Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(52)

I notice Connor staring hungrily at the cart. From beneath the domed silver plates, delicious scents waft up: cheeseburger and fries, chicken wings, mac and cheese, nachos with the works. I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I ordered everything that looked good.

It’s more than enough for two.

I wave the waiter in. “Yes, please. On the coffee table is fine.” When he rolls past me into the room, I sigh and tighten the belt on my robe. “All right, soldier, you can come in for a minute. But just to eat, okay?”

Connor looks at me from under his lashes. “Roger that.”

How he manages to make that sound so perilous, I have no idea. I decide to stay as far away from him as possible and get him out as quickly as possible because, judging by the tingling happening throughout my body from his look, I’m in serious danger of making a bad decision if he stays too long.

Another bad decision.

Shit.

The room service guy sets up the food, silverware, and a carafe of water on the coffee table, then has me sign the bill. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him, and then Connor and I are alone.

“Where do you want me?” Connor asks.

I know it’s only my imagination that makes it sound sexual, because he’s not doing anything remotely suggestive, but damn if my vagina isn’t shouting, In here, big boy!

“At the desk,” I blurt, too loudly.

Connor gives me an odd look. Ignoring it, I make myself a plate, pour a glass of water, and go sit on the chair across the room, at a safe distance. After watching me for a moment, Connor gets himself a plate of food, sits down at the desk, and starts to eat.

I notice it again, how elegant he is for a man his size. He eats with perfect self-possession, almost regally. He walks the same way, easy, smooth, with an economy of motion that’s unusually graceful. Normally, big men thump around noisily, eat noisily, take up too much space. Connor takes up a lot of space, but it’s his presence—quiet and intense, dangerous and still—and not a loud, arrogant swagger that calls attention to itself.

I’ve seen it happen many times. When Connor is in a room, every eye instinctively turns his way, even if he’s just sitting there not saying a word.

He notices me watching. “You’re gonna give me a complex, princess.”

I flush and look down at my plate. “Any news from O’Doul?”

He doesn’t mention my awkward segue. “’Bout an hour ago. All quiet. Miranda scheduled the press conference for five tomorrow evening. Word is already all over the Internet. Speculation is tending toward two camps, her resignation or a major hack.”

I’m relieved, both because S?ren hasn’t taken any action—yet—and about the rumors. I know they’ll please him.

It was smart for her to do it later instead of the morning. If I know S?ren, Miranda’s just bought us another day. He won’t want to do anything before he sees the show.

The television keeps us company as we finish our food. Having Connor here isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, and gradually I begin to relax.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “When I was fourteen, my brother Mikey died.”

Startled, I look up. Connor is staring at his plate.

“Fell out of a tree in our backyard. Wasn’t even that tall of a tree, but it didn’t matter. Mikey was five. The baby. I was the oldest. Of six, all boys, my poor mother. Anyway, after that I developed a fear of heights.” He snaps his fingers. “Boom. Like that. Totally irrational, I wasn’t even near Mikey when it happened, didn’t see him fall, nothing. But from the day of Mikey’s funeral on, I couldn’t stand to be anywhere my feet weren’t touching solid ground. I’d get dizzy going up ladders. Felt like my heart would explode if I had to climb a flight of stairs. Which was really f*cking inconvenient considering my bedroom was on the second floor of our house. I even cried when my father made me go up into the attic to get the Christmas ornaments.”

I’m astonished. “You? Cry?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Not my proudest moment, but yeah. My point is that I get it. Suffering over something you have no control over, that you picked up secondhand.”

He looks up at me. His eyes are penetrating. “Your fear of flying, I’m talking about.”

I don’t know what to say. His confession and the direction this is taking are so unexpected, I’m literally speechless.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, tosses it to his plate, and stands. When he looks at me his expression is empathetic. “What I’m trying so badly to say is that there’s a way out.”

This is dangerous territory. But after a moment, my curiosity overcomes my hesitation. “Which is?”

“Through.”

When I blink at him, confused, he clarifies.

“The obstacle is the way. The thing that ails you is also the cure. There’s no running away or going around or over. There’s no avoidance. Avoidance is just a guarantee you’ll never prevail. You have to push through, to the other side of your fear. The obstacle itself is the way through.”

My heart is doing something strange inside my chest. “You’re saying I should suck it up, put on my big-girl panties, and get on a plane.”

“I’m saying that the only way you’re ever going to get this monkey off your back is if you give it the middle finger and tell it to go f*ck itself. I know you’re capable of that.”