Chapter 8
I reread the email, a permanent smile fixed on my face.
My jaw dropped the first time I read it. I’m still in awe, even though I practically have the entire email memorized at this point from the countless times I’ve read it.
I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to get said soon-to-be flower truck. I need someone to drive me and tow it back so it can get a much-needed makeover and tune-up, but I like to be the person helping others, not the one asking for assistance.
It probably has something to do with my undiagnosed eldest-daughter issues.
The revelation hit me when I listened to track five—if you know, you know—on the newest Taylor Swift album, and the tears started flowing as if the song had tapped into something deep in my soul.
I have never felt more seen in my life. The fact that I always feel pressure for everything to be perfect.
My intense need to watch out for my little sister.
The way I struggle to say no. Boundaries? What are those?
But I’m an optimist above all else, so I think being the eldest daughter also made me more of an empathetic and responsible adult. See? I’m just an independent and caring person. Take that, boundaries.
I shake my head. It’s time to stop rereading this email and figure out how to make a balloon-animal monkey.
Yeah, that whole boundaries thing means I’m horrible at saying no.
Even when a friend of a friend asks if I know how to make monkey balloon animals for her son’s zoo-themed birthday party.
To be clear, I one hundred percent do not know how to make a monkey out of a long, thin balloon.
But I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge… or say no, is more like it.
I take a fortifying sip of my favorite drink, an iced strawberry matcha, then thumb back over to the instructional video I’ve already watched five times.
With a glance at all my failed monkeys on the kitchen table that look more fitting for a horror-themed party than a zoo one, I sigh and press play again. Sixth time is a charm, right?
Okay, maybe not.
I’m thirteen balloons in—fourteen, if you count the one that exploded when I overfilled it—and am no closer to anything resembling a monkey.
I lock my phone screen and grab the long balloon I just blew up with a pump.
“You are a master balloon-animal maker. You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself. Maybe some false confidence will instill me with whatever skills I’m clearly lacking.
“What are you doing?”
The masculine voice behind me makes my arms jerk, practically throwing the balloon in the air. The only reason I’m able to maintain some semblance of calm is that I immediately recognize the voice as if it’s the chorus to my old favorite song.
“You can’t just sneak up on a girl.” I whip around and move my hands behind my back, hiding my sad excuse for a balloon-animal monkey.
My eyes drink in Connor Porter standing in my living room in a long-sleeved tee with the LFD Station 13 logo on it as if he’s the last swig of lemonade on a hot summer day.
He has no business looking that good in a plain T-shirt.
And I can’t help but notice how his fresh haircut and shave have him looking just like he did in high school.
Connor is a creature of habit, but once you find a look that works that well for you, I suppose there’s no use changing it up.
My heart does a little pitter-patter in my chest. Obviously, I’m doing a great job at tamping down this crush.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He would think I’m so weird if he saw what I was doing. Definitely not the impression I want to make on the man I’ve been crushing on since before I even hit puberty.
Connor takes a step closer.
I move back, ramming my hip bone into the kitchen table. “Oh, petunias.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
I stare at him blankly.
“Why did you say petunias?”
“It’s a new thing I’m trying out—saying the names of flowers instead of cursing.”
“That’s oddly specific, but fitting.”
I smile. “I thought so.”
He closes the remaining distance between us, wraps his arm around me, and grasps my hand. The feeling of his skin on mine again takes my breath away. Except this time, it’s not because of anxiety from a plane ride or being stuck in a burning building. It’s only him.
I’m powerless against his strength as he pulls my hand back in front of me and the poorly made balloon animal along with it. Connor peers down and tilts his head, probably trying to puzzle together what the heck I’m holding.
He continues to stare, and a blush blossoms on my cheeks. I haven’t told my family or even my best friends about all the crazy requests I’ve said yes to because of my inability to feel like I’m disappointing people. Now my longtime crush is seeing it with his very eyes.
Connor finally drags his gaze up and looks over his shoulder at the sea of failed monkeys on the kitchen table behind me. I’ve had a lot of embarrassing moments in my life, but I think this one officially takes the cake.
He opens his mouth and shuts it. I don’t blame him. I have no words to explain the scene behind me. After a painful stretch of silence, Connor finally puts me out of my misery. “Are you joining the circus, flower?”
I’m so focused on my deep-seated mortification that I almost miss what he said. My eyes dart up to his, searching. “Did you just call me flower?”
He makes a weird sound between a cough and a sputter. “Uh, no.”
I raise my eyebrow as if to say Really?
“I said, ‘Are you joining the circus forever?’”
He most certainly did not say that. But if he wants to pretend, I’ll play along.
“No, I’m not joining the circus, Eeyore.”
Connor’s lips don’t even twitch, ever a firm line. Maybe it’s a trick in the lighting, but his eyes do look softer, like there’s a hint of humor there.
“Would you rather be called Blaze?” I shoot him a teasing smile. “Ooh, what about Sparky?”
“No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No firefighter nicknames.”
“We could just go with Grumpy.”
“As in, one of the seven dwarves?” I nod, and he sighs. “No.”
“Nicknames are bestowed upon you.” My brows furrow. “You can’t say no.”
Connor shrugs. “I just did.”
I drop the balloon I’m holding in the pile on the table and place my hands on my hips, knowing better than to get into a battle of wills with Connor Porter. “What are you even doing here?”
“Helping you.”
“With what?”
He crosses his arms, making the material of his shirt stretch taut across his chest and biceps. “That’s what I’m here to find out. My sister wouldn’t tell me.”
“How did you even get in?” I purse my lips. “I’m the only one home.”
“Mallory told me to let myself in.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, toward the front door. “You know, you really should keep that locked. It’s dangerous.”
“The only person who has ever let themselves in is you. So are you saying you’re a dangerous person?” I pull my phone out of my floral-print jeans. “Should I call the police?”
“You’re safe with me.”
Goosebumps erupt on my skin like they do every time I listen to “Long Live.” But this time, it’s because of the protectiveness in his tone and the thought of how safe I felt next to him on the plane and in his arms when he carried me out of a literal burning building.
When I realize I’ve been staring at him, I clear my throat. “Oh, good. I’ve already called 911 one too many times this month.”
His jaw ticks, and I have to avert my gaze. There’s something about a protective man that’s just so attractive.
“Too soon?” Joking about the situation is the only way I seem to stay calm. Connor has seen me in a state of panic two times too many in the last fortnight.
I reach forward and brush my fingers on his freshly shaven, chiseled jawline before I can stop myself. “I can’t believe you shaved your beard.”
He flinches like my fingers are shards of glass. I move to step back out of instinct, ramming my hip into the table again. Yep, definitely going to have a bruise there in the morning. “Candytufts,” I hiss.
I swear, Connor’s lips twitch. It is now my new personal life goal to make Connor Porter smile. Better yet, to make Connor Porter laugh.
“Gesundheit,” he says.
I swat his arm. “It’s a shrub.”
“My sentiments remain the same.”
I choose to ignore his comment because, again, I’m not about to get into a battle of wills with the most stubborn, strongheaded person I know. “Why’d you shave it?”
“There was a mishap at the haircut place.”
“A mishap?” I grab the edge of the table with my hands and push myself up, sitting on the edge of it. “This sounds like a story I need to hear.”
He grunts. “It’s not that good. Just a kid running around with a fistful of hair who decided playing tag with Alyssa right as she was trimming my beard was a wonderful idea.”
I laugh. “At least it wasn’t while she was cutting your hair.”
“Yeah.” Connor runs a hand through his hair, slightly curled at the end of the strands. “I’m just glad she has a barber certification, otherwise I would’ve had to leave with a giant patch of my beard missing.”
I tilt my head. “Well, it looks good.” I keep my hands to myself this time, not wanting a repeat flinch. My fragile little heart can only take so much rejection from him.
“Thanks.” He points to the pile of balloon animals. “Are you going to tell me what that’s about?”
“I’ll tell you as long as you promise to not think I’m crazy.
” He shrugs, and I think that’s as good a guarantee as I’m going to get.
“Well, I learned how to face paint for Reagan’s friend’s little sister’s birthday party last year, and apparently my mediocre skills were a big hit, because one of the moms reached out, asking if I knew how to make balloon-animal monkeys.
You see, her son is having a zoo-themed party, and I guess she thought that subpar face-painting skills would translate over to balloon animal–making skills.
” I gesture to the failed monkeys. “Obviously, that wasn’t the case. ”