CHAPTER 11. Noah #4
“Oh my God,” he says quietly, and I notice his eyes are suspiciously bright.
Is he—?
No. Connor O’Reilly, stoic Irish doctor, is not getting emotional over cute dog videos.
Except he absolutely is.
“Nobody wants her because she’s seven?” he asks, his voice tight with disbelief.
“Most people want puppies,” I say with a shrug that I hope hides how much it actually gets to me.
“They don’t want to take on an older dog, because that means fewer years together and heartbreak sooner rather than later.
Even though with her health, she probably has at least five or six good years left. Maybe more.”
Connor hands me back my phone, his expression serious. “People are idiots.”
“Preaching to the choir,” I say, tucking the phone into my pocket. “I’ve been trying to find her a home since she came to us. Nobody gets past the age thing.”
Connor nods, his face thoughtful. “You said you might take her, though? If you move?”
“That’s my dream.” I take another sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. “Once I have a place that’s more suitable for dogs than our building.”
“That’s really cool,” Connor says, unwrapping one of the sandwiches and handing it to me. “She’d be lucky to have you.”
My face heats, and I look down at the sandwich like it needs my full attention. “Well, she’ll only be lucky if I figure out my living situation first,” I say. “I’m not bringing her into that shoebox.”
“I’m sure you will,” Connor says, giving me a small smile.
There’s something almost sad in his eyes when he says it, and I don’t know what to do with that.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the water lapping gently against the shore and the occasional bird call from somewhere in the trees. It’s so peaceful that my chest aches with a strange kind of nostalgia for something I haven’t even lost yet.
This weekend.
This moment.
Him.
“So,” I say finally, setting down my half-eaten sandwich, “are you really thinking of moving out soon? Like, for real?”
Connor nods, then takes a sip of wine before answering, his eyes staying on mine. “Actually, yeah. What I said to your parents is true. I’ve been saving for a down payment for almost two years now. I could move out next month if I actually found the right place.”
“Oh.” The single syllable falls between us, and I hope to God I don’t sound as disappointed as I feel. “That’s good. Really smart. Good for you.”
Okay, now I sound like I’m jealous of his savings account, which I’m not. I just hate the sudden, stupid realization that Connor might actually leave, and I don’t even have the right to be sad about it.
“I’ve got enough for something decent in one of the outer boroughs,” he continues, picking at the edge of his sandwich. “Maybe Queens or Brooklyn.”
I nod, trying to ignore the hollow feeling spreading beneath my ribs.
It’s stupid to feel disappointed. What did I expect? That after one night together, he’d want to—what? Include me in his future plans? Ask me to come with him? Stay in our stupid old building just because I suddenly can’t handle the idea of him leaving?
We barely know each other, no matter how good last night was.
“That’s great,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “When do you think you’ll start seeing places?”
Connor shrugs. “I’ve been browsing listings for a while but haven’t gone to see anything yet. I’ve been too busy with work.” He pauses, looking down at his glass. “Actually, I was going to start looking more seriously next week.”
“Oh.” There’s that hollow feeling again, spreading through my chest. “Well, I’ll miss having you across the hall.” I attempt a smile, but it feels strained even to me.
Connor looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he sets down his wine glass and moves closer, close enough that our knees touch on the blanket.
“Noah,” he says, my name soft on his lips. “I—”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and whatever he was trying to say seems to get lost somewhere between us, because a second later he leans in and kisses me instead.
His lips are warm and taste like wine, and my brain turns off completely. It’s less cautious than the kiss back at the cottage, more intent. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair.
To my utter disappointment, the kiss doesn’t last long, and when we pull apart, I’m breathing like I’ve just run a mile. Connor looks flushed, his eyes bright, his hand trembling slightly as he touches my face.
“Noah,” he says again, and there’s something in his voice that makes my heart stumble. “I like you.”
I blink at him, a smile already forming on my lips. “I like you too.”
My heart is beating like a drum now.
Connor’s expression shifts, frustration flickering across his face. “No, I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look so casually attractive I want to roll my eyes.
“I’m not good with this.” He sighs, clearly fighting with the words. “What I’m trying to say is—” He stops, his eyes searching mine like he’s looking for some kind of understanding I’m not giving him. “I’m not explaining this right.”
I stare at him, heart racing as I try to figure out what’s happening. The wine, the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the memory of last night all blur together, making it hard to think clearly. Connor looks so earnest, so intent on getting something important across, and I have no idea what it is.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say quickly, because watching him struggle is making my chest hurt. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
His eyebrows draw together. “I really do.”
He looks down for a second, then back at me. “What I’m trying to say is that last night wasn’t just…” He exhales, annoyed with himself. “I wasn’t drunk. I mean, I was drunk, obviously, but that’s not why I…”
He trails off, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes that make my stomach flip. I want to help him, to pull him out of whatever conversational quicksand he’s sinking into, but I’m also terrified of what he might be trying to say.
“Really, it’s fine,” I insist, waving a hand like I can physically brush the whole conversation away.
“Last night was great. For me, at least. But we don’t have to analyze it or anything.
Or talk about your sexuality if you don’t want to.
Like, if you’re straight, or bi, or whatever. It’s all good.”
Oh my God. I can’t shut up.
Connor’s frown deepens, and I can tell he’s not following. The pause gets so unbearable that I take another gulp of wine—bigger than intended. It goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough hard, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“If last night was just a one-time thing for you, it’s all good,” I continue, feeling my fake happy expression twitch on my face like I’m about to burst out crying. “You don’t owe me anything. I won’t tell anyone.”
The second I say it, something twists sharply in my chest.
Not because of Connor. Because of me.
Because I know exactly what I’m offering, even if I’m acting like I don’t.
I’ve been down this road before. Three years with Rick, hiding in plain sight, waiting for him to be ready to acknowledge what we were to each other, crying every time he put his reputation before me. I told myself over and over again that I was okay with it, until I couldn’t pretend anymore.
And still, I stayed, even though being his secret was never what I really wanted.
If he hadn’t broken up with me, I probably never would’ve had the guts to do it myself, no matter how miserable I was. That’s why, after Rick, I promised myself I would never get into a relationship like that again.
And yet here I am—one night with Connor, and I’m practically handing him the same deal in different packaging.
The worst part is, if he agreed, I know I’d take it.
I’d take whatever scraps of affection he was willing to give me, even if it meant sneaking around or pretending we’re just neighbors who occasionally get drunk and fall into bed together.
I’d agree to anything if it meant keeping Connor in my life.
That’s how far gone I am already, and the realization makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
“Noah,” Connor says firmly, pulling my attention back to him.
His expression is different now. More resolved, with his jaw tight enough to make the little muscle there jump.
He lets out a breath and says, “I’m gay.”
Wait, what?
I stare at him, convinced I must have misheard.
“What?” I say out loud.
“I’m gay,” he repeats, softer this time. “I like men. Exclusively.”
My brain feels like it’s buffering, trying to process information that completely contradicts everything I thought I knew about my neighbor.
“But… I thought…”
“Yeah,” Connor says with a slight grimace.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it, if that’s what you’re thinking.
I just don’t usually talk about it much.
When you asked me to be your fake boyfriend, I actually thought maybe you knew.
Then it felt weird to bring it up when you hadn’t asked, so…
” He looks at me, clearly uncomfortable, though I don’t know why.
“And later, when I realized you’d assumed my sister was my girlfriend, I knew you didn’t know.
But by then, it felt even weirder to correct you. ”
“Oh,” I say stupidly, because apparently my brain is still playing catch-up.
“Yes,” Connor says, looking slightly amused now.
I nod, still struggling to integrate this new reality.
I don’t know what I thought, actually. After last night, I didn’t have much time to think about anything. I mean, I was a little confused by how good he was at giving head, but apparently my brain just filed that under naturally gifted. Is that a thing? Can someone be a blowjob prodigy?