Текст книги "Taking Connor"

Автор книги: B. N. Toler

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“You, in no way, did that man justice when you described him to me on the phone the other day,” Wendy murmurs, before sipping her coffee.

Ignoring her as I don’t want to discuss just how attractive Connor is, I ask, “Where’s Jeff?”

“Shower,” she answers simply. Standing, she grabs a piece of bacon off the paper plate near the stove where I’m cooking.

“Would you like to help me here or is this like a vacation for you?”

“Vacation?” she snorts. “I’m away from my kids. This is like staying at a five-star resort.”

“Demi!” An all too familiar voice yells as the sound of the screen door to the back porch squeaks open and slams closed.

“In the kitchen,” I huff, realizing this morning is going to be anything but relaxing. Poor Connor is going to get the full brunt of just how overbearing and nosey my family is.

Lexi, my baby sister, strolls in the kitchen, giant sunglasses covering her eyes that undoubtedly are red and smeared with makeup as she recovers from a massive hangover.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her as I fork another piece of bacon on the plate.

“I was on my way home from a friend’s house,” she mumbles as she pulls a coffee mug from the cabinet and begins pouring herself a cup.

“Did you manage to get out before he woke up and asked for your number?” Wendy grins from where she sits at the kitchen table. Lexi’s mouth pops open as if she’s insulted.

“Are you implying I was leaving a one night stand?”

“Not implying,” Wendy clarifies.

Lexi snaps her mouth shut and shrugs. “It went something like that.” Plopping down on the chair next to Wendy, she asks, “So where’s the jailbird?”

“Shhh!” I hiss at her. “He’ll be down any minute and don’t say shit like that in front of him.”

“He just got out of jail,” Lexi yawns. “What else do we have to talk about with him? Politics? World news?”

“Lexi, I swear if you make him feel uncomfortable I’ll tell Mom you’re having sex with anything that has a penis!” I threaten.

“Morning,” a deep voice calls and I nearly jump out of my skin when I realize it’s Connor. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a fitted black T-shirt, showcasing his muscular body. It takes a moment before I realize I’m staring at him, my eyes tracing each of the intricate tattoos that run down his arms.

“M-morning,” I stutter. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good, thanks.” There’s an awkward beat of silence as the two of us just stare at one another until Lexi clears her throat.

Standing, she approaches holding her hand out like she’s some kind of Southern debutante.

“You must be Connor,” she states the obvious and offers her hand politely as he takes her it and shakes it awkwardly. Something tells me he’s not used to polite ladies—not that Lexi is one. “I’m Lexi, Demi’s younger sister.” I cut my eyes to Wendy, who just chuckles behind her coffee mug. She loves to point out she’s the younger one.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Connor replies with a kind smile before his gaze darts back to me. “Mind if I wash up?”

“Not at all. I left a towel and washcloth in there if you want to shower.”

“Thanks.” When he’s left us, I realize the kitchen is silent, and I’ve been staring at his back as he walked down the hallway. When I look to Lexi, her mouth is hanging open, and she’s watching me. Even with her sunglasses on, I know her eyes are bugging out.

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” Lexi hisses as she seizes my arm and drags me to the table forcing me to sit. “How about we start with Mr. Gives-Me-Lady-Wood-Just-Looking-At-Him, huh?” I look at Wendy and see she’s pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

“What about him?” I ask, stupidly. There’s no denying Connor is extremely attractive in a rugged and dangerous kind of way. But I refuse to talk about it with Lexi.

“Really?” she asks in disbelief. “You want to play dumb?”

“Here it comes,” Wendy snorts.

“I’m just going to say it, and you can’t be mad at me for saying it.” Lexi warns, and I cringe internally. She’s always been so crass, and I love it about her sometimes, but other times she literally makes me ill with her verbal diarrhea. “Your husband died, Demi, not your vagina. Don’t you dare act like he doesn’t affect you.”

Groaning, I stand and return to the counter. As I begin cracking eggs into a bowl I argue, “Not everyone’s world revolves around sex, Lexi.”

“Okay,” she sighs in defeat. “I mean, if you’re not interested, you mind if I take a bite?” My stomach knots at the thought.

“Yes, I do,” I toss the shell I’m holding in my hand in the sink and turn back to her. “Leave him be, Lexi. Please. He’s Blake’s cousin, and I don’t want things getting weird because you unleashed your crazy on him.”

“My crazy?” She feigns offense as a small smile curves her lips. Leaning her chair back, she looks down at her crotch and says, “You hear what she just called you? That’s okay. You are crazy,” she coos. “Crazy good.”

“Are you seriously talking to your vagina?” I ask in disbelief. Wendy is absolutely no help to me at all. She’s watching us banter, red-faced and laughing.

“You hurt its feelings,” Lexi pouts as she meets my gaze, her expression serious. “Say you’re sorry.”

My sister is nuts and even though she’s extremely immature and inappropriate, I can’t help but laugh a little. “Not a chance.”

“Fine,” she huffs as she leans her chair forward again. “But that was mean. So, seriously? I can’t make a move on him?”

“He’s off limits. I mean it.”

As I turn back to my bowl of eggs, Lexi murmurs to Wendy, “I wonder if his dick is big.”

Whipping around I hold up my whisk and warn, “If you breathe another word I’m going to beat you with this—”

“Hey, Connor,” Wendy chimes. “You showered quickly. Have a seat, breakfast is almost ready.” I glare at Lexi as she grins from ear to ear, before returning to my bowl.

As I whisk the eggs, I feel a hand on the small of my back. “Can I help you with anything, Demi?” His touch affects me. Damn it, I don’t want it to, but it does. But then I wonder, is it his touch, or just because I haven’t been touched by a man in so long? Or have I forgotten the difference between an unwanted touch and a wanted one.

“Thanks, but I’m almost done,” I manage after a moment. “Coffee mugs are in that up there,” I jut my chin toward the cabinet above the coffee maker. “And there’s juice in the fridge.”

“Morning,” Jeff grumbles as he meanders in and takes the seat next to Wendy. When I turn to acknowledge him, he’s staring at the table, avoiding eye contact with me at all costs. Damn, he’s making this weird.

“Jeff,” I call, darting my eyes to Wendy, who’s smirking, before darting them back to him. He still doesn’t look at me. “Jeff,” I say, louder. He doesn’t raise his head but lifts his gaze to mine. “You don’t have to make this weird, okay. It was . . . awkward, yes, but we’re family.”

“Wait,” Lexi interrupts. “What’d I miss?”

“Little mishap. Demi lost her towel and was naked, Jeff ended up on top of her,” Wendy explains nonchalantly as if it’s no big deal.

Lexi, who just sipped her coffee, barely manages to spit it back in her cup. “What?” she chokes out.

“Long story. It was a crazy night last night,” Wendy adds. “Poor Connor probably thinks we’re all nutjobs.”

Connor gives an easy smile from where he stands leaned against the kitchen sink. “No, not nut jobs. But it did scare the hell out of me.”

“Okay, I need to know what’s going on,” Lexi demands.

Wendy explains in more detail what transpired last night, and Lexi sits back in her chair with her eyes fixed on Connor. “Well aren’t you a knight and shining armor? Running in here, ready to protect Demi.”

Her words have so much more meaning. Well, it’s not even the words, it’s the way she says them that causes everyone in the room to feel uncomfortable. Or makes me feel uncomfortable, I’m pretty sure no one else is paying attention to her.

“I heard her scream,” Connor mumbles, after sipping his coffee. “I think anyone would’ve come running to help.”

“Okay,” I interrupt, desperate to change the subject as I lay a plate of scrambled eggs on the table. “Breakfast is ready.” We all sit and enjoy the meal together. Of course, Lexi leaves immediately afterward, feigning a headache, and Wendy and Jeff leave claiming his mother has already called his cell four times wondering when they’ll be home. None of them help with the dishes.

I walk Wendy to the car and hug her goodbye. When I return to the kitchen, Connor is standing at the sink washing dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

His mouth curves as he rinses a dish, “It’s the least I can do.”

I start clearing the table, and when I finish, I dry the dishes he’s washed. “Does it feel weird to be out?”

His mouth quirks to the side before he answers, “It feels . . . a little overwhelming. But I’m happy to be out.”

“Would you like to go into town and visit Grams today? I know she’s dying to see you.” Grams is Blake and Connor’s grandmother. She lives in an assisted living facility in town.

“You don’t have work today?” he asks, surprised.

“Summer break, so my days are way shorter. I took a few days off to help you settle in.”

He doesn’t respond to that, just keeps washing the plate in his hands, before handing it to me. “Actually, could we go in a few days?” he finally asks. “I’d like to get myself . . . get things a little more situated before I see her.”

“Sure.” I shrug.

He lets out a breath and releases. “This is embarrassing, but my parole officer has to come by here and validate t?” his as my place of residence. Plus, my place of employment is here, I guess. He’ll probably need to validate that, too. I’m sorry, Demi,” he apologizes, not looking to me. His expression reads shame.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Connor,” I assure him. “I want to help you. If you want to start a new life, live free and happy, I’m happy to help you start that life.”

“That’s all I want,” he admits. “So . . . we’ll see Grams in a few days?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” I smile. “She’s going to be thrilled to see you.”

“I can’t wait either.” The softest of smiles lights up his face. It’s obvious he loves his grandmother when the mere thought of her puts a grin like that on his face.

When we finish the dishes, he wipes the counters down and before he leaves, says, “I’m going to work on the bike for a bit, and then I’ll go into town to get the parts I need to fix your car.”

“I’ll pay you, Connor,” I tell him.

“No, you won’t,” he adds. “I know I probably seem like a worthless mooch right now. I mean, I know you only welcomed me here because it’s what Blake wanted,” he corrects himself.

“No—”

“But I fully intend to pull my weight, Demi,” he interrupts. “I will repay you for all of this. And I’ll get my own place as soon as I can.”

I hate that he’s right in a sense. I am only doing this for Blake. Or at least I was. But something about his proclamation touches me. And maybe it’s only been a day, but I believe Connor. I believe he wants a new start a new life. And maybe it was Blake who mapped all this out, but I’m the one that’s here right now. I’m the one that can help this man find the life he wants. Why shouldn’t I try to help him wholeheartedly?

Walking up to him, meeting his gaze head on, I say, “This is your home now, too. You’re welcome here as long as you need or want to be here. In fact, it’ll be nice to have someone around. It can get a little lonely.” I can’t help frowning with the admission. It has been terribly lonely in this house since Blake passed away. When I move my eyes to Connor again, his mouth is in a flat line, his brows furrowed slightly in sympathy for me.

I take a deep breath and smile, fighting the melancholy I feel. “And yes, Blake set all of this up, every single thing,” I admit. “But Connor, I want to help you.”

He moves his eyes to the floor and swallows before quietly saying, “Thank you.”

Deciding it’s time to move on from the heavy, I change the subject. “I appreciate you working on the car for me, Connor. I’ll probably head to the store before you get started on it and before it gets too warm. Any special requests?”

“What’s your favorite meal?”

“Mine?” I question, surprised, as I slide a plate into the cabinet next to me.

“Yes. Yours. I’d like to cook dinner for you. Part of a huge thank you that I owe you.” I can’t help smiling even though he’s not looking at me. “I’ll cook for you Tuesday night if that works for you.”

“That would be nice.” And it would be. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked a meal for me. “My favorite meal, hmm . . . let’s see. Roasted duck with plum sauce.” Connor freezes and turns his head to me, his mouth twisted to the side. I try to fight it, but my laughter bubbles up and bursts from my mouth. “Spaghetti,” I chuckle as I toss the dishtowel at him. “I absolutely love spaghetti.”

He lets out a huge sigh of relief and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank goodness.” His hand rubs his head. “I was going to be in deep shit if I had to make roasted duck.”

“Your face was priceless,” I laugh again, heat blanketing my face as I do.

“What in the hell is plum sauce?” he questions as he shakes his head.

“I have no idea. It sounds disgusting.”

“Dinner tomorrow night then?” he chuckles, and I can’t help but notice how deep and real it sounds. He heads for the backdoor and stops, waiting for my confirmation.

“Sounds good.”

“Your sister says he’s covered head to toe in tattoos!” My mother practically shrieks at me.

I grit my teeth, threatening Lexi’s life in my head. No doubt she called my mother immediately after she left my house this morning, foaming at the mouth to tell her about Connor. Now, Gladys will be distracted with me and stop lecturing Lexi on what happens to loose women. FYI: they grow old, and their vaginas get saggy—according to Gladys. My mother, the wisest woman in all the land.

Holding my cell phone between my shoulder and ear as I push the grocery cart through the store, I reach up and grab two cans of spaghetti sauce. “Mom, you have to calm down. Yes, Connor was in prison, but he was Blake’s cousin. Do you really think Blake would do anything to put me in danger?”

“You didn’t have to move him in with you,” she argues, not answering my question.

“He’s not living with me. He lives in the apartment over the garage.”

“Do not give him a key to your house.”

“Mom, drop it,” I warn, having lost my patience. “You haven’t met him. You have no idea who he is.”

“And neither do you.”

On that point, I can’t argue. And if I’m honest with myself, the same stereotypes about felons still cross my mind even though Connor seems to be different. I never got explicit details from Blake about who Connor hurt or why. I asked once or twice, but Blake would always divert and change the subject. I summed it up as he was afraid I would think less of Connor if I knew, so I stopped asking. Be that as it may while my mother’s fear mongering rattles in my brain, something inside me, somewhere deep where that gut feeling takes over, is telling me that Connor is so much more than anyone could ever assume.

“I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” I hang up quickly and toss the phone in my purse. My mother is as uptight as they come. She’s your classic overbearing, anal-retentive, know it all. Clenching my eyes closed, I raise my head and say softly in front standing in the middle of the bread aisle, “Lord, please grant me the strength I need to be patient with my mother and not kill her.”

“Peace be with you, child,” a deep voice answers and I stumble back as my eyes fly open. A tall man with shaggy hair and blue eyes stares back at me as he grins. He’s very broad, and the sleeves of his dirty T-shirt hug his large biceps.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “I heard you praying, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Something about his laugh is infectious, and I join him. My face must reflect my surprise and complete embarrassment. “You must think I’m insane?”

“No. I empathize.”

“You have a bat-shit crazy mother, too?” I question.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies in a serious tone. “You know, they have a support group that meets every Wednesday down at Church of the Ascendants. The group’s called Children of Meddling Mothers.”

I stare at him blankly. Is he serious? I wait a moment before responding, thinking he’ll laugh or say ‘just kidding,’ but he just stares back at me. Shit. He is serious. “Do you go to these meetings?”

His features lift and a huge grin spreads across his face. “I love that you just believed me.”

And my face grows two thousand degrees hotter. I shake my head. “God, I’m so naïve. I totally just fell for that.”

“I’m Vick Reynolds,” he replies as he switches the grocery basket he’s carrying to his left hand and reaches out his right hand to shake mine. As his fingers curl around my hand, I notice his nails are caked with various colors of paint.

“Demi Stevens,” I mumble through my humiliation. His hand is firm and holds mine until my eyes meet his again.

“Painter,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused.

“You were looking at my nails. I thought you might be wondering why they’re caked with paint. I’m a painter.”

“Oh . . . like art or like house painter?”

“Well, both actually. We do commercial painting. Unfortunately, the artistic side doesn’t quite pay the rent. I just moved here from California. I’m working with my uncle, Gregory’s Paint. Have you heard of it?”

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.” He nods once at my response, and an awkward beat of silence falls between us. Of course, I feel obligated to fill it. “How do you like it here so far? I imagine this small town is quite different from any place in California.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile as his blue eyes stare at me. “As of about two minutes ago, I think I like this town a whole lot better.”

Whatever the reddest shade of red is, I have to be that color as I continue to blush. His line was cheesy, but I still appreciate the compliment. “That was quite a line, Vick,” I jest.

He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of practice here. It’s been a while.”

“And why is that?”

“Women don’t like starving artists,” he admits as he runs his paint dappled hand through his shaggy hair. “And what do you do, if I may ask?”

“I’m a Pre-K teacher over at Monroe Elementary. I work with children on the Autism Spectrum.”

“Wow,” his brows rise. “So you’re extremely attractive and a really good person.”

“Are you hitting on me?” I blurt out.

He laughs again, his perfectly placed white teeth on full display. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while for me, too,” I admit, pushing some of my hair behind my ear.

“And why is that?” I hadn’t realized how bold of a question it is until he asked me. He answered when I asked; I guess it’s only fair I do, too.

“Widow,” I answer quietly. “He passed away two years ago.”

“Damn,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.” He has that same look all people do when I tell them I’m a widow. A look of shock and surprise—and having no idea how to respond.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to sound insensitive here, but . . . you haven’t been on even one date in two years?”

I snort. “Nope. I think the men in this town, they knew Blake, and I think they feel like it’s disrespectful to him or something.” This is true, but even if they had asked, I’m not sure I would have been ready.

Vick watches me for a long moment but says nothing. I’m biting my tongue to keep myself from babbling.

“It was nice to meet you, Demi. Sorry, I interrupted your prayer, there.”

I’m not sure how well I do at hiding my shock. Wasn’t he going to ask me out? Internally, I roll my eyes at myself. I must’ve scared him off with my widow business. I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed he didn’t ask. It’s the first time in two years that I’ve considered even going out with someone.

“Yeah. You too, Vick. Good luck with the new job.”

As I watch Vick until he disappears from the aisle I’m standing in, my cell phone rings again and from where it sits in my purse, I can see Mom lit up on the screen. Thrusting my cart forward, I ignore her call and finish my shopping, wondering if the new guy in town was even remotely interested in me.

I’m almost home when I see my neighbor, Brian, working under the hood of his truck. Pulling up beside him, I shout, “Hey Brian!” Apparently I startled him because he jolts and hits his head on the hood.

“Shit!” I cringe. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” he laughs as he rubs the back of his head with one hand and adjusts his glasses with the other.

“Truck broke down?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Piece of shit. I gotta leave for Oklahoma next weekend, and the damn transmission is acting up.”

“Can you fix it?” I ask.

“No. It’s going to have to go to a mechanic. Vehicles are like a foreign language to me.”

And here comes my sales pitch. “Well, I happen to know just the mechanic for the job, and he’s right down the street from you.”

When I return home, the garage bay door is open, and Connor is crouched down beside his Harley, his hand seemingly inside the machine. He’s wearing a pair of cargo shorts I bought him and nothing else. As I park the car, his head lifts, and his gaze meets mine. My eyes trace the intricate tattoos that run up his arms and down his back. It’s obvious he made good use of the gym in prison as his body is primed.

Snapping myself out of my lust-filled daydream, I climb out of the car, scolding myself for checking him out. Again. I’m obviously in need of some . . . something. I can’t keep checking out my cousin-in-law. That thought sends disappointment to the pit of my stomach. It’s too bad Vick didn’t ask me out. Wendy’s been begging to fix me up with one of Jeff’s friends, but I hate the idea of a blind date. So awkward.

I’m pulling a bag of groceries out of the trunk when Connor rounds the back of my car and snatches it out of my arms. “Let me carry these in for you.” With his free arm, he picks up the last two large paper bags and heads toward the house.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had help carrying bags in,” I call to him as I follow. “I’m going to get spoiled.”

Climbing the steps to the back porch, he says, “You deserve to be spoiled, Demi.”

Once we’re inside, he sets the bags on the kitchen table and begins pulling out the items. “Plumber just left. He says he’ll have to come back later in the week to fix the shower. The copper piping is rusted out or something.”

“He’s fired,” I huff in frustration. “That’s the third time he has been out here and claimed he’ll have to come back for some other reason.”

“I can fix it myself, Demi,” Connor volunteers.

I’m about to say that would be great, but a thought occurs to me. “You know what? I’ll ask Jeff if he can fix it. He’s out of work and could use the money I’m sure. In fact, there are a few things around here he could help me with. He’s a great handyman.”

“How long has he been out of work?”

“A little over a month. But when you have five kids, and you’re a single income family . . . money was already tight. I think Wendy is starting to freak out.”

“I bet,” Connor agrees. “Well, let me know. I’m here to help.”

“Oh . . . by the way. I just found your first client. My neighbor . . . well, our neighbor,” I correct myself, “Brian. His transmission is messed up or something. He’s bringing it over this afternoon.”

Connor looks at me, his features are relaxed, but his eyes are animated with some thought or emotion I can’t decipher. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for all of this, Demi.”

“Blake loved you so much, Connor. That love kind of rubs off on people. I’m not just your cousin’s wife, I’m your friend too. Friends help each other.”

“I’m a lucky bastard to have such a good friend.” He smiles and gives me a small wave as he leaves the kitchen.

The next night, as promised, Connor enters my kitchen and begins preparing my ‘thank you’ dinner. I’ve tried to help him several times, but he keeps shooing me away and forcing me to sit at the kitchen table while he cooks. I watch him while he works; his focus seems so intense.

“Do you like to cook?” I query as I sip my beer.

“Eh, like is a strong word,” he chuckles. “But it can be a kind of therapy, I guess.”

“Therapy?”

“When I was . . .” he pauses on a sigh, “in prison,” he finishes quickly. “I worked in the kitchen. It was nice to have something to stay focused on.”

I have no clue how to respond to this. It’s not like I can empathize with such a feeling; the feeling of being caged and needing something to keep me busy to make time pass by faster. But I decide to take it head on. I think it’s important for Connor to be able to talk about his time in prison, and I want him to feel comfortable talking about it with me.

“So prison taught you how to cook?” I wager. “That could be useful information. Might have to have you cook for me more often,” I jest.

“Well, unless you like spaghetti and shitty meatloaf, you’re out of luck,” he laughs. When he bends over the stove and tastes some sauce on the wooden cooking spoon he’s holding, he smacks his lips. “I’d like to tell you it’s amazing,” he begins, “but that would be a lie.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s edible,” he surmises.

“That’s good enough for me,” I assure him. “I’m not cooking it. That right there makes it amazing in itself.”

Music drifts into the room from the hallway where my Wurlitzer jukebox, one of my most prized possessions, plays.

“That jukebox is badass,” Connor notes in between songs as the records change.

“It’s the only thing I have left of my father’s,” I note. “He loved that thing.”

“How’d he go?” Connor asks, and I snort.

“On a Greyhound bus, I’m told,” I reply somewhat bitterly.

Connor’s gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I assumed you meant he died.”

“Don’t be. He left when I was ten.”

Taking his beer, he steps toward me and raises it in a toast. “To deadbeat dads.” Then after a beat adds, “And deadbeat mothers.”

I toast him with my beer and can’t help the sad smile I give. Connor knows what it’s like to have your father bail. His mother, too. After we take long swigs, he turns back to the stove and stirs the sauce.

“Oh, I have something for you.” I jump out of my seat and grab the small shoebox from the hall closet in the living room, returning to the kitchen with it and placing it on the table. Connor meets me at the table and watches as I open it. When he see the photo on top, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he chuckles as he picks it up and gazes at it.

The photo is of Blake and Connor in the bathtub, bubbles everywhere. Connor looks angry while Blake is laughing hysterically. Connor flips the photo over, reading the back, and bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard he’s coughing, but still manages to show me the writing on the back. I already know what it says, but I read it again anyway.

You were always pissed that my dick was bigger.

Blake certainly had a way with words. Maybe the photo would’ve made Connor sad or made him miss Blake, but instead he’s laughing. Blake was just that way; like his purpose was to make everyone else’s day better, no matter what.

“I was pissed because I wanted to sit next to the faucet, but Blake was the baby and always got his way,” Connor chuckles.

Placing the photo aside, I watch as Connor gingerly removes each item from the box as if each is made of precious ivory. There’s a few photos of them from their childhood, some little trinkets, and at the bottom there’s an envelope. He stares at it for a long moment, his expression uncertain.

“He was very clear,” I tell him, my hand on his large forearm. “That’s for you to read when you’re ready.”

After a moment, he lets out a long breath before placing the envelope back in the box and returning all the other items. “I can keep these?”

I smile sadly as I place the lid back on the box. “He wanted you to have these things. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.”

Connor clears his throat, then meets my gaze head on. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No,” he says. “Thank you for being there for him and taking care of him. Grams too. She wrote me and told me how you stepped up, how when Blake got sick you stepped up and took care of both of them. I’m truly grateful.”

My eyes tear up, and I quickly wipe them, hoping to stop any tears from falling. “I’m lucky to have had both of them in my life. Grams is like a mother to me. And Blake, well, I’m pretty sure anyone that ever met him feels like they were lucky. He was just that kind of guy.”

Connor brushes his hand over the box as he stares at it. Then, leaving it on the table he returns to the stove. As he breaks the noodles to put in the boiling water, the sauce starts splattering from where the burner is turned up too high, and several drops of sauce stain his shirt.

“Shit,” he grumbles under his breath.

I grab the lid to the saucepan and cover it. Then I grab a dishtowel and wet the end of it under the faucet. “If you don’t get this off, and in the wash, it will stain.” Without asking, I grab the hem of his shirt and begin dabbing at the stains with the dishtowel. Shaking my head, I look up to find Connor staring down at me. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing and all I can do is stare back. The confident, flesh and blood, woman in me thinks I see desire in his eyes, but the self-conscious and self-doubting part of me says, that’s silly. He doesn’t want me.

“Um . . . I think we need to throw it in the wash,” I manage as I step away. “Better do it now.”

Connor tugs his shirt over his head and hands it to me. I can’t keep my eyes from looking at his chest and stomach. Before I know it, my fingers are brushing against one of the scars on his left side. “What happened to you?” I ask quietly. I’ve played out quite a few scenarios, but all of them are similar to scenes I’ve seen on television. Inmates shanking other inmates.

“That one . . . I got shanked by a guy inside because I broke up . . . something he was doing.”

Okay, so I was right. “And this one?” I ask, as my fingers move down and run along the next scar.

“Shanked again,” he chuckles, but his expression doesn’t look humored. It’s more a look of embarrassment or disbelief.

When my fingers touch the third scar on his right side, he grabs my hand and holds it still. “That one was Blake.”