Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(19)

And if I’m being honest, I might not be much better.

Because when I try to fix it, I end up saying, “I would love to give you a ride, in my car.”

And now a litany of X-rated Dr. Seuss lines are rolling through my head.

On a train, on a plane, in a box, beside a stuffed fox—I would ride Violet here or there I would ride her anywhere.

I ball my napkin in my fist.

“I would love to give you a ride to the wedding, Vi. I mean . . . if that’s okay with you.”


*

Violet



Is that okay with me?

Is that okay with me?

Is he joking?

He might as well have asked me if I’m okay with my deepest, wettest, bestest, fantasy coming to life before my eyes.

“Yeah,” I manage to reply in a slightly squeaky, but still casual tone. “I’m okay with it. That’d be . . . good.”

I can’t let go of something Callie said to me last week. About how Connor hasn’t had any luck dating. About how he’s not the kind of man who’s meant to be alone.

That he needs someone.

Why can’t that someone be me?

What if Connor did see me clearly—and he liked what he saw?

Stranger things have happened. The Pentagon announcing UFOs are real and no one caring, Kanye running for president . . . people actually liking bubble tea.

And we’re talking about a wedding here. An outdoor lakeside wedding surrounded by candles and the soft glow of string lights, and dancing and warm, fuzzy love songs.

It’s the Mount Rushmore of romance!

“Cool.” Connor smiles, deep and real.

For the first time I notice the perfect, lickable dimple on his left cheek. And my head goes so light I almost fall out of my chair.

Eating lunch after this is simply not possible. So I stand up, ready to make my way to the trash bin in the front of the square column behind me to dump my tray.

“So we’ll work out the details later?” Connor asks. “Exchange numbers and what time I’ll pick you up and all that?”

“Yeah.” I slide my chair back carefully—out of tripping range. “That sounds perfect.”

I force my voice to be steady—to not betray the all-caps-worthy elation bubbling through me because I HAVE A FREAKING DATE WITH CONNOR DANIELS!!

I’ll scream and jump around about it later, in the privacy of my own home—as decorum demands.

Right now, I need to be calm. Dignified. Alluring with a hint of mystery and sophisticated detachment. All I have to do is walk out of the room. Glide away and make a smooth, polished exit.

I can do this. I’ve been walking almost my whole life . . . I’m a pro.

“So . . .” I inch back carefully, holding my tray while keeping eye contact with him for as long as possible. Connor has great eyes. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah.” He nods warmly. “I’ll see you later.”

And then I proceed to turn around . . . and walk right into the motherfucking wall.

Forehead first.

Catching the sharp, ninety-degree corner with my face.

The only thing louder than the contents of my tray clattering to the ground is the sound of three deep male voices speaking in unified cringe behind me.

“Shit.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s gonna leave a mark.”

I bounce backward, propelled by the sudden stoppage of my previous forward momentum. Pain explodes in my head—but it’s drowned out by the absolute humiliation that pounds through me with every beat of my horrified heart.

Then Connor is there—right beside me, a heavy, steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

I evade, backing away from him with my palm covering half my face, doing my best to act like what just happened totally didn’t.

“Fine—I’m completely fine.”

It’s a damn, filthy lie. But I throw in a hearty laugh to conceal the pulsing in my skull and the mortification shriveling my heart into a dried prune.

“You hit the wall pretty hard,” Connor says, moving nearer, looking closer.

I retreat another step.

“I’m good. All good. Everything’s good.”

P.S.—I’m bleeding.

My palm is slippery with the warm life-liquid, because head wounds are always so dramatic when it comes to the bloodletting. Fucking divas.

Connor notices the blood—it’s kind of hard to miss with the way it’s now seeping down the bridge of my nose and all.

“No, you’re not.” His strong brow dips low with concern, and his voice slips into that commanding doctor tone that says refusal is not an option. It never fails to make him exponentially hotter. “I need to look at that. Right now. Come on, let’s go.”

And that is how I end up flat on my back with Connor Daniels above me.

Not in any way I’ve dreamed or fantasized about—but, I’ll take what I can get.

We’re in an exam room, I’m on a gurney and he’s seated behind my head. The lights are off and it could be kind of romantic . . . if it weren’t for the shining spotlight aimed directly at my face, singeing my retinas and probably putting every line and imperfection on full display.

But I’m not going to let that yuck my yum.