Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(29)
“Is this one of those personality quizzes from Facebook that’s supposed to reveal your inner Disney character?”
“Maybe it is,” I reply. “Do you want to revise your answer? You don’t want to end up with Gaston. He was studly—and a dick.”
We joke with each other. Tease. There are even a few exchanges that could be considered flirtatious—as well as a whole bunch of covert sniffing on my part.
Because the man smells delectable. Seriously. Even his sweat smells good—masculine and outdoorsy—like the scent of freshly cut wood and warm flannel.
The synchronized rhythm of our thudding feet on the dirt path echoes through the trees as Connor considers the question.
“Successful.”
I glance at him jogging beside me—at the broad, toned, shape of him—powerful but poised. The kind of man who’s careful because he’s aware of his own strength. And I think about how he is at work . . . not testy or snappish the way some doctors can be . . . but always confident, firm, and commanding.
“That’s important to you? To be successful?”
He shrugs. “I mean nobody wants to be unsuccessful. But I’m a dad, a doctor—people depend on me. It’s important to me that I don’t let them down.”
Connor lifts his chin toward me in that sexy, alluring way that makes me imagine him reclining in bed—naked, with one muscled arm tucked carelessly behind his head—inviting me to hop up and take a ride.
On him.
“What’s your word?”
I give him the first answer that pops into my head.
“Sensible.”
And I immediately want to take it back, because—could I be any blander?
“That’s not very exciting, is it?”
“Exciting comes in many forms, Vi. It changes as you get older.”
“Regardless, I’m going to go with . . . practical. Final answer. Practical is still boring, but slightly better.”
His brow ruffles. “No, practical isn’t boring at all. It’s focusing on what matters. What’s important. When shit goes down and things gets real—practical is exactly what you want right there beside you.”
Like I said, cloud nine, ten, and eleven.
*
One hot Saturday afternoon in June, Connor and I make plans to go jogging a little before dusk. He pulls into my driveway while I’m on the front lawn limbering up.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing my clothes for our outings. Obviously, I want to look good in a way that gets his attention—but I don’t want to look like I’m trying to look good.
It’s a delicate balance.
Today I’m wearing black Lycra bike shorts that accentuate my legs and a cute oversized zip-up white hoodie. As Connor rounds the front of his truck, looking good enough to eat in a gray short sleeved T-shirt that hugs his biceps and black basketball shorts, I unveil the pièce de résistance of today’s outfit.
I unzip my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist—leaving me in nothing up top but a new teal sports bra that goes great with my tanned summer skin and pushes the girls together fabulously, without strapping them down.
Connor takes one look at me—and trips over his feet.
Excellent.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“You okay there?” I ask playfully.
“I’m good.” He nods. Then he clears his throat and gestures to me. “That’s ah . . . nice top.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “I have it in white too.”
I’m tempted to mention that you can see my nipples through the white one—but I think that would be overdoing it.
We head out on the path that starts behind my house and winds through the woods around the lake in a serpentine pattern. We fall in step beside each other, the rhythm of our strides matching, in a comfortable silence. The air is warm but it’s cooler on the trail beneath the trees.
I love this time of day. How the fading sun glows deep orange through the branches and the shadows slowly descend, turning everything tranquil and secluded.
Two miles in, we stop for a water break. I brace my foot on a boulder and tighten my loose shoelace. A few feet away, Connor tips his head back and takes a drink from his Lakeside Memorial water bottle.
I stand with my arms at my sides, watching his throat ripple as he swallows and a little wet drop slides down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He’s got an awesome chin—the kind you want to scrape your teeth against and bite. Move over, John Travolta, there’s a new chin king in town.
Connor glances at my empty hands.
“Where’s your water?”
“I left it on the front table.” I swipe my arm across my forehead and lick at my parched lips.
And I feel his eyes on me—on my mouth—like the secrets of the universe are tattooed there.
He holds out his bottle. “Do you want some of mine?”
His voice is deeper than usual, rough . . . like he’s asking me one thing, but thinking something else.
That happens sometimes, but I never know if it’s just my imagination, if I’m projecting and hearing emotions in his words that aren’t really there.
Connor’s easy to talk to but he can be guarded—difficult to read. At least for me. I’m kind of a mess when I’m near him. There are just too many wonderful, thrilling sensations surging through me, making my head light.