19. Jess
Jess
Code red. CODE RED.
This is not a drill. I repeat, NOT a drill.
Conor Brady and I are on a REAL LIFE DATE.
At an actual restaurant. With tables and food and wine and… oh my gosh, shut up brain!
My nerves are on high alert and electricity zips through my body. We’re seated on the patio of a beautiful rooftop restaurant, decorated with soft, billowing canopies, intimate booths, and a rich array of tumbling vines and ivy. There’s even a trickling water feature!
It looks like something out of some prestigious “World’s Best Rooftops” magazine (if there is such a thing), but the relaxed vibe ensures it isn’t pretentious or forced. I don’t feel like I’m sticking out like a sore thumb in my shorts and t-shirt combo.
Johnny never took me anywhere like this—he preferred the kinds of ritzy places that try too hard. You know, the ones that always have overpriced spinach dip and tons of dark wood panelling.
Conor smiles softly at me, his features even more chiseled under the glimmering fairy lights. I feel like I’m in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Though hopefully I’m not that character who ends up turning into a donkey.
“Do you like it?”
I nod, breathless. “I love it.”
I’m about to ask how he discovered this hidden gem, but then, I remember who I’m on a date with. Of course Conor knows about the best date spot in all of Atlanta.
“Do you bring a lot of girls here, then?” I blurt.
Conor reacts surprisingly well to my complete lack of grace, and he laughs, emerald eyes glinting. “No. I’ve never brought anyone here. Unless you count Mia. Which would be weird—so please don’t.”
I bite my lip to hold back a smile. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “This place is special to me.”
Special. My heart picks up speed, leaping around my chest like a rabbit gone rogue. He’s taken me somewhere special.
“How so?” I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin casually in my cupped hand.
Conor swirls the water around his glass, frowning. He pauses for a moment and I watch him keenly. It occurs to me that I could watch his face for hours, pick out the tiny details and make a list of them.
Then, he sighs. “My parents went through a really bad divorce when I was in high school. My mom moved us to Atlanta, and we lived in a little apartment in a crappy neighborhood.”
I sit back in my seat. That wasn’t the answer I expected. “I didn’t realize you weren’t from here.”
“I’ve been here for long enough that it feels like I am.”
“Where did you move from?”
“Durham.”
I nod slowly and continue to watch Conor. He’s still swirling the liquid around his glass. “So how did you find this place?” I ask gently.
“Mom worked nights, so she wasn’t around much.
At the time, I was in tenth grade, and Mia was in eighth.
She was struggling at her new school, had a hard time fitting in.
So many nights, she’d come home sad, and there was nothing I could do to make her feel better.
The middle school was separate from the high school so I couldn’t even have lunch with her. ”
Conor takes a deep breath, his frown darkening. I’m silent, just watching him.
“I’d pick her up after school,” he continues.
“And we’d drive downtown and spend hours walking around, exploring.
It always felt so sparkly and fancy compared to where we lived.
For a few hours, we could forget about the problems of our real lives.
Especially after we stumbled upon this place.
The owner used to let us sit in the back corner.
He’d make us vanilla milkshakes and we’d do our homework. ”
My breath catches and my heart expands a little further for Conor. With every moment I spend with him—every little thing I learn about him—my heart makes room for him. Wants him more.
Before I can reply, though, our heavily tattooed waiter appears at our side, and refills our water glasses. “Can I get you two anything else to drink?”
“We’ll have two vanilla milkshakes,” I say decisively.
The waiter glances between me and Conor and a flash of confusion crosses his face. I just stare right back at him, as if to say—that’s right, we’re two full-grown, thirty-ish year old adults, and we want to drink milkshakes.
He recovers quickly enough and takes down our order. “Uh—sure. Coming right up.”
When I turn back to Conor, he’s grinning.
“Where does your mom live now?” I ask, diverting the subject a bit. I’m sure he doesn’t want my pity.
He looks dreamy for a moment. “The first house I ever flipped was for her. She didn’t like living in the big city, so I bought a cottage in the far suburbs, and made it into the home she always wanted.”
My heart groans with the new stretch mark that appears after that comment.
“She must be so proud of you.”
“Her and Mia are my world.”
I nod, understanding. Because it’s how I’ve always felt about Aiden.
I smile and lean forward, happy to be learning so much about Conor’s past and hungry for more. Hungry to know everything about him. “So, that’s where Brady Homes started. How did you end up growing your business to where it is today?”
Conor reaches for his napkin and runs the material through his fingers.
“I met Karla while doing that first flip—she was the selling realtor for the cottage. We got to talking and I told her about my vision. She wanted to take another step in her career, and with her knowledge of the market, it made sense to partner up and use her for every project. Well, back then it made sense.”
I’ll admit that the selfish little brat inside me did a happy dance at his use of the past tense.
Bad Jess.
“What changed?”
“Karla’s, um, priorities are a little different than mine sometimes.” A shadow crosses Conor’s features. “I care a lot about restoration, Karla more about… other things. She thinks I should be taking on investors, but—”
“Two vanilla milkshakes!” The waiter interrupts brightly, setting down two huge glasses practically overflowing with creamy white liquid and whipped cream. “I’ll be back shortly to take your food order.”
“Thank you.” I accept the treat and swirl the straw in the glass before taking a big sip. It’s delicious—rich and frothy and sweet. “Mmm.”
I open my eyes to see Conor watching me, his eyes hooded and glinting. “Good?”
“ So good.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Why don’t you work with another realtor if you don’t like the direction Karla’s suggesting?”
“I don’t know.” Conor’s frown deepens as he wraps his fingers around the frosty glass. “Karla and I have worked together for years. She’s been a bit of an advisor, but this time, I’m not sure I want to take her advice.”
“I love that you care about restoration. And people appreciate the care you put into things, I know they do,” I say more passionately than I intend. “It was the first thing I noticed when I stepped into Aiden’s house. You really managed to preserve the character of the place.”
Conor smiles, his lips parting slightly.
Then, without warning, he reaches across the table for my hand.
His fingertips are icy cold from where they cupped his glass, and a shudder travels all the way up my arm.
The good kind of shudder. The kind that makes the hairs stand up at the back of your neck and your stomach plummet into freefall.
He gazes at me with such intensity, such sincerity, that my breath catches. “Jess.” His voice is low. “Why don’t you believe in yourself like you believe in other people?”
My smile fades as I get lost in his eyes. “Hmm?”
He leans closer, so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Smell that pine and clean laundry scent that makes me want to pounce on him like a starving tiger on a raw steak.
“You don’t believe in yourself, but you believe in everyone else,” he repeats, and I’m hypnotized watching his lips moving around the words. “You should be thinking about how you could start your own business selling your art. You could be so successful.”
His words sink in and I shift in my chair, chuckling nervously. How is it that this man—a veritable stranger until two weeks ago—can see inside me to my deepest desires, greatest fears, and strongest doubts? He seems to know me in a way that my boyfriend of six years never even began to discover.
Conor waits for me patiently, his eyes scanning my face.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I finally dither, uncomfortable.
“You should.” Conor’s tone is firm, like he’s stating a well-known fact.
And maybe it’s the confidence in his tone, his clear belief in me, or the oncoming sugar rush, but for the first time in years, I begin to entertain the thought that I might actually want to pursue painting. For real.
The thought is fleeting, and is quickly followed by layers of self-doubt and uncertainty. But Conor’s words light a fire in me that I’m not sure will be going out anytime soon.
We spend hours on that rooftop, as he and Mia used to do every day after school.
We talk, and laugh, and share our hopes and dreams like we’ve known each other forever, but want to spend forever getting to know each other better.
By the end of the evening, I haven’t had a single sip of alcohol—favoring a second milkshake over a glass of wine—but I am well and truly drunk on Conor Brady.
We leave reluctantly when the restaurant closes for the night, and the whole way home, we’re silent. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I keep stealing glances at Conor. Sometimes catching him in the act of stealing glances at me.
I’ve never been on such a perfect first date.
But, I’ve also never been on a first date where our final destination is the SAME HOUSE. Where the person I am on said date with, lives in the NEXT BEDROOM.
The air in the cab of the truck is crackling, full of static, and my head swims.
By the time we get home, my insides are a jangle of nerves. I jump out of the truck too fast, almost face planting on the sidewalk.
Conor is at my side in an instant. He extends an arm to steady me. “Whoa.”
“I drank too much,” I joke weakly.