Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(38)

“So . . . I wanted to talk to you about the other night.”

His gorgeous smile stretches wider and his eyes warm.

“What about it?”

“Well, I mean, I woke up and you were just . . . gone.”

“Yeah.” He nods like it’s totally fine, totally expected. “I had to get home to the boys and you were sleeping, and I figured you’d have stuff to do. I didn’t want to be in your way.”

Okay, that makes sense.

Kind of.

Except for the whole not waking me up to say goodbye after sharing one of the most intense and intimate sexual experiences of my life. And the not calling or texting afterward. That’s still pretty shitty.

Then a crushing thought occurs to me. Maybe it wasn’t as mind-blowing for him? Maybe he was . . . disappointed? Is that what he’s trying to say?

“But you . . . you had a good time, right?” I ask, my cheeks flushing with the heat of Mordor’s Mount Doom.

Finally, he quits digging through his locker. He stops purposefully and turns, his dark eyes delving deeply into mine.

“I had a great time, Violet.”

And the anxiety that’s been strangling my lungs loosens its grip. Because Connor’s looking at me with sincerity and affection and pure, infinite tenderness.

“It was fun.”

Hold the fuck on . . .

“Fun?”

And now I sound like a parrot. A stupid, stupid parrot who’s about to get her heart pulverized into dust.

“Yeah,” he says, closing his locker with a metallic clang. “We should do it again sometime. If you’re free and I’m free. You know, whatever.”

What. Ever? Is he serious right now?

With my thoughts spinning and my soul dying, I nod like a robot on the very last of its battery power.

But then, as he slides the strap of his bag onto his shoulder, there’s a slow flicker from deep inside my gut. An orange ember just beginning to ignite, that builds and grows—feeding off my disappointment and humiliation and converting my heartache to incandescent rage.

Rage is so much easier.

Burning, wild, scorned woman fury.

Fuck you, Connor Daniels! I don’t say it out loud, but I’m shouting it from the rooftops inside, because seriously—fuck him.

Fuck him gently with a whole shed of chainsaws.

How dare he turn out to be just like every other asshole on the planet when I have idolized him for years!

Fuck his beautiful voice and his flawless, awesome personality. Fuck his sexy arms and his phenomenal penis. Fuck his brilliant doctor mind and his gentle, magnificent dad soul.

“Sure, whatever.” My lips press together in a smile so tight I think they split. But he doesn’t notice because he’s not looking at me. “That would be swell.”

For the record I never say swell. I picked it up off a Madmen episode and since we’re now operating at that same level of epic dickbaggery—I figure it fits.

From now on that’s all he gets—the fake me.

Connor doesn’t get to have any piece of the real me. Not my smile or my laugh or my words . . . definitely not my heart.

Not anymore.

He squeezes my shoulder.

“Cool. Have a good shift, Violet. I’ll talk to you later.”

And he walks out the door.





CHAPTER TEN


Connor


After Violet approached me in the doctors’ lounge that morning, I thought things were going in the right direction. That I was handling the situation masterfully and she was right where I wanted her to be. Interested. Eager. Prepared to come back for more—again and again.

I checked my phone the whole day, expecting a text from her inviting me to her house. Maybe asking if I wanted to grab a bite to eat or even just to check in on when I was free to go jogging again.

And according to Timmy, the girls he knows like to instigate the making of plans. It’s a power move—to show they’re independent and in control. I didn’t want to deprive Violet of the chance to do that.

But no text or call ever came. Not that day or the one after.

Once you’re in a solid relationship, women get off on knowing a guy is pussywhipped. It’s a confidence booster; it makes them feel secure that you’re not going to go screwing around.

But timing is everything. Coming off too pussywhipped too soon is pathetic and an instant attraction killer.

But as the days progress, things between me and Violet start to feel . . . off.

Different.

Wrong.

Violet and I don’t go jogging together again for the next two weeks. Eventually, I bite the bullet and text casual offers, but she declines, saying she’s busy—and canceling twice on me after initially saying yes.

We don’t sit together at lunch, or talk and joke around at the hospital in between cases. She seems preoccupied. Standoffish.

One morning on the way into the hospital, I stop at the corner coffee shop and grab the fancy frappé-machi-bullshit-latte thing she likes to drink.

Violet’s behind the nurses’ station, typing on the computer when I walk in. And I jump at the opportunity to watch her when she doesn’t know it.

She’s wearing her glasses today—thick, square, black frames that I imagine sliding gently off her face so I can kiss her long and deep. My tongue tingles with the fantasy, because I can still taste her. Sweet and hot and stunning. I remember how she felt all wrapped around me, her arms and hands pulling and pressing—her sexy, throaty little sounds—her pussy so tight and snug and wet, it was like I saw the face of God when I came.