With me.
He almost chokes on his lasagna and reaches for his wine glass, chugging what’s left to wash it down.
Shit. Did I say that last part out loud? I really need to learn how to keep my inner monologue on the inside.
“I’m not in the market for a fuck buddy at the moment, either.”
My heart rate slows down a hair. If I said the last bit out loud, and if he heard me, he’s not acknowledging it. Which suits me just fine. Two can play the avoidance game.
“Why not?” I press. Just because I dodged a bullet doesn’t mean I’m abandoning the subject. I just have to be more careful about what comes out of my mouth. I push away my half-full wine glass and hop off my stool to get some water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Can’t be too cautious.
He cuts himself another healthy-sized square of lasagna and refills his wine glass, apparently not as concerned with committing an alcohol-induced slip of the lip as I am. “Are we seriously talking about this?”
“It’ll be quicker and far less painful if you answer and get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid.”
He shoots me a skeptical look over the rim of his glass but answers anyway. “Would you believe me if I said I prefer to get to know a girl before sleeping with her?”
“So go out. Get to know one.” Or two. Or ten. Who am I to judge what he’s into?
Then again, he could always stay in and get to know the one who’s sleeping in the next bedroom...
I give myself a mental bitch slap. I promised him I’d be Blue-Man-Group level quiet. Unobtrusive. Practically invisible. Not some creepy stalker who wants to play hide the cannoli.
Connor stares longingly at his lasagna. “You make it sound so easy.”
He says it so low I almost don’t hear him. And even though I did—each word, soft but distinct—I’m having a hard time believing what I think he’s saying. “Are you telling me you have trouble meeting women?”
“Not trouble, exactly. I just find the whole dating scene—distasteful. All the women at the club see is my money. And status. The whole on line thing is ridiculous. Nobody is who or what they say they are. And don’t even get me started on apps like Tinder and Bumble. They’re a whole new level of cringeworthy. I’m not some sex-obsessed swinger like my—”
He cuts himself off, but it doesn’t take a mind reader to know where he’s going. I might have only been in elementary school at the time, but I remember overhearing my parents speaking in hushed tones after they thought Jake and I were asleep, whispering about “that douchebag Vincent Dow”—my father’s words—and how he was “screwing around on his sick wife” with a woman barely ten years older than his twelve-year-old son.
That relationship didn’t last—big surprise—but from the pictures I’ve seen of Connor’s dad in gossip mags—he’s some big-shot mystery/thriller writer, but I’m a happily-ever-after kind of gal so that suspense-y stuff is totally not my jam—his appetite for pretty young things hasn’t diminished over the years.
“How did you meet Giselle, then?” I ask, sensing Connor needs to be jolted out of his melancholy introspection.
He reaches for his wine glass, and I don’t blame him for needing a little liquid courage to deal with the shit that thinking of his dad must stir up. “Like I said, we were at Columbia together. But truth be told, I probably never would have gotten up the nerve to speak to her in the first place if it wasn’t for Jake.”
I arch a brow at him. “Do I want to hear this story? Or is it going to gross me out? Remember, that’s my flesh and blood you’re talking about. I don’t want to know if you were dating his sloppy seconds.”
“Give me a little credit. I’m not that desperate.” He takes one last bite of lasagna and pushes the half-eaten square away. “Jake convinced me to go to this frat party with him. Giselle was there. He saw me gawking at her, dragged me over, and forced me to introduce myself.”
“Now I get it. Jake’s your Angelica Schuyler. Or he was, until he and Ainsley got together.” With my brother off the market and spending every free second with Ainsley, Connor’s lost his wingman. He needs someone to help bring him out of his sexy shell.
“My what?”
I gape at him incredulously. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seenHamilton.”
“Who’s got the time? Or an in to get tickets. Aren’t they sold out for months?”
“I’ve got a friend in the ensemble. I could hook you up with house seats.” They’re pricey, but he can afford them.
“Will that help me understand why Jake’s my—what’s her name?”
“Angelica Schuyler. She’s the one who fixed her sister Eliza up with Hamilton, her eventual husband.” At great personal sacrifice, I might add. If you believe the musical, and the book it’s based on, Angelica had the hots for good old Alexander herself. But she stepped aside to ensure her sister’s happiness, even knowing it meant she’d never be satisfied.
Kind of like I’m about to do now. Because as much as I’d like to keep my brother’s super smexy best friend all to myself, I know that’s a recipe for disaster. And not only because of the whole brother’s-best-friend-and-business-partner thing. I’ve got a pretty good feeling we’d be combustible in the bedroom, but out of it, we’re like oil and water. He’s serious. I’m silly. He’s into health food. I’m a junk food junkie. He’s firmly planted in the Big Apple. I’m a rolling stone, going wherever my work takes me.
See what I’m talking about? Oil and water. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’re pretty much polar opposites in every conceivable way.
