IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(46)

What was I doing here? What was I hoping to accomplish? It wasn’t like I could demand to know why he wasn’t responding to my text messages. As far as he was concerned, I was Wells. I had nothing to do with Trace.

I just want to make sure he’s okay, I told myself. There was nothing wrong with that. It’s what any friend would do.

Except I knew I wasn’t just a friend.

Maybe I wasn’t even a friend.

I didn’t know what I was to him. Or what he was to me.

I just knew that I needed to see him.

I pushed my way inside and up a short flight of steps to a marble foyer with soaring ceilings. Ahead of me another set of steps led up toward a seating area and a half-empty bar. Tourists and businessmen mingled, murmuring in low voices while soft music played from hidden speakers.

I hesitated again, second-guessing myself. It was an unfamiliar feeling. One I despised.

A large family of tourists surged past me, clad in garishly colored overstuffed coats and talking loudly and laughing. One of them bumped my shoulder, and I started to glower when she turned and pressed a hand to her chest and gushing, “Oh my goodness, sweetie, I am sooooo, so sorry.” Her thick Southern accent washed over me, and the genuine look of apology in her eyes made me think of Conor. Instantly my aggravation at her eased.

“It’s no problem, ma’am,” I found myself automatically replying.

She smiled, but the expression caught and she tilted her head to the side. “You okay, sugar? You look like a tick that can’t find a bum to bite.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

She laughed, loud. “Lost, love. You look lost.”

“I’m fine.” My response was clipped.

She winked. “Everyone but you knows that’s a lie, hon.”

I ground my teeth, about to protest when I looked up and saw him. Conor. He was walking past the bar, toward the bank of elevators tucked around the corner. Without thinking, I started after him.

Behind me I heard the woman laugh. “Looks like that tick found a nice bum. You take care with it, you hear?”

I ignored her, my focus only on Conor. I pushed my way through the rest of the tourists and took the short flight of stairs in two steps. I reached the top just as Conor arrived at the elevators. He stopped. So did I.

He stood still a moment. So did I.

This was as far as my plan had taken me. I’d told myself I just wanted to make sure he was okay, and now I had my proof. I could turn around and leave without him seeing me. It wasn’t like I could call out to him. How in the world would I explain what I was doing there?

Instead, I reached for my phone. I typed the first thing I could think of.

Wells: I’m sorry for earlier.





I held my breath, waiting for his phone to buzz. Wanting to see his reaction to what I’d written.

But there was nothing. He merely shifted from one foot to the other. Then the elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside. And was gone.

I stared after him. An unfamiliar feeling in my chest. Something hot and tight and unpleasant.

I glanced back at my text and that’s when I noticed that instead of the usual blue of an iMessage, I saw the unusual green bubble of a text. It was the same thing that happened when I sent Deb a text while she was on a plane or had her phone turned off for some other reason.

So maybe Conor wasn’t ignoring me. Maybe his phone had run out of juice. Or maybe he’d turned it off. Except he’d never let that happen, not with his mother being ill and possibly needing to reach him.

That’s when I remembered the one time Win had blocked me—when I’d accused her of being an addict. The same thing had happened to the texts I’d sent her then: they’d turned green.

Which meant it was also possible that Conor had blocked me. That he didn’t want to hear from me. Not now and maybe not ever again.

I reread my text, suddenly second-guessing myself. Again.

Since when did Wells Grange ever apologize to anyone?

My father’s words echoed in my head. Rather, they were John Wayne’s words in She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, and they were etched into my father’s very soul. Never apologize and never explain—it’s a sign of weakness.

And here I was showing my belly to someone who, by all accounts, should be my business rival.

But Conor Newell was the furthest thing from a rival. Hell, I wasn’t even sure he’d be considered a rival to a competing game shop owner in his small town. He’d probably invite the person over to co-market and collaborate. Conor was a nice guy.

Which was another reason I had no business thinking of myself with him. He wasn’t the kind of man who wanted the same thing I did.

I fucked. Conor loved.

He’d make a better match with that damned horse carriage driver, someone chatty and fun. Not Glacial Grange.

I needed to stop this stupid obsession. To get this deal finished and Conor Newell out of my head.

I turned and strode from the hotel, back out into the cold night and into the waiting car. “Home,” I told Hank.

When he didn’t immediately shift the car into gear, I looked up, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Are you sure?”

No.

“Yes.”

He hesitated again, but I pointedly stared out the window, avoiding eye contact. Silently, he maneuvered the car into traffic and drove me home.