Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
CONNOR
Vanessa
R yu up???
Me
If this is a booty call, you’ve got the wrong number
Vanessa
*Vanessa shared her location with you*
Me
I’m not picking you up from the bar again. If you need a ride home call Finn
Vanessa
It’s not 4 me asshole
Tipsy’s is packed to the brim with bodies writhing on the dance floor and the smell of alcohol heavy in the air.
I’m way too sober to be here.
Someone stumbles up against me on my right and I move over, giving them enough space to find their footing before I slip past them toward the dance floor.
I spot her the moment I get past the bar, her head tilted back and her hair a wild halo around her. My fingers itch to reach for her, but I stuff the idea down before it can take hold. She wouldn’t want me to touch her. She probably doesn’t even want me here.
I’m fully prepared for a fight when she looks up and finds me watching her. But instead, the corners of her lips tug up in a smile wider than any she’s ever given me. It does something weird to me to see the way her eyes light up at the sight of me.
She stumbles forward and my breath falters when she launches herself at me.
I catch her just in time, both hands finding her hips to steady her against me.
She hooks her arms over my shoulders and buries her face in my neck, and I’m thinking maybe I should keep her permanently intoxicated if this is the kind of reaction I get from her. I like it, way more than I should.
“Wow, steady there.”
“You’re here,” she mumbles against my neck, her breath sending a cascade of shivers down my spine.
“I’m here, Dais.”
As if just realizing that herself, she pulls away from me, her face scrunched up in a frown. “Why are you here?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“You are?” I try really hard not to read anything into the way her voice hitches.
“Yup,” I tell her, steadying her with my hands, before looking at the girls behind her, still dancing. “Do you need a ride too?”
Vanessa shakes her head, motioning toward the door behind me. “We’re good. Finn is on his way.”
At least that saves me a trip across campus.
Daisy is still leaning fully against me when I turn my attention back to her.
I take a step back, trying to put some kind of distance between us, but she doesn’t get the memo, leaning in and pushing herself onto her tip toes.
Her hands on the back of my neck guides my head down until I feel her breath against my ear. “Are you taking me to bed, Connor?”
Fuck. Me. Forget dangerous, drunk Daisy is downright feral.
“Not tonight.”
She pouts. She actually fucking pouts. I barely manage to bite down on my laughter, morphing it into a smile instead. I’m pretty sure she would be mortified if she was sober.
“Come on, Trouble, let’s get you home before the drunk haze settles in fully,” I say, pushing some of her hair behind her ear and trying to help tame it.
She’s still grumbling when I sling an arm over her shoulder and steer her toward the front doors, but she sags against me without protest as we weave through the crowd.
Daisy shivers when I hold the passenger door open for her. The snow has melted outside, winter drawing to an end, but the crisp night air still bites. I tug my sweatshirt over my head. “Arms up.”
She complies with a little giggle, and I help guide her hands into the sleeves.
“You’re pretty. Do you know that?” she mumbles when her head pops through the neck opening. Her hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction as she beams up at me. My sweatshirt falls against the rest of her frame, and it looks like it could swallow her whole.
“You’re drunk,” I tease, closing the door behind her while she buckles herself in. I can feel her watching me when I slide into my seat and turn the key in the ignition.
“That’s what they all say, you know?”
“Who is saying what now?” I press my palm against the back of her seat, twisting so I can reverse out the parking spot.
“‘Connor is so pretty. Connor is so nice,’” she imitates, her voice going high-pitched and drawn out. “‘Connor fucks so good.’”
I choke on a breath of air. What happened to the shy, timid girl who used to barely look me in the eyes? “Who thinks that?”
She shrugs. “All of the girls.”
I bite my tongue, hesitating for a second while I wait for the light up ahead to turn green. “What about you?”
“Me, what?”
“What do you think?”
She sighs, exasperated. “Connor McKibben, always so attentive, asking me what I think.” I can practically hear her eyes rolling before she adds, “I think the stars are pretty. They remind me of home.” Her breath fogs up the window, and I realize she must be trying to catch a glimpse of the sky.
I take the quickest way back to our place, while she traces an invisible pattern on the glass that looks vaguely like the outline of the Big Dipper.
I only know it because my sister used to be obsessed with stars when we were younger—she made me camp out with her in the backyard so she could sleep under them, except she always fell asleep before they appeared, and I ended up carrying her back to the house.
Neither of us says anything for the remainder of the drive. My thoughts are loud enough to fill the silence. It’s an endless loop of things I could say—things I want to say but haven’t had a chance to.
My half-apology from earlier this week still hangs between us. For a second, I consider trying again, to explain why I left even if I don’t fully understand it myself. I would be lying if I said I haven’t been weighed down by thoughts of her all week.
But one glance at her, peacefully admiring the stars out of the passenger window, and I tell myself it’s not the right time for it. Tomorrow, when she’s sober, I decide.
The silence follows us up the stairs to our apartment. I unlock the door, vaguely aware of her following me in before I find myself in the kitchen. The clock on the oven is flashing 2:04 a.m. back at me, but I’m too keyed up to be able to sleep.
I hear soft footsteps, and when I turn, Daisy is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, my sweatshirt hanging off her frame and down to the middle of her thighs. The hem of her sparkly dress peeks out from under it.
I swallow, not sure what to say to her. She sways a little on her feet, like even just standing still is impossible. The sight has me pulling open the closest cupboard.
“What are you doing?”
“You need something to soak up the alcohol,” I tell her, taking a loaf of bread down from the top shelf.
I reach for one of the pans hanging above the stove, mainly because I’m having a really hard time keeping myself from reaching for her.
“Drunken rule number one: never go to bed on an empty stomach.”
Instead, I grab a glass off the drying rack by the sink and fill it for her. “Sit.”
Dutifully, she climbs onto the chair closest to her, eyes wide and following my every movement as I slide the glass toward her. I like her eyes on me.
“You’re cooking for me,” she says, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. It sounds more like a question than a statement. Like she can’t quite believe that someone would take the time to do something so simple for her.
“I like cooking.” I shrug, pulling out the last few ingredients I need. I’m not sure that a simple grilled cheese sandwich really counts as cooking, but I’m not about to point that out to her when she’s looking at me like I hung the moon.
Cooking calms me. The way each ingredient fits together to form something new. Cutting, slicing, dicing—it’s an artform that requires attention. It gets me out of my head, when I tend to get stuck in there.
“Is it because I let you fuck me?” Her voice is so quiet, like it didn’t just set a bomb off in my chest. I still, every inch of me tensing up as my heart drops right out of my chest and crashes three feet below me.
My head snaps in her direction, eyes finding hers. I’m not moving an inch, probably not even breathing at this point, because I need to know if I’ve overstepped a line that I promised myself I would never ever cross.
“When you say it like that, it sounds like you didn’t want me to. Did you not want me to?” I can barely hear the sound of my own voice over my heart thundering in my chest. I’m never going to forgive myself if I pushed her to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with.
“I wanted you to.” She blushes, eyes dipping to the glass in front of her before fluttering up to mine again. Is that a good sign? I don’t know. “I wanted it a lot.”
“Good.” I nod to myself, feeling the rush of earth-shattering relief course through me, and turn back to the grilled cheese on the stove.
The butter sizzling on the pan is the only sound between us, while I will my racing heart to calm down.
When the bread is golden-brown on each side and the cheese is perfectly melted, I plate it up and slide it across to her. Her glass is empty, so I refill it while she digs in, rounding the kitchen island to her side before I hand it back over. She’s watching me with big eyes.
“I like this.”
“What?”
“You being nice to me.”
A piece of her hair has escaped one of the small clips holding it back. I sweep it behind her ear, the tips of my fingers brushing against her cheek in the faintest of touches. She noticeably shivers at my touch. “I’m always nice.”
“This is different,” she says. I swallow, thinking she might just be right. It feels different.
“Eat, Tulip.”
Her lips wrap around the sandwich, and when she moans her appreciation, I’m tempted to reach for her again.
“I’m going to head to bed,” I tell her instead. “Will you be okay?”
She nods. “Thanks for the food.”
“Anytime.” I walk away before I can do something stupid, like pull her toward me or ask her why she thinks sex is the only reason someone would be nice to her.