Sweet Possession (Sweet #5)(16)

They fit, which was stupid of her to notice or to dwell on. But they fit perfectly. His body shielded hers like it was made to do so.

Never once did he actually look at her, which was fascinating because she was used to people staring at her and watching her every move. No, Connor looked at everyone else. He sized them up, assessed the potential threat and hurried Lyric toward the back of the store.

Not that anyone would recognize her. Out of deference to Connor—and because she was too tired for a fight—she’d dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore no makeup. With a pair of sunglasses to shield her eyes from the sun that made her head pound, she could be anyone and no one.

Connor stopped in front of the array of pain relievers. “Do you have any drug allergies?”

She couldn’t even believe he thought to ask. Was there anything he didn’t think of? She shook her head in response.

Nodding, he selected the box marked “tension headache,” then touched her arm and herded her toward the checkout.

“I can’t figure you out,” she said a few minutes later when they’d gotten back into the car.

He opened the box, shook out two pills, then handed her a bottle of water he’d also bought at the checkout. “What can’t you figure out? I’m a pretty straightforward guy. We aren’t hard to learn. Women, on the other hand . . .”

“Oh no, you’re anything but simple. One minute you act like I’m below pond scum, and the next minute you’re nice to me.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to like you.”

Okay, he had her there. Or so she thought. Did she want him to like her? It was obvious she did from the ridiculous way she acted around him. She hadn’t been this aware of her actions and how they were perceived by others in years. Not since her last stint as a ward of the state where she finally learned that she was just another case number in an unending stack of paperwork.

Not giving a damn was freeing. If it didn’t matter whom you hurt or whom you offended, then you never felt bad when you did so.

“I didn’t say I wanted you to like me,” she said carefully. “Just that you do and then you don’t. Thank you for the headache medicine. It was thoughtful of you.”

Connor shrugged. “It was obvious you were hurting and you didn’t have to be. You need to learn to take better care of yourself.”

She frowned at that assertion but let it go. “So where is it we’re going exactly?”

“To my sister and brother-in-law’s house. They’re having everyone over for beer and barbecue. It’s practically the law down here that you have at least one a week.”

“Life in the South, huh.”

She couldn’t help the disdain or the way her lip curled. She tried to hold it back. Really, she did.

He lifted a brow as they stopped for a light. “You have a bit of a drawl. Bet you were born south of the Mason-Dixon.”

She looked at him, aghast. No one had ever commented on an accent. She’d worked damn hard to remove any instance of it in her speech.

“I do not have a drawl!”

He nodded. “Yeah, you do. It’s subtle, but it’s there. More of a lazy lilt to your words than a distinct accent. You definitely have the flavor of the South, though.”

She was utterly appalled. Her stomach churned and her head throbbed painfully. “Where do you think I’m from?” she croaked.

“Oh, I dunno. Like I said, it’s just a hint. You don’t have to look quite so disgusted. We’re not all backwoods hicks, you know.”

She could still hear the drawn-out, slow drawl in her nightmares. Whispered in her ear. It made her physically ill. For some people, a Southern drawl was like brown sugar. For her it was like nails on a chalkboard.

“Hey, no reason to get uptight. It was just an observation. I’m wrong once or twice a year.”

She tried to smile at his joke but her face felt too tight. She decided a change in subject was the best course before she did or said something to make an even bigger ass of herself.

“So all your friends are married?”

“Micah’s not. Not for lack of trying. Angelina is pregnant, and he’d like to get her to the altar before she pops the kid out.”

“Good for her,” Lyric said. “Just because a guy gets you pregnant doesn’t mean he’s the right guy to marry.”

“Apparently he was right to sleep with,” Connor said dryly. “And it’s not like a guy gets a girl pregnant by himself. There’s definitely some cooperation on the egg’s part.”

“Oh huh-uh. The boy sperm chases down the girl egg and throws himself on her.”

“More like the girl egg crooks her finger and then when the poor unsuspecting sperm comes near, she sucks him in.”

Lyric wrinkled her nose. “I think this is perhaps the most unromantic reproduction talk I’ve ever had.”

Connor chuckled. “Micah loves Angelina, and she loves him. They’ll get married. She just wants to make sure it’s what he wants.”

They pulled into a neighborhood that had all the hallmarks of middle-class suburbia. The entrance was manicured and mowed, trimmed to the nth degree. All the lawns looked like showcases.

The houses were cute cookie-cutters and it was like a scene from Currier and Ives with children playing in an idyllic setting. She’d never been to a scarier place in her life.