts. “Wait, you don’t know what a guinea pig is, do you?” He chuckles like I’m adorable and goes on to explain that the cute furry animal is also a term to mean we’ll be Hildie’s test subjects.
“Now, I have put the sauces in these cups for you to try. Obviously, we can’t make the mini pretzels right at this moment, but next time you come in, we’ll have them ready. I’m sure that a big man like this can handle a couple of jumbo pretzels on his own, so I’m not worried about them going to waste.” She nudges Connor with her elbow as she sets everything on a tray.
Connor and I sit at an empty bistro table on the other side of the bakery. The surface overflows with pretzels and sauces. Connor’s knees bump up against mine. That same thrilling flare as when he took my hand bursts through me. There is no escaping the contact because there isn’t anywhere else for him to put his long legs. So we remain here, knees pressed together.
Does he even realize it? Does he feel the same way I do?
Never mind those questions. More importantly, why do I feel this way?
Hildie brings us napkins. “I’ll have to come up with a clever way to arrange all the items, but in the meantime, I hope you two enjoy these treats as much as you so obviously enjoy each other’s company.”
With a private smirk, as if he ate up her comments, Connor says, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Hildie, I am not a guinea pig and we are not a couple,” I say politely.
The corners of the older woman’s lips curl up. “Oh, you’re not a coupleyet?” I don’t like the way she emphasizes the last word.
Before I can explain, the door jingles with customers.
“See? I am enjoyable,” Connor says with all the swagger of a gentleman and not a caveman.
I exhale through my nose. “I was going to say, who are you and what did you do with Connor Wolfe, but I see you are still here, as hateable as ever.”
His knees press against mine as he stares hungrily—whether at me or the pretzels, I’m not sure. “You keep telling yourself that, Cat.” He lets out a low chuckle and digs in.
19
CATELINE
Connor tears off a piece of the plain pretzel like a starved beast and plunges it into the dipping sauce. “Oh, that’s delicious,” he says around a mouthful.
I cringe. “Manners, Mr. Wolfe.”
He goes still and then sits up straighter. “My apologies.”
Swiftly moving on, I say, “The meet and greet was great. I didn’t realize there were so many fans in Concordia.”
He wears a genuine and appreciative smile. “Football is played professionally in the United States, but it’s a global passion held by many.”
“Many rowdy and rough people who enjoy watching men pummel each other.” I mean for it to come off as a joke, but it sounds like an insult.
Connor’s brow furrows and his expression drops slightly. “It’s so much more than that. What? Is it not civilized enough for you?”
“The truth is, I hardly know a thing about it. Enlighten me.” I prop an elbow on the table and rest my chin on my hand, hoping to rescue myself from the near-verbal penalty.
Connor gives me a thorough education on all things related to the sport.
Ordinarily, this would put me to sleep, but Connor’s obvious enthusiasm for the game engages me. His smooth Appalachian accent deepens as he tells me about Rylen, the running back, Chase, the quarterback, Grey, the linebacker, Declan, the wide receiver, and a bunch of the other players.
He describes training, workouts, and game day.
When we’ve eaten all the pretzels, he stops and says, “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? Boring you probably.”
