Taking Connor(35)

“Vick. Nice to meet you.” They shake hands and Vick doesn’t seem to be at all phased by Jeff.

That is, until Jeff informs him, “That girl is my baby cousin. You hurt her, you’ll have me to deal with.”

I’m extremely impressed when Vick doesn’t show one iota of finding Jeff humorous, but in a very serious manner nods and promises, “I’ll treat her with the utmost respect.”

“Good,” Jeff concedes. “Demi, I’ll talk to you in the morning. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will, Jeff.” I smile. “Thank you. Tell Wendy I want to stop by for a chat tomorrow,” I add. I need to discuss the things I’ve noticed with Grayson, and I want to talk about McKenzie as well.

“Will do,” Jeff replies as he heads out. “Have fun you two.”

When the screen door slams closed, Vick and I chuckle. When he steps toward me again, close as he was before Jeff walked in, my laughter fades. He leans toward me and softly asks, “Are you ready yet?”

My eyes widen. He said he wouldn’t kiss me until I was ready. Is that what he’s asking? Already? “For you to kiss me?” I blurt out.

He smirks—an incredibly sexy smirk—and chuckles. “To go,” he says, as he backs away. He loves doing that, playing on my naivety. I fall for it every time.

I want to run from the room I’m so embarrassed. Instead, I clear my throat and blink a few times to clear my head of the thoughts that are flying through my mind. “Um, yes,” I manage after a beat. “Let’s go.”



We make the rather lengthy drive into Denver in Vick’s beat up truck, and along the way he tells me about this house built in the late 1800’s that he and his uncle have been contracted to paint. We stop at a restaurant called Cooper’s; he made reservations. I like that he took the time to plan this. Once we’re inside and seated, Vick orders a bottle of wine for us and with our glasses in hand, he toasts, “To new friends.”

I smile as we clink our glasses and take our first sip. There’s an awkward silence and my leg bounces as I struggle not to fill it. There wasn’t a second of quiet on our first date. I’m not sure why we’re struggling right now.

“How about a little this or that?” I finally ask.

“This or that?” Vick questions with a smirk.

“Yeah, I’ll start. Coke or Pepsi?”

He leans back in his seat and answers, “Coke.”

“Me too,” I laugh. “Now you go.”

The game although somewhat childish is a great ice breaker. We play and laugh until our food is brought out, and then I figure it’s time to get down to business. I want to know a little more, vet him out a bit.

“So what were you doing before you came to Colorado?”

He lets out a long breath through his nose as if he’s been dreading this question. “I worked part time for a graphic design firm and painted on the side. Hit a run of bad luck and my uncle offered me a job out here.”

“No lady friend back in Cali?” I question as I cut my steak.

Vick gives a nervous chuckle but doesn’t look up at me as he works on cutting his steak. “Uh, well. There was, but I never made enough money for her. It ended as soon as I moved out here.”

I wait a moment wondering if he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead he changes the subject, “I have somewhere I’d like to take you after this if you’re game.”

“Okay,” I agree, deciding not to push the subject.

After dinner, where Vick’s charming personality and gift for storytelling consume the evening, he drives us further in town to the Art Walk. It’s a seasonal exhibit of over sixty vendors out on the sidewalk that runs every summer. I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to go. We stroll down the sidewalk as Vick tells me about the paintings and what he sees, asking me from time to time what I see.

“How about this one?” I stare at the painting of a black dog lying next to an empty dog bowl.

“Maybe a painting about loneliness? The dog feels empty?” I do my best to respond articulately but fail miserably.

“I think the painter is trying to tell us of his inner turmoil. He lost the love of his life at a young age and never recovered from it.” I can’t help pursing my lips at the painting, trying to understand how he sees all that. Maybe I’m just not the artistic type. When Vick bursts into laughter, I look up at him.

“God, I swear I love your facial expressions sometimes.”

I scowl at him. He’s messing with me again.

“Sorry, hon,” he chuckles. “You were right. It’s just a lonely, hungry dog.

“You know, one day I’m going to get you. You won’t even see it coming,” I warn.

He smiles down at me as we move on. “I’ll be waiting.”

We continue, stopping to look at other paintings and discussing what we see. To his credit, he doesn’t let on if he thinks I’m an idiot. He simply nods and smiles thoughtfully at my nonsense. About halfway through, his hand finds mine, and he threads our fingers together. My stomach feels like I’m on a rollercoaster, but when he squeezes my hand gently I realize I like it; I like holding his hand as we lazily stroll down the sidewalk. It’s been a long time since a man’s held my hand. Near the end, there’s a three-piece jazz band playing a slow song. Vick pulls me to him and slowly, we begin moving in rhythm with the song. The side of his chin is resting against my temple, and he’s humming along. I close my eyes and open myself up. I want to soak in this incredibly romantic moment, make the most of it. So when he pulls back and looks at me, his blue eyes full of mirth, I tell him, “I’m ready.”