Connected (Connections, #1)(22)

I continue to talk and converse with him because honestly, I haven’t felt this comfortable in a man’s company in a long time. I try to keep in mind that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember me; I’m having fun now. And besides, I was the one who ran away from him that night after a short conversation and a single kiss. Seriously, how memorable could one conversation and one kiss be with one girl in a crowded bar anyway?

Glancing at the clock on the wall I notice it’s almost five o’clock and I have only just started the interview needed to prepare for The Wilde Ones’ upcoming photo shoot. River must have seen the concern in my face because he looks at the same clock and casually asks, “I don’t have any pressing plans for tonight. We could finish the interview over dinner?”

I have spent the last hour discussing everything music with this attractively charming man. I told him about all the concerts I have been to, he told me all the bands he has seen, and we listed our top songs, top artists, top singles, and top albums. Throughout our conversation, he continued to stare at me with those twinkling green eyes, grinning occasionally, even when what we were talking about wasn’t funny. He played air guitar when I mentioned a song with a great strings solo and mocked playing drums when an artist we were talking about was known for his drumming ability. He was actually very playful and I was enjoying myself immensely, actually I was having a blast. I even grabbed a pen and pretended to sing my favorite Britney song, which really made him laugh. So dinner . . . sure why not?

Just as I start to answer, my cell phone rings. It’s stashed in my purse, and I reach to grab it, in case it is Aerie. Picking the purse up off the table, I accidently dump all of its contents.

“Shit!” I yell, holding up my index finger. “Sorry, give me a sec, that could be my boss,” I say rolling my chair back and kneeling on the floor under the table to find my phone and gather my things. I find my phone first, right in between River’s feet.

As I reach for it I hear River clear his throat. “Ahem, I can get that for you,” he says before peering his head under the table. “But on second thought I think I like this better,” he continues, pointing at my head between his legs.

Noticing that my face is almost in his knees, I move back a little to look at him and end up staring right at his crotch. I move quickly, trying to remove myself from the very awkward position I’m in and as I do, I smack my head on the table.

Standing back up again, I hold my phone up and laugh a little before patting my head and saying, “Sorry about that, but I got it.”

He chuckles again. “Do you want me to get the rest of your stuff or do you want to do it? I’m good either way.”

Biting my lip, I say, “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you get it.”

Staring at me with intensity in his eyes, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “You sure, I was enjoying myself.” Then not waiting for an answer, he scoots out of the chair, and starts to gather everything as I watch him still patting my head and having missed the call.

His mannerisms, his tone, his facial expressions, and his body language . . . all so charming—almost disarming. He’s the same as I remember. And right now, as he stands in front of me putting my things back in my bag, all I can think about is him. How much I want him.

Once everything is safely put back in my bag, he asks, “And dinner?”

I bite back a smile. “Sounds great, but we really need to get going, the offices close at five on Fridays.”

“That’s no problem,” he says. Then pointing to the large tablet in the center of the table he says, “I was really looking forward to Pictionary, later maybe?”

Shaking my head back and forth I put the rest of my things away and say, “Let’s go.”

He puts his hand out in a lead-the-way gesture; he scans my body from head to toe again. “Do you want to drop your stuff off at your hotel before dinner?” he asks while grabbing his guitar and my suitcase from the corner.

Nodding my head I say, “Yeah, I’ll just grab a cab and head to my hotel, I can meet you for dinner later.”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. No, he’s actually glaring at me. “Is that a nicer way of brushing me off?” he asks.

I cringe, remembering the night I left when he asked me to stay, but since he doesn’t even remember me I’m not sure why he has such an aggravated tone.

“What? No,” is my only response.

Shaking his head he says, “It’s settled then, I have my car here. We’ll just swing by your hotel first.”

His annoyance seems to be gone and he no longer waits for me to take the lead. Instead, he grabs my hand, leading me to the elevator and out of the building.





WHERE WE BELONG


We’re just beginning to talk

We’re just getting to know each other

We seem so close in such a short time

We hold hands and smile

And it feels like this is where we belong.





Is holding hands more of an art or a science? This is the thought running through my mind as River and I walk out of the office building together. I ask myself this question because when he takes my hand, I don’t mean he holds it palm in palm; I mean he laces all his fingers in between mine and holds them tightly in his grip. It feels intimate and conveys the idea that we know each other very well, when in reality, we don’t. Not yet anyway.