Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(39)

“And?”

“The boy I’m dating.”

I braced myself for Edmond’s reaction and had to laugh as he gasped and clutched his heart.

“I knew it. It is a matter of love.” He burst into pieces of a Puccini aria I’d heard before, and spun me around. “The grad school…” He made a sour face. “I am no help. But when it comes to love, I tell you what I know, ma chère. There are no decisions you make here.” He tapped his forehead. “There is only to listen to what your heart tells you.”

“I really like this guy,” I admitted. “I’d like to think there was something there, but…”

“But?”

“But what if I’m wrong?”

Edmond grinned behind his thick black mustache. “Unfortunately, that is something you can never know until you give your heart. Trust. Trust and love are flour and water. They need each other to stick, non?”

“I guess.”

I’d let my heart trust Mark and he’d tossed it away. Maybe it was better to be practical with Connor. Smart. Safe.

It was Connor’s idea to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum next Saturday. Half of me struggled to envision the tall baseball player interested in Dickinson’s painful history or reading her poetry. The other half felt it might be exactly what he enjoyed doing, if only he’d share that side of himself more.

Maybe we both were holding back, but the only thing I knew was that I desperately needed a little time and perspective.

I picked up my phone and texted Connor.

Hi. I don’t think I can make the museum on Saturday.

His reply came in a few minutes later, as I was walking my bike down Pleasant Street under the falling twilight.

Bummer. Yancy’s later?

No. I don’t think so.

A pause. Then, Is everything okay?

I bit my lip. How to answer? That was exactly the source of my unease. Everything wasn’t okay but there was nothing wrong either. It was as if my heart was split right down the middle, just like Edmond had said.

I’m really behind on my Harvard project. I need to devote a solid chunk of time to it.

OK. Have you been considering Thanksgiving?

I stopped walking and leaned against a tall oak tree, my bike against my thigh. Connor hadn’t been able to stop talking about the holiday. The thought of meeting his parents felt incredibly flattering and a little bit too soon at the same time.

Not sure. I have to see what I can get done this week and let you know.

OK.

I’m sorry.

It’s fine, he wrote.

Talk to you later?

Sure.

And nothing else.

“Shit.” I started to walk again but the tight feeling in my stomach strengthened. I had to tackle this head on, not over the phone.

Connor?

A tense ten seconds later, then, Autumn? ?

His sweetness eased my breath a little. Are you at your place? Can I come over? To talk?

I’m here, he wrote. Come over.

Okay, see you in a few.





CU





“Hi,” Connor said, opening the door for me. He was handsomely rumpled in his pajama pants and V-neck shirt, though it was Sunday evening. He bent to kiss my cheek.

“It’s kind of a mess. Ramona comes on Tuesday.”

I’d been over to his place a handful of times in the past month, never staying for long. Weston had ceased speaking to me beyond curt hellos and goodbyes, and I never felt welcome when he was there.

Despite Connor’s warning, the large apartment was nearly spotless, thanks to the cleaning lady the Drakes paid to come once a week. The only messes were a scatter of papers on the dining area table, and a pizza box beside a few empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Madden was paused on their gigantic flat screen TV.

“Is Weston here?” I asked. “I wanted to talk alone.”

“He’s taking a run,” Connor said, and then grinned. “Should I be scared? Call him for back up?”

God, he really is adorable.

I mentally fortified myself against Connor’s inherent sexiness and charm. “Nothing to be scared of. In fact…” I sighed. “Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. But I know it will all come back to me the second I walk out that door.”

Connor laced his hands around my waist. “Maybe don’t walk out the door.” He bent and kissed my mouth softly but with intention behind it. Promises of more if I wanted it. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I want to,” I said. “But, Connor…”

He kissed me again, deeper, and I felt the floor tip out from under me. I clung to his strong arms, while his hands slipped up my back to tangle in my hair. His phone rang—a classical music ringtone—breaking the moment.

“Shit. My parents.” He released me and went to grab his phone from the couch. “Let me just see what they want.”

I nodded, still slightly breathless, and watched him answer. His usual smile replaced by a grimace, as if he were bracing himself.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

He held up a finger to me and mouthed sorry, hold on, then took the call into his room. I wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water. The kitchen was sleek—chrome and gray and masculine. It reminded me of Connor’s car. New and expensive. I supposed part of the cost of this luxury was Connor could never let his parents’ calls go to voicemail.