31. Eden
EDEN
Twenty hours later, I park my car in a guest spot in Connor’s garage. It’s noon, our date starting early because the museum closes at four.
Looking around, I don’t see Connor anywhere. We’re supposed to meet here, so he’s probably still making his way down from the condo.
Twisting to grab my overnight bag from the back, I note the two books tucked inside, among my change of clothes and toiletries.
And the question surges to the front of my mind again. Should I bring up the dom-sub topic today? I’m still unsure if it’s the best idea to raise it with Connor this early on.
Or maybe I’m just being chicken.
See how the date goes first, I tell myself. It’s a typical procrastination approach for me, but I do also want to stay in the moment with Connor during the date. Being distracted by this potential conversation is not a promising way to start the outing.
A rap on my window startles me out of my thoughts. It’s Connor. “Hey, you ready?” His voice is muffled, but I can still understand him.
“I am.”
He opens my car door for me. “Do you need any help carrying anything?” He’d suggested I bring the overnight bag “if you’d be comfortable,” and it was kind of sweet.
“No, I’m okay.” His face looks so earnest, it makes me smile. “It’s light.”
“I would’ve come to Tolliver to pick you up.”
“I know. It’s not fair to make you do that long round trip every time, though.”
He gives me a peck on the cheek. “I don’t mind.”
I’d mentioned to Connor that I would have to leave early tomorrow to work on a paper for my Advanced Sociology class. Accurate. But also, in case we had the dom-sub conversation and it went south, I’d have an easy exit strategy.
Stop dwelling on that. Enjoy the actual date.
He leads me to his car, and we get on the road. It’s a quick trip, eight minutes.
“So how did you get interested in art history?” I ask after he’s done setting up the GPS.
He taps the steering wheel with his fingers. “You know how, hundreds of years ago, many of the great scientists were also artists? Or how artists studied math and anatomy to guide their designs?”
Now I do, after weeks in my class. “Yep.”
“I read a huge art history book that Grace had in her room one summer. Leonardo da Vinci is probably the most famous example, right? His dissections to study anatomy, and all that. I became intrigued at how science and art overlapped and went down a rabbit hole for a bit.”
“How old were you?”
He smirks. “Fifteen. I wasn’t the cool kid like Rawley.”
“Come on. Soccer star, smarty-pants Connor?”
He huffs out a laugh. “I was a beanpole at that age and took myself way too seriously to be the charming guy you know now.”
The thought of Connor as a teen has my mind wandering in a different direction. “Did you date in high school?”
He takes a couple seconds before responding, probably absorbing my change in topic. “Not at fifteen. I had a girlfriend senior year, at seventeen. We were as committed as high school dating gets.”
Okay, so… “You didn’t stay together because…”
“She got into the University of Michigan, and we didn’t want to do the long-distance thing. Then I dated someone at Princeton for a while. It didn’t work out and I haven’t seen anyone regularly in over three years.”
I bite my lip. This could be an opening to talk to him…
Before I can, he turns the tables. “How about you?”
“Similar story. I had my first steady boyfriend in my sophomore and junior years of high school. But lately, nothing. I haven’t dated anyone since Greg.”
“Our Independence Day inspiration last year?”
I giggle. “Exactly.”
We make it to the museum as soon as the word escapes my lips. Date time. Guess my question will have to wait.
“So there’s mainly American and contemporary art here,” Connor explains once we’re inside. “They have an African art collection as well, but it’s viewable by appointment only.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Contemporary. Let’s start at the American Art display and then end there.”
In the first room, most of the paintings capture telling moments of the country’s past—like exhausted-looking dock workers painted a century ago, or a woman crying in a small kitchen wearing 1950s-style clothing. The colors are largely muted, the scenes often wrenching.
“As much as some like to glorify the past, I’m glad we live in the present,” I whisper to Connor in front of the 1950s piece.
“That’s for certain.” He reaches over and brushes my back. “You want to stay in this area? It’s not the most upbeat environment for a date.”
“Let’s keep going for now. I mean, it’s interesting art. Plus maybe the mood will shift in the rest of the collection.”
“I’m a completionist, so no complaints on my end. Come on.” I follow his lead as he moves at a faster pace through the next room of the American Art display.
We’re in the second-to-last exhibit when his phone buzzes. He checks it, and there’s a text notification I can read from my position standing next to him.
MOM: I’ve purchased my plane ticket to Orlando for Christmas.
A shiver rolls through his body.
“Everything okay?” I reflexively ask.
“Yeah…it’s just my mom in a family group chat she set up.”
“Oh, you can answer her if you need to.”
“No. Not now.” His voice is clipped, and he must notice my mouth twist, confused by his response. “I’m sorry. I just…I’ll tell you more about her, but not today? I want to keep it positive.” By the end, he sounds more like himself.
Now I’m curious more than anything, but don’t push the topic—a public museum isn’t a place for a conversation about family issues, anyway.
He seems to shake it off as we move to the final room in the American Art exhibit, which focuses on photographs.
They’re largely black and white, but the pictures are more uplifting—like an overjoyed boy cheering on a baseball player.
Once we’ve walked through it, he grabs my hand. “Done. Now to my favorite part.”
As he guides me to the Contemporary wing, the neutral and dark tones of the American Art section give way to a vibrant, colorful display. Connor comes alive once we start examining the pieces, pointing out different details. The part of him that fell in love with art as a teen, revealed.
After about an hour, moving slowly and admiring each piece, we reach a large landscape. It’s so striking that it takes over the final room in the Contemporary wing.
“You can see how she’s using color theory influences here,” he explains. “That began with the post-impressionists, but this is a modern take.”
We’re side by side, and he brushes the back of his hand against mine. Intentionally? I’m not sure, but tingles shoot up my arm.
“We haven’t even gotten to the impressionists yet in class.” The painting looks like a gorgeous mix of bold colors dotted into a seascape to me, but it’s neat to learn more from Connor.
He adjusts his glasses. “Oh yeah, you’ll study all of this. Color theory is basically applied science on display. The painters in that period began utilizing optical research to create art that leverages how our eyes process color.”
Dropping down from his frames, the back of his hand slides gently against mine again. This time, I reciprocate, pressing against his in return. “You’re hot when you’re showing off all that brain power.”
“Sorry.” He chuckles softly. “TMI on the art front.” He wraps his pinky around mine, tugging gently. It’s like we’re having one conversation with our minds, and a different one with our hands.
“No, it’s interesting. It’s kind of like your condo in here.” All the brightly colored, abstract pieces have a similar vibe to the art his brother’s collected.
Tug. “I can give you the backstory of all of those pieces too if you want,” he teases.
I want more touching, please. I bring my shoulder to his arm, encouraging him. “I’d be good with that. It’s nice to get to know Connor Battle, the Renaissance man.”
“Except I’ve never had creative talent like these artists.” His voice is faint as he glances down at where we’re connected.
“Mmmm.”
Eyes flicking over my face again, he grins. “But I have other talents. Come on.”
He walks me hand in hand through the exhibits. We pass a long, dark hallway, and he stops.
“Here,” he instructs, pulling me into the shadowy space.
“Are we going to another wine cellar?” I joke.
He laughs. “Afraid not.” Once we’re at the end of the hallway, he pins me against the wall, his hands pushing mine against the hard, cold concrete. “I needed to do this.”
His lips come down hard on mine, and I can barely breathe as he owns my mouth. The intensity of his attention is all-consuming, and when he adds to it by lining up our bodies, I whimper.
He rips his mouth away from mine. “Stay quiet, Eden.” His tone is playful, but firm.
When he bends to rejoin our lips, I’m more prepared for him, and the kiss evolves into a give-and-take. It’s only when a shadow slinks past the wall that we stop.
“Shit, I wish we were back at my place already.” He takes a step away.
“The museum’s only open another thirty minutes. Should we just leave?”
He smiles. “Yeah, let’s go.”
We speed walk out of the front door, and the drive back to his place is charged with electricity. I can’t help but observe how his commanding approach drove our time in the hallway.
Does he notice how directive he is?
The question is burning up my brain. I hate unanswered questions, and now we’ve had three occasions that scream in my memory.
If it is what he’s into, won’t it be a good thing to get it out in the open?
Not to mention, if I leave the question in limbo, it’s going to distract me when we start fooling around again. So I steel my nerves.
“Um, Connor…can I ask you a question?”
He glances my way before turning back to the road. “Of course.”
I fidget with my seatbelt strap. “Have you…Has anyone…I guess I’ve been wondering…” Ugh, why can’t I find the right words?
His eyes stay on the road. “What? What are you wondering?”
Spit it out, Eden. “Have you ever thought you might want to be a Dom? Like in a dominant-submissive relationship?”
He whips his head to me. “Huh?”
“Bree had me read these books, and they’re wildly different from our situation, but they…triggered a connection for me.”
He blinks. “Bree? Books?” He turns back to the road, with a confused expression.
“Ignore the Bree part.” I’m doing a crap job of explaining this. “These romance books, they follow characters that have dom-sub relationships. Like it’s what they’re into sexually.”
He furrows his brow, glancing back at me briefly. “You think that’s what I’m into?”
“Not just you. Me too.”
He pauses. “You too.” The words are drawled out, and for the first time, there’s a hint of interest.
“Yes, the way you…tell me what to do, give me orders, I guess is how I would put it. I think I like it. No, I do like it.”
“Well, that’s what matters to me. What you like.”
I don’t want that to be the point of the conversation. “I mean, I appreciate that. But I…it’s not only about me.”
“Okay. Yes. I just…I do what feels instinctual. Like I’ve said, I’ve always preferred feeling like I’m in control of my…circumstances, so it does make sense that you would pick up on it.”
Part of me doesn’t really want to ask the next question, but it’s a missing piece. “Have you been like this with other women before me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, so I try to fill the silence.
“I’m just curious, sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I tend to…keep everything bottled up. Private. But it’s a fair question.”
“Still. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable…”
“I’m okay. You’re helping me to connect dots I didn’t recognize before.”
I stay quiet as he processes. A few moments later, he answers my earlier question. “The honest answer is no. My college girlfriend, she was more like me. She enjoyed running the show. So I often did what she wanted. In every aspect.”
“Okay.” That’s all the details I need.
“Otherwise, I guess I’ve been more assertive with others than with my ex, but I’ve never noticed the pattern.” He crinkles his brow. “How about you? Have you…experienced this before?”
“Um, well…I guess there were signs, but no situation that made it clear. To me, anyway.”
“Signs?”
“I…do you really want to hear this?”
“Maybe not, but my brain won’t shut off the question.”
We’re so similar that way. “Okay…well, my high school boyfriend, he used to pin me down. Consensually, I mean. I liked that.”
“Okay.”
We’re both quiet for a minute.
“When we get back to my house, can I take a look at those books?” he asks finally.