Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(67)

I drag in a huge breath, blow it out hard. It seems to help clear my head, so I do it again.

“Good. Keep doing that.”

Connor starts to walk again. We move down the hall until we get to the elevators. He lifts a knee and presses it against the call button, and I’m distracted from my pending mental breakdown by how impressed I am that he can stand on one foot and knee a waist-high button on the wall while holding a grown woman in his arms, all without even a wiggle of imbalance.

Between breaths, I wheeze, “Do you do Pilates? Your balance is amazing.”

“Yoga.”

He answers with a straight face, so I know he’s not making a joke. I picture Connor—macho man, hulking muscles Connor—on a yoga mat doing sun salutations and a downward-facing dog, and laugh. Unfortunately, it was badly timed as I was in the middle of gulping air, and so I start to cough, big, body-racking coughs that have Connor saying, “Whoa,” and looking alarmed.

“Put me down,” I croak, gasping.

He gently sets me on my feet and then puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. I lean against the wall and cough and cough until finally I catch my breath and look at him, my eyes watering and my face red.

“Thought you were gonna cough up a lung, princess.”

His voice is casual, but his expression is anything but. He’s concerned. Really concerned.

A melty feeling expands inside my chest. It’s definitely better than what was there a few moments ago.

I blurt, “Thank you.”

His forehead wrinkles. “For saying you were gonna cough up a lung?”

“For getting me out of there. And for being…”

I flail around for the right word, but Connor supplies it before I can come up with anything.

“Supportive?”

“Yes,” I say as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “Supportive. Thank you.”

He gazes at me for a moment. As if just realizing his hands are still on my shoulders, he withdraws, shoves them into his pockets, and clears his throat.

“Sure. That’s what friends are for.”

Friends. Why those seven letters arranged in that particular way and said in that particular tone should irritate me so much at this particular moment, I don’t want to examine.

Yes, I’m going with denial, thank you very much. It’s highly underrated.

We get in the elevator. The doors slide shut. Connor presses the button for the ground floor. We stand beside each other, subjected to a truly hideous Muzak rendition of the Rolling Stone’s song “Under My Thumb” as the car descends.

I try not to read any significance into it.

When the doors open, Connor asks, “Where to?”

His assumption that wherever I’m going, he’s going doesn’t irk me as much as it should. In fact, I’m grateful for it.

I don’t want to be alone with my brain right now. I can’t trust it. I don’t know what tricks it might play on me, what rabid-dog memories it might decide to unleash.

“A bar,” I decide in a flash of inspiration. I look at Connor. “Take me to a bar.”

He slow blinks, rubs his hand over the stubble darkening his jaw. “Thought you didn’t drink alcohol, princess.”

I shoulder past him on my way toward the lobby doors, and freedom. “Yeah, well, that was then and this is now.”

“Sure thing,” he calls from behind me, his voice wry. “Let me just put on my neck brace, and I’ll catch up.”

For the first time in hours—days?—a smile lights my face. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it’s because of Connor.

My good “friend” Connor, who I might actually like, need, and want a hell of a lot more than I’ll ever admit.

Because if anything goes wrong with O’Doul’s plan to capture S?ren, I’ll have to intervene.

And then I’ll never be seeing my “friend” again.



I stare in utter disgust at the shot glass in my hand. It’s half full of a vile, black substance called J?egermeister, the aftertaste of which is still searing my nostrils and throat with a bitter, cough-syrup flavor more suited to poison than a food product.

“That is absolutely the most revolting thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. How do people drink this shit? And why would you pay for it? Yuck!”

Sitting across from me in the booth at the trendy bar he chose, Connor chuckles. “You’re not supposed to sip it. You’re supposed to shoot it, like an oyster. Down the hatch in one swallow.”

I shake my head and gulp water from the glass the waitress brought with the drinks. “Holy crispy pork belly Christ. It’s beyond foul. It tastes like melted crayon and mint mouthwash. With some licorice and funky barnyard herbs mixed in just to make it even more disgusting. How can they sell this to the public? I bet it causes cancer!”

Connor leans back, swirls his whiskey around in the glass, sniffs it, and then takes a swig. “Guess it’s an acquired taste,” he drawls, sounding suspiciously like he’s holding back laughter.

I glance sharply at him. He stares back at me with a bland expression but brightly twinkling eyes.

“You…oh my God. You dick.”

He blinks innocently. “What?”

“You picked the worst drink for me, didn’t you?”