7. Betsy #2
Heat blooms across my chest and up my neck. I reach for my water glass to hide my reaction, but my fingers fumble, sending it tipping toward his lap. Conor catches it with impressive reflexes, our hands colliding in the process.
“Sorry,” I mutter, mortified.
“Don’t be.” He rights the glass, his fingers lingering against mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to hold your hand all night.”
The directness of his statement knocks the breath from my lungs. This is nothing like the games Devon played, the constant guessing, the deliberate withholding. Conor’s honesty is as refreshing as it is terrifying.
“That’s... forward of you,” I manage.
“Too forward?” His confidence wavers, and I find I like this glimpse of vulnerability even more than his self-assurance.
“No,” I admit. “Just unexpected.”
The relief in his smile makes something twist pleasantly in my stomach. Under the table, his knee presses more deliberately against mine, and I don't move away.
The evening winds down gradually, team members peeling off in twos and threes until only Conor, Jess, Raj, and I remain. When Jess yawns widely enough to crack her jaw, Raj offers to share an Uber with her.
“Looks like that’s our cue,” Conor says, throwing down enough cash to cover more than his share of the bill. “Can I drive you home?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility.
“Yes,” I say simply.
The night air has cooled considerably when we step outside, and I shiver in my light jacket. Without a word, Conor shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over my shoulders. The fabric is still warm from his body, carrying that same intoxicating scent of sandalwood and cedar.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, though I’m genuinely touched by the gesture.
“My mother would haunt me from the grave if I let a woman shiver when I could do something about it.” His hand finds the small of my back again as we walk, guiding me through a group of rowdy college students spilling out of a nearby bar .
The streets of Brooklyn are never truly quiet, but there’s a different energy now—more intimate somehow, as if the city is settling in for the night.
Headlights sweep across us as cars pass, momentarily illuminating Conor’s profile.
I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the slight bump in his nose that suggests it was broken once.
“See something you like?” he asks without looking at me, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Maybe.” I pull his jacket tighter around me. “I’m trying to figure you out."
“What’s to figure out? I’m an open book."
“Nobody’s an open book, Conor. Everyone has chapters they don’t read aloud.”
We reach his car, but instead of unlocking it immediately, he turns to face me, leaning against the driver’s side door. “Ask me anything. I’ll give you an honest answer.”
The streetlight above casts half his face in shadow, making him look mysterious despite his claim of transparency. I consider his offer, weighing possible questions.
“Why me?” I finally ask. “You could have any woman you want. Why are you interested in someone who’s clearly still dealing with baggage from her ex?”
His eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his features before settling into something more thoughtful. “That’s your question? Not about my net worth or if I have a secret family stashed away somewhere?"
“Those aren’t the things that matter.”
Conor nods slowly, as if approving my priorities.
“Why you?” He repeats it, not as a question but as if testing the words.
“Because you see the flaws in my designs and aren’t afraid to tell me.
Because you laugh with your whole body when something really amuses you.
Because you pretended not to notice when I spilled sauce on my shirt earlier, but discreetly handed me a napkin under the table. ”
Each reason lands like a physical touch. No one has ever paid such careful attention to me before.
“As for the baggage,” he continues, “everyone has some. I’m not looking for perfection, Betsy. I’m looking for real.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache. Before I can overthink it, I step closer, eliminating the careful distance between us. His breath catches audibly as I place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart race beneath my palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say softly. “I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.”
His hand covers mine, where it rests against his chest. “The night doesn’t have to end yet.”
The invitation in his words is unmistakable, sending a thrill down my spine. Part of me wants to say yes immediately, to follow this attraction to its natural conclusion. But another part—the part that’s still healing from Devon’s casual cruelty—hesitates.
“I have an early site meeting tomorrow,” I say, regretting coloring my voice.
Disappointment flashes in his eyes, quickly replaced by understanding. “Rain check, then."
“Definitely a rain check.”
He lifts my hand from his chest and, maintaining eye contact, presses a kiss to my palm. The gesture is old-fashioned, almost courtly, but there’s nothing innocent about the heat in his gaze.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Betsy Miller.”