Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(42)
Violet’s full, pouty lips stretch slowly into a beaming smile.
“Okay.”
I nod, my tone going a little softer, a little relieved.
“Okay.”
She drifts backward toward her brother, eyes on me. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“Have a good shift, Connor.”
“Have a good visit with your brother.”
Speaking of her brother—I give him an apologetic look.
“Hey, Darren, listen, I’m really not usually this much of an asshole. And Darren is a great name, seriously. A classic.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Whatever, dude. It’s all good.”
And then I’m heading back inside—feeling like a new man. Luckier and more on top of the world than I’ve felt in weeks. Maybe in ever.
“You two kiss and make up?” Nurse Stella grouches. Because she’s mean and astute—and she’s got the goods on every person in this department, just by looking and listening.
I spin her around, dancing to the song “Brown Eyed Girl” playing in my head.
“Life is good, Stella. Life. Is. Good.”
She cackles, shoving me away.
“I’m glad you think so, cowboy.” Then she presses two charts against my chest. “We’ve got a case of shingles in Exam Two and a bowling trophy lodged where the sun don’t shine in Four.”
But not even oozy pus-filled blisters from the adult reoccurrence of chickenpox or foreign objects in the rectum can bring me down.
“Fantastic. Time to cure the sick.”
And I walk down the hall with one arm in the air like Judd Nelson at the end of the goddamn Breakfast Club.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Violet
“Okay—hold up—this doesn’t make sense. You need to clarify.”
A dark lock of Connor’s hair falls dashingly over his forehead and the soft glow of the lamplight overhead makes his eyes a lighter, golden shade of brown.
We’re at Boccone’s, a hidden-away, unpretentious restaurant I’ve never been to that Connor swore had the best brick oven pizza on whole East Coast. Two slices in and working my way through number three—I don’t disagree.
He knocked on my door at 7:30 sharp like we’d planned, wearing navy jeans that hug his fantastic ass and a light blue, collared button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
And he was holding flowers. Flowers for me.
A gorgeous little bouquet of red roses and lavender. He told me I looked incredible in my short, polka-dot sundress and black wedges with my hair down but pulled back on the sides. And the way his eyes ate me up from head to toe, I couldn’t not believe him.
Then Connor leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek, all sweet and chivalrous.
It made me want to jump his bones and tear both our clothes off right there in my foyer. Again.
He opened his truck door for me, and gave me a hand up as I climbed in, and the cab had that clean, fresh, just-taken-to-the-car-wash scent.
There hasn’t been any awkwardness or hesitation that often happens on a first date. It’s been only fun, simmering excitement—lingering smiles—and the easy enjoyment of each other’s company.
“What do you need clarification about?” I ask, taking a long drink from my frosty beer mug and licking at the foam on my upper lip.
He gestures to me.
“You’re Violet.”
“Correct.”
“And your sisters are Chrysanthemum and Petunia . . . ”
“Chrissy and Tuni for short,” I say with a nod.
“How the hell did your brother end up a Darren?”
He’s chuckling before he finishes the question and the sexy rumble turns my insides to warm Jell-O.
“My mom loved flowers. Violets, chrysanthemums, petunias were some of her favorites—obviously.” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. “My brother came this close to being Hyacinth.”
Connor flinches. “As the father of a Daniel Brayden Daniels, I feel I’m qualified to say—fucking yikes.”
“But she decided to spare him the years of inevitable schoolyard torture and went with Darren instead. After her favorite uncle.”
He lifts his beer in a toast.
“Your mother was a smart, kind woman.”
“To Mom,” I laugh, tapping his mug with mine.
“Do any of your siblings live nearby?” he asks before taking another bite of his pizza and chewing seductively. Who knew that eating could be such a raw, carnal act? But the way Connor does it—the strong set of his mouth and the rhythmic roll of his jaw—is sinfully hot.
“Nope. Darren’s been stationed in Germany—he’s an intelligence officer, so I don’t really have any idea what he does because he can’t talk about it. Chrissy is a pastry chef in a restaurant in Chicago and Tuni is a concierge at the Beverly Wilshire in California.”
“What made you move out of Delaware?”
Connor doesn’t ask questions to be polite or fill the silence—he genuinely wants to know the answers. I can tell by the way he leans toward me, how he watches and listens . . . he wants to know me. And that awareness is liberating. It makes me want to tell him every secret, show him every shadow.