Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
I SAID NO FLIRTING
Gretchen
The mid-morning air is warm and crisp, sun shining uninhibited as it climbs in the Eastern sky.
Navigating a pile of boulders that block the path, Connor moves with confidence from one perch to the next before jumping across a small gap to land on the trail on the other side. Then he turns and extends a hand for me.
“How’s your back?” I ask as I take his hand. His other palm grazes the exposed skin at the small of my back above the waistband of my shorts to secure my landing as I make the small jump. His touch disappears as fast as it came, but the sensation lingers.
“Better. A little tight still, but not bad.”
“I tossed the ibuprofen in the bag if you need some.” I gesture to the small pack I loaded up this morning that Connor has slung over his shoulders.
“Thanks.”
The panic I felt when I found him on the living room floor circles back in my thoughts. “I didn’t realize it could get like that? ”
I watched Connor get carted off the field on a stretcher through a television screen.
The worry, the fear, the questions—they all rush right back in like it was yesterday.
A twelve-year-old girl doesn’t get blunt truth answers in real time, she gets the sugar-coated ones only looked at through rose-colored glasses.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that Connor told me about the time in his life surrounding his injury.
The copious hours spent on bedrest, multiple surgeries and missed college experiences he had to grieve.
Two months into his freshman year of college and everything he’d worked for ended in the blink of an eye—he never played football again.
Something he told me, in great length, he made peace with a long time ago, yet the thought still ushers in a cloud of concern when I think about it.
He pins that incorrigible smirk on me. “You worrying about me, Fish?”
I roll my eyes and he shoves my shoulder.
Scoffing, I right myself on my feet and catch up to his stride.
“More like worried for myself when you collapse and I have to carry you out of here”—I raise an accusatory brow—“because I don’t abandon friends in their time of need. ” I shove his shoulder this time.
“Hey! I promised an EMT and snacks.”
I purse my lips. “Mmmm. EMTs are hot. And I do love snacks.” Connor snickers.
We walk in the quiet for a couple minutes, taking in the landscape around us.
The red dirt path unfurls ahead, sienna hued mesas dotted with desert foliage extending beyond in every direction.
The terrain on either side of the trail is a paradoxical mix of bold green shrubs amidst towering trees and oversized boulders wedged between mounds of cacti.
Into the peaceful calm, Connor murmurs, “Gretchen Fisher is worrying about me.”
The sound of my full name on his lips, like he’s admiring something precious, sends a blush creeping over my cheeks. “Don’t let it get to your head, QB.”
“Too late. ”
I stare at him, flat and unimpressed. The corner of his mouth hitches as he winks at me. “Don’t flirt with me either,” I say.
His grin widens, eyes mischievous. “I would never.”
We come to a large clearing where a backroad for vehicles converges with the path. A wooden display board pinpoints our current location on the trail and prepares us for the final, and most grueling, leg up ahead.
The sun beats harder now, both of us glistening with sweat.
The shade of a patch of mature trees nearby calls our name and we step aside for a breather.
As Connor sets the pack down and retrieves a bottle of water, I remove my crop top, leaving me in my mid-thigh length biker shorts and sports bra.
I wipe the sweat from my face with the bundled shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Connor looking me up and down.
“Eyes up here, QB,” I say as I hand him my shirt in exchange for the water bottle. The stubborn ass takes his sweet time, gaze raking over me, blazing a torturous path. A rush courses through me, a shot of scalding hot espresso direct to my bloodstream. “I said no flirting.”
Our hands make the swap as he says, “And you’re not playing fair.”
I give a devilish shrug—two can play this game—as I tip the bottle back. His gaze burns, competing with the Arizona sun to scorch me onsite.
And, with that, we need a subject change. “So, you gonna tell me how your conversation with Lauren went?”
His face sobers in a way most wouldn’t notice, but I do. The slightest twinge of anxiety creeps in. When I interrupted their conversation last night, it seemed as though they were getting along fine—notably opposite of Connor’s reservations from just a few hours prior.
He takes the bottle from me and bends low to put it and my shirt in the bag. Looking up at me from under the brim of his baseball hat, a playful glint twinkles over his face as the soberness disappears. “You ready for this?”
Taken aback by the shift, I cock my head. I’m tempted to smile but I hold it back just in case. “I don’t know, am I?”
He stands to his feet, settling the pack on his back. “She met someone.”
My jaw drops and I rein it in just as quickly. “And how do you feel about that?” The words pour out of me like honey dripping off a comb.
“I’m happy for her,” he says. “We talked through everything and, it turns out, we’ve ultimately ended up on the same page about…everything. I’m honestly so relieved. I’m not sure how much longer I would have put off talking to her if you hadn’t said the things you said yesterday. So, thank you.”
I wave off his thanks, still blindsided by the news that his ex is already with someone else. “Is that not weird for you, knowing she’s already dating another guy?”
Connor struts forward. I bring my hands to my hips, pulse racing. He stops just shy of his chest brushing mine and I lift my chin to hold his gaze. “I’m here flirting with someone else, so what do you think?”
I cross my arms, defying the sinful grin on his annoyingly perfect face. His eyes bounce to my cleavage and back. “I said no flirting,” I repeat, but there’s no real threat behind it.
“Oh, I heard you. I just don’t believe you.” He squeezes the tip of my nose, gives it a wiggle, and sidesteps me to get back on the trail.
“Alright, Fish.” He rubs his hands together. “Tell me what we have in store here.”
Stifling my smile, I answer, “Well, according to the world wide web, this last leg is supposed to be very intense.”
“Is that a challenge?”
I laugh. “For you? No. But it is a fair warning that you might have to carry me over the finish line.”
“While you’re wearing that? Not a problem.”
The last quarter mile to Devil’s Bridge is nearly straight uphill. Even with frequent breaks, the high elevation and hot sun on our backs has us both wheezing to catch our breath.
“How you doin’ there, QB?”
Connor’s death glare lands on me for only a moment before turning to the red dirt path ahead. The trail has widened, rocks and boulders forming a series of steps and plateaus—a staircase of sorts that goes up and up (and up) as far as we can see.
“I hate you.”
I flutter my lashes and quip, “Aw, do you mean it?”
He chuckles with a shake of his head as I remove my hair tie. Hair down, I flip over at the waist to collect it between my hands. With the mass of sweaty locks in my grip, I stand back up and weave the pieces through the elastic a few times, haphazardly pushing and tucking until it’s secure.
Hands on his hips, breaths steadied, I hold his gaze as I fidget with the position of my messy bun until it feels just right.
He grins.
I grin.
He winks.
I flap my hand toward my face and sigh, a mocking swoon.
“Yeah,” he swallows, “I definitely hate you.”
The way he looks at me doesn’t feel like hate.
With a burst of confidence, I stride toward him until we’re toe to toe. He studies my approach, but doesn’t move.
I steady myself on the rock beneath our feet with a hand on his shoulder. Reaching my arm through the crook of his, I grab the water bottle from the outside pocket of the backpack and duck my head to find his narrowed gaze on me like I’m a math equation he can’t quite solve.
You and me both, Connor.
I take a sip of water then offer it to him and he does the same. Unmoving, I pin my hands on my hips and never take my eyes off his. He bops the bottle on my nose before he holds it up between us .
I look at the bottle and back to him.
He does the same—challenging, daring—before we’re locked in another stare that carries enough heat to make this desert seem like child’s play.
This man’s had his hands all over me. He’s kissed me senseless against a stone wall. When we’re here, standing close enough to breathe each other’s air, his phantom touch feels all too real—like we’re back on that balcony—and my skin buzzes.
Slowly, I take the water bottle and reach my arm through his to secure it back in the bag. My chest barely grazes his, but he tilts his chin down when he feels it, naughty mischief glimmering in his blue eyes.
I lower my gaze to his mouth for a long moment as I step back, making certain he noticed, before I whisper, “Yeah, I hate you, too.”
Flirting with Connor is, at best, ill-advised considering our little case of unfinished business. But damn if it isn’t fun.