Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Eloise
I’ve been living with Conor for a few days, and he was right, he’s barely been home. When I wake up, he’s already gone but comes home about an hour or two later all sweaty from the gym. He takes a shower and heads out again, saying he’s going to the rink. His tenacity is admirable, and I’m jealous of his dedication.
Leaving the condo, I push open the security gate and rear back when I see a group of women standing there.
“Who are you?” a brunette says, crossing her arms and looking me up and down.
I look over my shoulder. It takes a moment for me to realize they’re talking to me, and they must be here for either Conor or Tweetie. At least, I hope they’re here for Conor or Tweetie. I don’t want to know what Kyleigh would do if some girl showed up here for Rowan.
“I’m no one.” The gate slams shut behind me.
“You must be someone,” the girl says.
I eye the piece of cardboard in one girl’s hand and the black marker in another girl’s. I’m obviously missing something.
“No.” I shake my head and move to go around them.
The brunette steps in front of me. “Are you here for Tweetie or Pinkie?”
“I don’t know a Pinkie, and I’m not here for Tweetie. Sorry, girls.” I step to the side again to get past them, and the girl purposely brushes my shoulder. What the hell is her problem?
I head down the street, glancing over my shoulder and seeing them pin the sign on the security gate. The brunette attaches a white note to it, and they all laugh, walking down the street in the opposite direction. But right before I turn around, the brunette tosses her hair over her shoulder and glares at me.
Is this what living here will be like?
The convenience store is only three blocks away. When I walk in, the guy says hello but never looks in my direction. A few construction guys stand in front of the prepared food area, rambling about the Chicago Colts. I open the cooler and grab a Diet Coke, biding my time for them to leave.
One guy puts something in the microwave, and another pulls an empty cup out to fill with a slushie. They obviously aren’t going anywhere any time soon.
Whatever. I don’t have to be embarrassed about what I want to do.
I go to the counter, and the guy behind the register scans my Diet Coke.
“Anything else?” he asks, barely making eye contact.
I lean in closer. “Can I have a pack of cigarettes?”
“What kind, sweetheart?”
I scan over all the options. “Um… whatever the most popular is.” I pull out my credit card, prepared to get this transaction over with as quickly as possible.
“Sweetheart, just tell me the brand.”
When I hear footsteps behind me, I glance over my shoulder and see the construction guys headed toward us. I don’t know why they’re intimidating to me.
“The yellow box, I guess.” I point randomly.
“Are you buying these for someone else?” the cashier asks suspiciously.
The door chimes, and the cashier says hello to whoever walks in, but never looks over.
“No, they’re for me, but I’m trying some brands out to see which one I like better.”
He blows out a breath. “You know smoking is bad for you, right?”
“Yes, thank you, surgeon general.”
The guys behind me laugh, and it eases the tension of buying something I know nothing about and making a fool of myself.
“She got you, Ike,” one of them says.
“Holy shit, Conor Nilsen, what’s up?” another one says.
I turn to my left, seeing Conor wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his hat backward and AirPods in his ears. God, he looks sexy.
He takes out his AirPods and shoves them in his pocket. “What’s going on here?” He nods to the guy who works here. “You’re not giving my girl problems, are you, Ike?”
His girl?
“She’s yours?” Ike asks with an expression to say he doesn’t believe it. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because he deems me better looking than Conor, but more that Conor isn’t known for having “a girl.”
Conor looks at me as though he’s asking how to answer, and I give him nothing since he’s the one who said it. “She’s my roommate. Eloise, meet Ike. Ike, this is Eloise.”
“Pleasure,” I say.
“Which pack do you want?” Ike sounds more annoyed than happy to meet me.
“Ummm.”
“What are you buying?” Conor asks, leaning in and lowering his voice.
“Cigarettes,” I whisper.
He raises his hand and points. “She’ll take the silver ultra lights and hold up.” He steps away. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be a second.” He returns with a water and a protein bar. Then he picks up and throws a lighter on the counter, which is good because I would have forgotten all about the fact that I have to light the cigarette. “These too. Put it on my tab?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ike says.
“And these guys’ stuff too. Thanks for waiting.”
“Thanks, Nilsen. Can’t wait for the season to start. The Colts are in a fucking drought, and I’m dying for more action,” one of them says.
“Easton Bailey is carrying that whole damn team,” another one says.
Conor talks to them about the Colts and whoever Easton Bailey is while Ike rings up all their stuff. I wait next to Conor, feeling very out of touch with all the sports talk going on around me. Conor shakes all their hands and leads me out of the store with his hand on the small of my back.
We head back toward the condo, walking along the sidewalk.
“Do you get that a lot?” I ask.
“Recognized?” He shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually if my hat is faced front, people can’t tell who I am quite as much. It depends how big of a fan they are.”
“You must feel like I used to at the country club.”
“How is that?” he asks, tearing open his protein bar and taking a bite just like he did the Snickers bar that night in the hotel.
“Like you’re in a fish tank. Everyone watching you. For me, I always felt like they were waiting for me to screw up or maybe wondering why Tristan was with me. But I’m sure not everyone is as nice to you as those guys.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, when I have a bad game, I’ve been called some pretty shitty stuff. Your skin gets thicker the longer you’re in the league. Doesn’t bother me as much anymore.”
“Most of the women my age were jealous because Tristan was a big catch in that circle. If I told you how many older men hit on me behind Tristan’s back, you’d never believe it.”
“Actually, I would believe you. The first night I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
My cheeks heat. Thank goodness for the distraction of having to dart around other pedestrians on the sidewalk. When we approach the security gate, I notice the sign still hanging there.
“Funny, when I walked out of the gate, a group of girls were hovering around. They put up a sign.” I notice the letter with Pinkie written with curls at the end of every letter. “They were asking about Tweetie and a Pinkie? Is there another unit here?”
Conor studies me, a slow smile creeping on his lips. “I’m Pinkie.” He points at himself.
“Pinkie? Oh, is this one of those hockey names?” I glance at his hand. “I noticed that the first night.”
His hand clenches. “That’s not why my name is Pinkie.” He tears down the sign and dumps it into the trash can farther up on the sidewalk, not bothering to look at the note the brunette left for him.
I enter the security code, and he takes the handle, opening the door. “Am I in danger living here?”
He chuckles and waits for me to walk through. “Why would you ask that?”
“Those girls were asking me questions and were pretty aggressive. Especially this one brunette. She wanted to know who I was here for.”
Conor’s hand slips to the small of my back, and a rush of shivers runs up my spine. I like it a little too much.
“Kyleigh lives here, and no one has bothered her that I know of.”
We go through the gate, and I sit on the stairs outside, ready to cross smoking off my list. “So, fill me in. Why does the sign say the Nest, and why is your name Pinkie if not for your pinkie finger?”
He sits next to me, stretching his arms behind him, tipping his head up to the sun. “Some of the fans refer to our building as the Nest. It used to be called the Den when some Grizzlies lived here. Actually, Cooper Rice owns the building.”
“Cooper Rice?” I exclaim. “Seriously?”
“He you know, but me you had no idea. I’m wounded.” He covers his heart with his hand, which I’m noticing is his thing.
I knock his shoulder. “Sorry, Tristan watched a lot of football.”
“Then you should know, Damon Siska and Miles Cavanaugh also lived here.” He dramatically opens his eyes and covers his open mouth as if he’s fangirling.
I shove him with my hand, and he leans to the side before straightening. “Would you rather me be camped out at the security gate ready to jump you when you come out?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “Yes, I would.”
I distract myself by pulling out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.
“You sure this is what you want to do?” He sits up straighter, resting his arms on his thighs and looking at me.
“It’s on the list.” I shrug.
“You don’t have to do everything on the list.”
“Then what was the point of the list?” I sing-song, taking off the plastic and pulling out a cigarette. I run it under my nose and smell the tobacco.
He watches me intently, then his hand slides into mine, taking the lighter from my grip. I bring the cigarette to my lips.
“Have you ever smoked?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“This should be good then.” He grins.
I bring the tip between my lips again, and he flicks the lighter with his thumb. The small flame heats my face a little.
“Inhale,” he says when the flame hits the end of the cigarette.
His thumb lifts off the lighter, and smoke burns my lungs. I pull it away and cough and cough, unable to catch my breath.
“Happy now?” He takes the cigarette from my fingers.
My coughing fit continues, and he opens his water bottle handing it to me.
After I recover, he’s still holding the cigarette between his fingers. “More?” he asks, holding it out to me.
I love that he’s leaving the decision up to me, even though he clearly doesn’t think it’s a good idea.
“I think I’m good.”
Shit, that was a very bad experience.
He brings the cigarette to his lips, holding it the manly way between his thumb and pointer finger. A curl of smoke leaks out of his mouth before he tosses it on the ground and steps on it.
My nipples pebble in my bra.
“Off the list,” he says, standing from the step. He stills when he notices me watching him intently. “What?”
“Nothing.” I rise from the step and walk to the door of the building.
“That look wasn’t nothing.” He grabs my wrist and twists me around.
“Did you used to be a smoker?”
He shrugs. “I’ve done it a few times, but it was never a habit. There’s no way I’d have the stamina to play. Stop dodging the question. What was the look for?”
“It was just… I mean, you looked really…”
“Say it.” He stares at me, and I have a feeling he’d wait all day.
“You looked sexy. Like a bad boy. It was swoony.”
His eyebrows raise. “Bad boy? Is that your type?”
I pull my wrist from his grip and turn toward the door. “You’re incorrigible.”
He leans past me to press the code into the keypad, his hard chest pressing against my back. “I think I’m going to take up smoking.”
The door opens, and we file inside, though by the time we reach his place, I’m still picturing how he looked with that cigarette. What is it about a bad boy that makes a woman want to lose all common sense?