6. Conor
CONOR
T he cool night air hits my face as I stand outside Betsy’s brownstone, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
I adjust the collar of my bowling shirt—just the right balance of effort and nonchalance—and rake my fingers through my hair before jamming the doorbell.
Thomas shot me that look when I told him I’d take the wheel tonight instead of using the car service, but a man handles certain things on his own.
He wouldn’t understand. Thomas has the kind of marriage people write songs about—twenty years with his college sweetheart, two kids, and still looks at her like she hung the moon.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent my thirties in a wasteland of dating apps and first-date small talk that goes nowhere.
Until Betsy. God, Betsy Miller with her huge brain, dark eyes, and that laugh that makes my chest ache.
When the door swings open, I forget how to breathe.
Her expression transforms—lips parting, eyes widening—like I’m the surprise she didn’t know she was waiting for.
The hallway light catches each strand of her dark hair, turning the waves into rivers of amber and mahogany.
Her face, framed in this golden halo, makes my fingers itch to trace the curve of her cheek, the soft bow of her mouth.
Those eyes of hers—deep brown with flecks of honey near the pupils—lock onto mine, and for a moment, I let myself believe she’s been counting the minutes too.
“Conor?” Her eyes widen, dark lashes fluttering as she grips the doorframe.
“I thought Thomas would be—I mean, you came yourself?” Her voice rises with what sounds like genuine pleasure, a warmth that spreads across her features like sunrise.
I feel a grin taking over my face before I can stop it, the kind that starts at one corner of my mouth and conquers the rest.
“Figured Thomas deserved a break from babysitting me tonight. That a problem?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small silver earring that catches the porch light.
“Not at all,” she says, and her smile—slow, a little crooked, devastatingly real—hits me square in the chest like a physical blow. “Just give me a second.”
She disappears, returns with a small purse and a leather jacket slung over one arm. Her jeans hug curves that make my hands itch to follow their path, and her cute bowling shirt reveals just enough collarbone to make my mouth go dry. My throat tightens, a physical ache spreading through my chest.
“You look...” I search for something that won’t sound desperate, “...incredible.”
Her cheeks flush as she locks her door, yanking it three times to check. “For bowling? You’re easily impressed, Campbell. ”
We hit the steps, and she grabs my forearm. Her touch sears through my sleeve, marking territory I’d gladly surrender. Something spicy and dark wraps around us—cinnamon and amber maybe—making my pulse hammer harder. I fight the urge to bury my face in her hair, to claim that scent as mine.
I’m about to fire back when movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
A shadow detaches from one of the massive oaks lining the street, a silhouette materializing like ink bleeding through paper.
The harsh streetlight cuts across a face with sandy blonde hair, styled too perfectly for this time of night, and a jaw locked so tight that the tendons stand out like cables beneath his skin.
His eyes—cold blue chips of winter sky—lock onto Betsy with possessive intensity before sliding to me with naked contempt.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” The words come out like ice breaking on a frozen lake, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “Who’s this asshole? Why were you keeping him a secret?”
Beside me, Betsy goes statue-still, her entire body tensing like a sprinter before the gun. Her nails dig half-moons into my arm, five perfect crescents of panic. “Devon?” Her voice drops to nothing, a whisper so fragile it might shatter in the space between us. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to speak to you, and you refused to let me inside.” He advances, expensive Italian shoes crunching gravel. The tailored suit can’t hide the predator stance—shoulders hunched, weight forward on the balls of his feet.
“I’m not required to be available to you whenever you decide you need a shoulder to cry on.” Betsy’s voice hardens. “ Tonight, I have plans and do not have time for you. Please, leave.”
I size him up—Devon—tracking the way his hands ball into fists then release, over and over, like he’s squeezing invisible stress balls.
The expensive watch on his wrist catches the streetlight as his fingers flex.
Something unstable radiates off him like heat from summer asphalt, a shimmer in the air you can almost see.
His cologne—something designer and overpowering—reaches me even from six feet away.
“Since when do you push me away?” Devon asks, eyes darting between us like he can’t decide who to hit first, the blue in them gone glacier-cold. A muscle in his jaw jumps beneath stubble too perfect to be accidental. “We need to talk, Betsy. Now.”
I step between them before I even think about it, drawing myself up to my full six-foot-three, shoulders squared under my bowling shirt. My voice drops an octave, rumbling out of my chest like distant thunder. “The lady doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
Devon’s eyes narrow to slits, his pupils dilating until the blue is just a razor-thin ring of ice.
He measures me like a butcher sizing up meat—height, shoulders, the muscle built from years of actual work instead of designer gym memberships.
A vein pulses at his temple, his jaw clenching so hard I can almost hear his teeth crack.
Betsy makes this sound beside me—half snort, half growl—and moves to my side, pressing against me with deliberate possession, her heat branding my arm.
The scent of her fills my lungs, igniting something primal.
“Devon, I’m busy tonight,” she says, each word a steel blade.
“If you need to talk, call my office tomorrow. During business hours. Like everyone else who isn’t entitled to my personal time. ”
The air between us crackles with invisible electricity, making the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.
Devon’s weight shifts forward—knuckles whitening, shoulders bunching beneath his tailored jacket—then rocks back on his Italian leather heels.
His eyes dart from my clenched fists to her face, calculating odds like a cornered animal.
“Fine,” he spits through clenched teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he retreats one reluctant step.
“Tomorrow then.” As he stalks off down the sidewalk, shoulders rigid with wounded pride, Betsy’s slender fingers find my forearm again.
I feel the slight tremor in her touch, like autumn leaves shivering in a cold breeze.
“I’m sorry about that,” she whispers, her voice barely audible above the distant hum of traffic. “I had no idea he would—” “Don’t apologize.” I cover her hand with mine, my palm engulfing her smaller one. “You good?”
The streetlight catches her face as she nods, painting half her features in amber glow while leaving the rest in shadow—like some dramatic movie heroine who’s just escaped the villain.
Her smile returns, crooked and mischievous, chasing away the tension that had gripped her moments before.
“I am now,” she says, bouncing slightly on her toes.
“Let’s go bowling, Conor. I promised to kick your ass so thoroughly you’ll need a cushion for the ride home, remember? ”
I laugh out loud. “I can’t wait.”