Page 8 of Playing the Player

I don’t doubt that.

“Do you think Olliepop would like this?” Conor asks me, holding up the ugliest vase I have ever seen. It’s shaped like an abstract swan. Or possibly a melted teapot. Honestly, I’m not sure.

I stare at the vase and then at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. It has character.”

“It has trauma.” I deadpan and Conor laughs, gently placing it back on the shelf where it belongs. Well actually, I think it would be better suited to a dumpster.

“Why do you want to get her something anyway?” I ask as we continue down the aisle.

He looks at me like I’ve just asked the most stupid question imaginable. “Because she just pushed a human out of her vagina. That deserves a gift.”

I cringe at his unnecessary words, “What is wrong with you?” He blinks down at me, confused. “Do you not have a filter between your brain and your mouth?”

For the briefest moment, Conor’s smile disappears. Embarrassment flickers across his face before his usual grin slips back into place. “Sorry, Angel. The brain to mouth filter has now been activated.”

I roll my eyes at his sad attempt at a joke. It was a terrible joke. Awful. And that makes it even more irritating that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. “Just come on.” I say, nudging his shoulder and walking out of the shop doors.

We wandered through shop after shop for what felt like hours and neither of us bought a single thing. By the time we’d circled the mall for what had to be the fifth time, my feet were screaming in protest inside my work heels and my stomach had progressed from quietly grumbling to plotting my murder.

“You hungry?” Conor asks, his gaze trained on where I’m absent-mindedly rubbing my stomach.

“A little.”

“Wanna get dinner?”

I gape at him, before quickly schooling my features. “What, like a date?”

The corner of Conor’s mouth lifts in amusement. “If you want it to be a date, then it’s a date.”

I want to say yes. My mind is screaming at me to say yes. But I can’t. I like Conor, more than I care to admit, but I’m still not over everything that has happened with Max. It wouldn’t be fair to start something to someone when half of my heart was still healing from the last person who broke it.

“Yes to dinner.” I eventually tell him. “But it’s not a date. Perfectly platonic.”

“Platonic, huh? I suppose I can settle with that,” he says, that cheeky grin back on his face, making butterflies erupt in my stomach. “For now.”

I ignore his comment, changing the subject so he can’t see how much he affects me. My palms are sweaty and my heart rate has picked up its pace.

“You weren’t really gonna go shopping today, were you?” I ask him.

He laughs, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. “What gave me away?”

“Well, you barely looked at anything.”

“Fair.”

“And you have somehow picked out all the cutest outfits for Bella without my help.”

He chuckles again, the sound hitting me in the chest. “I suppose I do okay on my own.”

“Then why did you drag me around every store in Florida?”

His smile fades, his eyes momentarily clouding. “I needed a distraction.” I want to ask from what, but we’re not there yet. Whatever is weighing on him belongs to him until he decides otherwise.

“Did it work?” I ask, instead.

His eyes find mine, the sadness washing away with just one look. “Yeah, Angel. It worked.”