Taking Connor

“Dude. You guys are totally attracted to each other. It’s really fucking obvious.”

I keep moving in rhythm with the song as I argue with her. “We’re just friends, Lex.

That’s it.”

“Yeah, friends that like to eye-fuck the fuck out of each other.”

“Whatever,” I fold. I’m too drunk to argue with her.

“He’s looking at you right now,” she says. And when I look over to where he’s standing, sure enough, Co

“I know you don’t think my opinions hold much water, but I like him Demi. And . . . I don’t think it’s such a bad thing that you like him.” I’m a little stu

“May I have this dance?” he asks as he approaches, an easy smile on his face.

“Did my sister tell you to?” I respond, trying my best not to slur.

“Tell me to what?”

“Dance with her drunk sister?”

“She told me to keep an eye on you. Make sure nobody messed with you. I thought you could use a partner,” he replies. When he holds out his hand, I take it, and he pulls me in, holding me close.

“You should be dancing with the hot blonde at the bar,” I mention.

A sober me would proceed to babble away, attempting to kill any idea of this dance being anything, but friendly. I’m not sober. I’m blitzed. And instead of talking, I step into his space and lay my head against his chest. He stills for a moment. I gather he’s surprised by how I just pressed myself against him, but it only takes a second for him to wrap his arms around me.

I danced with Vick a few nights ago, and it was wonderful, but it was nothing like this. The comfort I feel at this moment is something I haven’t felt in a long time. I know it’s all in my head, the attraction between Co

When the song ends, we stop moving, and I gaze up at him. The people surrounding us seemingly disappearing. His eyes are dark, and his expression is stoic; I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’d give anything to know. I have no idea what I’m thinking. All I know is I’m planted in this spot; I can’t move. When he brushes some hair from my face, I tilt my head toward his touch, seeking more. His hand freezes, holding its place against my cheek before he pulls it away and inhales deeply, his large chest rising with the effort.

“Would you like to head home?” he asks, not meeting my gaze.

I blink a few times as the moment dissipates. Looking to the floor, I clear my throat and answer, “Yes. That’s probably a good idea.” I don’t know what just transpired between us. Was it just me? Did I imagine all . . . that? Whatever it was. Either way, the high I’ve been riding all night dwindles away, and I’m left feeling disappointed. All I want to do is go home and crawl in bed.

Co

“It’s already taken care of,” Co

“It was supposed to be my treat,” I point out.

With a sideways smirk, he replies, “Count it toward the meals I owe you.”

We say goodbye to Lexi, who swears she’s grabbing a cab and heading home. It’s dark out, but the night is warm, and I rest my head against Co

“Thanks for a fun night. I liked riding the bike.”

“I’ll have to take you out again sometime.”

“Well . . . night.”

“Night, Demi.”

Once I’m upstairs, I change into my night clothes and realize I’m still really drunk as the room seems to be spi

The glass falls from my hand as I whip around, and in the limited light from the moon shining through the kitchen window, I find Co

Damn.

He really needs both hands?

Stupidly, I move just as he yells, “No, no, no.”

But it’s too late. I step on the broken glass at my feet and slice my toe open.

“Mother freaker!” I hiss as I raise my foot and hop a little.

“Stay still, babe,” Co

For the love of everything good and holy. Couldn’t he just be ugly? Why, why couldn’t he have been super ugly?

“Stay right there,” he says. “Put that towel over it, babe.”

Snapping to, I find my toe still bleeding all over the place and the dishtowel in my hand. I was too busy staring at him and forgot what I was doing. As I wrap my foot, Co

“No, no stitches,” I insist. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom closet upstairs. Will you get it? We can just butterfly it.”

After he covers my toe, he heads upstairs and returns with the kit already rummaging through it. When he pulls out the peroxide, I shake my head. “Oh, hell no. That’s going to sting.”

“It won’t feel as bad as an infection,” he argues as he twists the cap off of the bottle. “Can you put your foot over the sink?”

Twisting around, I manage to get in the right position and prepare myself for the burn as I pull the now blood-stained dishtowel away. I’m expecting him to give me a countdown or something, but nope. He just pours it right on the cut, and I yelp a little.

“No warning, Co

He chuckles a little as he leans down and blows softly on my toe. His lips have that perfect round shape, and I forget the sting when his gaze moves up and meets mine as he continues to soothe my cut. Why is my mouth so damn dry right now? “I didn’t want you to overthink it.”