Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
DAISY
I roll over in bed, groaning and squeezing my eyes shut against the bright light in my room, while I try to ignore the throbbing in my head.
It’s official, I’m never drinking again. My tongue feels fuzzy, and my hair is sticking to my neck from what I think is a combination of sweat and alcohol. I desperately need a shower and a toothbrush.
Flashes of last night flutter back into view. Lauren sliding shots across the table to me. Dancing with the girls. Telling them about Connor. Connor showing up at Tipsy’s to take me home.
I groan again at the memory I really don’t want to dissect. I roll out of bed and poke my head out into the hallway, checking for any signs of Connor. When I find it clear, I dash for the bathroom across the hall.
I feel like a human again once my hair is freshly washed and I’ve slipped into a clean set of clothes.
The apartment is quiet, and I realize Connor must have left for practice already.
I like the thought of having the entire place to myself, so I curl up on the couch with my laptop and pull up my manuscript, determined to drive this hangover away by going over the suggestions Tarah sent over yesterday.
I’m so lost in the story that I don’t hear the sound of a door opening down the hall or footsteps getting closer.
“I’m happy to see you’re still alive.” I startle when Connor drops onto the couch next to me.
He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair sticking up in every direction.
There’s a slight indentation on his cheek and judging by the state of the rest of him, I think it might be a pillow crease.
So not at practice then. He yawns, giving me a quick once over, before adding, “Nice shirt.”
Confused, I glance down the front of me to find that I’m wearing an old Southbay hockey sweatshirt that must be his. My cheeks heat instantly.
“I didn’t realize I was wearing this.”
“Keep it. I like it on you,” he says, resting his head against the back of the couch and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Don’t you have a practice to be at or something?”
He tilts his head toward me, still resting on the backrest of the couch. He shoots me a knowing grin, and all I hear is drunk me asking Connor to take me to bed. I cringe at the memory. “I’m all yours today.”
He spreads his arms out, his thigh almost touching my feet from where they’re perched up on the cushion between us. He’s warm and soft, and I bet if I leaned into him, he would smell like fresh laundry and something more earthy. I drag my feet closer to me, trying to put a bigger gap between us.
“You know we have other places to sit.”
He glances over at me with lifted eyebrows and the hint of a smirk playing on the corners of his lips. “Am I distracting you?”
“Of course not.” I huff.
“Good.” He spreads his legs a little wider, and his thigh presses against my feet again. I feel my whole body heat from that one point of contact.
“Great.” I swallow and drop my eyes to the cursor on the screen, hoping he doesn’t see how obvious the lie is.
If I thought drafting was difficult before, trying to do it with Connor so close is impossible.
I can’t tell if it’s having him this close or the memories of last night forcing their way in that’s most distracting.
Either way, it’s impossible to focus on the sentence I was in the middle of writing before he sat down.
I feel him everywhere. The brush of his arm against my knee as he rests it on the back of the couch and the press of his thigh against my ankles when I move.
But it’s the small tug of a smile on the corner of his lips when he catches me glancing his way that throws me off the most. Like he knows what he’s doing to me.
I curse my body for reacting to him. Traitor.
Connor McKibben is off-limits. Enemy territory. Completely out of bounds.
“About last night,” he starts, and I tense, my thumb accidentally getting stuck on the space key as I whip my head his way.
“We’re not talking about last night,” I cut him off before he can get another word across.
“Why not?” He’s got his whole body turned my way, his head lowered toward me.
I hate how good he looks, when I feel like I’ve been run over by a garbage truck and tossed off a cliff.
“We’re just not,” I snap.
He leans forward, until we’re face-to-face. His eyes flick between mine, and I wish I could pull away, but it’s that gravitational force getting me stuck in his orbit again. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and my eyes catch on the movement. I hate it.
So, what, he was the best sex of my life? That’s hardly saying anything, considering he only had a few competitors. I’m sure lots of guys are perfectly adequate in bed. Connor McKibben is nothing special.
“You know, I’m starting to lose track of the nights we don’t talk about. The list is getting very long.”
My cheeks flush, and I know he notices, when his lips split on a grin. “You’re mocking me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he tells me, but his eyes say something different when they drop to the front of my shirt. He brushes two fingers against the soft fabric, and I feel the whisper of his touch against my stomach. I shiver. “I really do like this on you.”
“Connor.” His name is a warning.
He shrugs, not pulling back one bit. “Just stating a fact, Tulip.”
I slam my laptop shut and slide it onto the coffee table before I push off the couch. I need to put some distance between us because the way he looks at me is dangerous.
When I burst into the kitchen, I feel like I can breathe a bit better. I head straight for the sink, running the tap as cold as I can before sticking my head under and drinking straight from it. When I resurface, I feel him right behind me.
“Classy.” He chuckles, reaching around me with one arm to grab a pan hanging off the rack on the wall.
He sets it on the counter beside me before using his other hand to open the cupboard on my right side.
He steps in closer to me as he reaches for something on the top shelf.
I shiver against the feel of his body pressed against me.
I realize much too late what he’s doing, caging me in like this.“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice sounding quiet to my own ears.
“Making pancakes.” He says it against my ear, and I have to actively pull myself back from melting against him, because the last time he spoke to me like this I was pinned beneath him mid-orgasm.
“You don’t have to keep feeding me,” I say as he pulls a pack of flour from the shelf.
“I know,” he hums. “Does that mean you don’t want pancakes?”
“I—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence. Is pancakes code for something else? It feels like it could be with the way he’s practically holding me—touching me, but not really touching me. It makes my already scrambled head throb again.
“Daisy, do you want pancakes?” he repeats. I don’t miss the way his right hand has moves to the drawer beside me, practically just an inch from my hip now, and I think he might touch me if I shifted in that direction even for the slightest of a fraction.
My mouth opens again, but nothing comes out.
I’ve lost the ability to string together a sentence as I stare at his hand on the drawer and feel the faint brush of his lips against my ear.
I don’t get a chance to figure out what this means because the next thing I know my stomach gives an angry rumble.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, as he slides away from me, stepping away to pull the drawer open and retrieve a whisk.
I stare at him, wondering how he can move around the kitchen with such ease when my heart is beating like I just ran a marathon.