Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(36)

“Whatever you want,” he said. “I’m just glad to be sitting here right now.”

My cheeks warmed. “Me too.”

The soft moments piled and that zingy feeling filled the space between us. It intensified, building a thickness in the air, until Connor laughed and raked a hand through his hair.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore.” He reached across the small table to cup my cheek. “We can go as slow as you want, Autumn, but if I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to hate myself in the morning.”

I was already leaning in, as if the emerald prisms of his eyes were tractor beams, drawing me to him—to his kiss and everything that came after.

A pleasant shiver slid over my skin at the first touch of his lips, and then he did it again. A brush of his mouth over mine. I was infused with his scent, the nearness of him, his warmth. He pressed in softly and then more deeply. His tongue swept into my mouth and the shiver slipped down my spine at the pure expertise of his kiss.

He broke away before it became too much, and slowly released my cheek, letting a lock of my hair slide through his fingers at the same time.

“That’s better,” he said, looking at me intently. “Isn’t it?”

I nodded. No more tightness in my stomach. Only butterflies.





Weston



I sat at the dining room table, paging through my notes and scribbles, stanza after unfinished stanza of the poem for Professor Ondiwuje’s assignment. Autumn. There could be no other subject. I was dragging the poem out, because once it was done, I had no other relief but running, and I couldn’t run all day, every day.

Connor shuffled into the living room, still in his flannel pants and undershirt, though it was three in the afternoon on a Sunday. “I’m screwed.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I told Mom and Dad all about Autumn, and now they want to invite her to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked as my stomach dropped. Thanksgiving was Drake inner-circle only. That they were already inviting Autumn meant either Connor had told them he was getting serious about her…

Or he’s actually getting serious about her.

Connor went to the fridge and grabbed the black and neon-green can of a Monster energy drink.

“Yeah.” He shut the door with a bitter smile. “We were on speakerphone just now, and they were fucking falling all over themselves. My dad actually said the words, ‘There’s hope for you, yet.’”

My lip curled. I respected Alan Drake and was grateful for all the help he’d given my mother over the years, but he took the same cut-throat, win-at-any-cost mentality that had earned him billions and applied it to parenting as well.

“Why do they put so much stake in her?”

“The same reason they love you so much. Because she’s on scholarship and working hard at making a difference in the world. They think she’d be a good influence on me.”

“Isn’t that the precise reason you started dating her in the first place?”

“It’s not the only reason,” Connor said. “And that’s why I’m screwed.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, sipped his drink. “I don’t know if we’ll make it to Thanksgiving. I think she’s drifting away from me.”

I swallowed hard. “You do?”

Connor sighed, contemplated the M on the side of the can. “Feels like she’s on the verge of calling it quits.”

I sat up straighter, hating and loving the hope that expanded in my chest. “I told you a month ago, she needs romance and you keep taking her to Yancy’s for booze and pool.”

“She’s good at pool. She likes the booze,” Connor said. “Dude, she keeps telling me she wants to keep things casual, so that’s what I’m doing. I only see her on weekends because of her work, but Christ, for how long? It’s been a month and she won’t even sleep with me.”

“Which is why I haven’t transferred out of state,” I muttered under my breath.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

It was easy to hang back and stay out of Connor and Autumn’s way on group outings to Yancy’s. I kept to myself as much as I could, attempted to talk to other girls, and generally ignored Autumn. But the overnight trip a bunch of us took to Lake Onota was an exercise in torture. Through the flames of the campfire, I watched Connor and Autumn slip under his blanket. They may not have screwed then, but my imagination had zero problems conjuring what they were doing or where his hands were.

“Hello? Wes?”

I glanced up. “What, sorry?”

Connor frowned. “I said, I feel like I can’t win with her.”

“Win?” I asked, swiveling in my chair. “It’s bottom of the ninth and you’re about to strike out?”

“No, but…”

“Forget what she said about keeping things casual for a sec. What do you want? Do you want to get serious with her? Do you want to convince her to take the plunge? Because if so, you’re going to have to put some effort into it.”

“I’m taking her to that Dickinson museum, like you suggested. That’s something, right?”

“It’s a start. But man, just talk to her.”