IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(34)

He caught me looking at him, and I did nothing to hide my interest. His laughter quieted, ending with a sharp intake of breath. Tension suddenly crackled between us. He licked his lips, pressing them together for a moment before clearing his throat. “Why me?” he asked, repeating his earlier question.

Because of moments like this, I wanted to tell him. When he laughed with abandon. Or when he noticed the parts of the city others overlooked. Or the fact that he already knew our driver’s name, and when he expressed interest in his stories, it wasn’t out of a sense of obligation or feigned politeness, but genuine curiosity. Or the fierceness with which he cared for his mother, willing to sacrifice everything for her.

Conor Newell was a man who lived his life. Followed his passions. Experienced things. Felt things.

Being around him made me want the same.

But I couldn’t say any of this. Because as far as he was concerned, we were practically strangers. He didn’t realize just how much I knew about him from our many hours of texting. He didn’t know just how difficult it was for me to sit here and pretend that I didn’t know about the time he’d gone skinny-dipping in the French Broad River when a raccoon had made off with half his clothes. Or about the time he’d tried to cook Mother’s Day breakfast for his mom as a kid but confused the measurements, resulting in fried balls of flour paste his mother had to choke down with a smile.

Holding all of this back was making me act like an ass, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

I gave him the only answer I could think of. “You’re the one holding the patents to the printer.” I didn’t realize how harsh the explanation sounded until his eyes clouded.

He lifted a shoulder, glancing off to the side. “The printer is my mom’s baby. To be honest, I just sell board games.”

I shifted closer, leaning toward him. I started to reach a hand for his arm but at the last minute dropped it onto the seat between us. “I thought I heard a rumor that the 3-D printing was actually your idea.”

He paused, either the cold air or being put on the spot making his cheeks bloom pink. “Well, yeah. I guess, technically it was. I was super into the technology at my gaming store. I…” Conor peered over at me through his thick lashes, seemingly hesitant to say the next part. “I use it to print custom game pieces.”

I’d never heard of anything like that before. “Like the little dog in Monopoly?”

He smiled. “Kind of. But more like the Assassin from Citadels or Tordek from D&D.” When he saw my face, he laughed. “Or… like if you wanted to play chess where the game pieces were Muppets instead of the usual king, queen, rooks, etc. I could print those pieces for you. Well, not the actual Muppets since they are protected by copyright and trademarks, but you get the idea.”

“Ah, I see. You can design new pieces and actually create them using the 3-D printer.”

His eyes brightened. “Exactly. It started as a hobby, but then people in the gaming community found out about it and began commissioning pieces from me. The business is doing well. Eventually, I’ll need to hire some help. I run it from the space above the game shop which helps a little. Asheville is a small town, but I’ve done well there.”

His enthusiasm for the subject was infectious, and I was about to ask him to tell me more when something occurred to me. “How are you managing two businesses while you’re up here negotiating this deal for your mother? It can’t be easy.”

His expression faltered a bit. “It’s… fine.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, repeating, “I’m fine.”

Well, that was an obvious lie. I wondered if he needed help, if he had much support back home.

“Conor…”

He cut me off, pointing past me. “Oh look, it’s the fountain from Friends.”

“Actually,” the driver cut in, “it’s not the one from the television show.”

“Really?” Conor asked. “That’s insane. It looks like the same one.”

As he spoke back and forth with the driver about the other parts of the show that hadn’t been real New York locations, he leaned across me to get a better view of the fountain.

“It sure is pretty though,” he murmured. “This whole park is. So much quieter than the hustle and bustle. Having such a wide expanse of natural beauty in the middle of the crazy city… it’s unexpected. Don’t you think?”

He turned as he asked the question, but because of our proximity, the white puffs of our exhales mixed together between our faces.

His front teeth quickly came out to bite at his bottom lip, which sent a hot spike of need through my gut.

“Sorry,” he breathed, sitting back into his spot beside me. “Guess I’m acting like the stupid tourist after all.”

“I like it,” I admitted. “Seeing you get excited about the park makes me realize how much I’ve come to take it for granted.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “I jog here most days and don’t even notice it. But you’re right. It’s a peaceful break from the noise on the city streets.” I looked around, trying to see it through Conor’s eyes. The cyclists whizzing past, the young mothers walking together with their fancy strollers, and the city residents jogging for exercise. The large expanses of dormant grass and rocky boulders peeking out from beneath children’s scrabbling hands and feet. Tiny dogs in sweaters led a pair of older women down a path toward several benches where the matching set of older men waited.