Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(48)

I smooth his hair back from his forehead—he’s my boyfriend—I can do things like that now.

“Or, I could go over?” I offer.

“That’s not why I’m telling you this. I don’t want to put you out.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. My schedule’s totally open. I was just going to go home to clean out my fridge.”

I was also planning on writing a poem about Connor calling me his girlfriend . . . but I keep that tidbit to myself.

“Unless you think it’s too soon? Or it would be weird for them?”

Connor hasn’t mentioned officially introducing me to his boys as someone more than a friend, and I haven’t brought it up because I have no clue what the timeline is for that kind of thing.

“It wouldn’t be weird for them—they know you from the wedding and Spencer brings up the possibility of you babysitting like every other day.”

I laugh.

“And it’s not too soon, Violet,” he insists. “I was thinking we could all go out to eat or something next week.”

He leans in closer—close enough that I can smell his tantalizing male scent that not even industrial hospital sanitizer can diminish. “I would’ve brought it up sooner, but I’ve been really enjoying our . . . alone time . . . in case you hadn’t picked up on that.”

Images of our “alone time” dance through my head, each more sensual than the next.

“Yeah,” I say breathily. “I’ve enjoyed it too.”

“I noticed.” He smirks in a cocky, kissable way.

I shake my head, clearing the seductive—and at the moment, inappropriate—memories from my mind.

“But it’s really fine if you want me to stay with Brayden and Spencer.”

“You’re sure?” he asks. “I’ll be here until nine tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure. It’ll be good—it’ll be great.”

“Okay.” Connor kisses me quickly, but tenderly. “Thanks, Vi. Really. I owe you.”

And I just know the way he plans to repay is going to be mind-blowing.


*

And that is how I end up standing on Connor’s darkened front porch half an hour later. The street is quiet and still; the only sounds in the air are the chirping crickets and wailing frogs.

It actually is kind of creepy. What the hell kind of neighborhood is this?

I knock on the door. Connor texted the boys that I was coming, but I still see the front curtains rustle and two pairs of wide boy-eyes peeking out. A moment later the front door opens a crack—just far enough for me to see Brayden’s face squished into the crevice—his gaze darting left, right, and behind me, searching for a potential ambush.

“What’s the password?”

“Rosie-posie.”

It’s the secret code Connor gave me to confirm I’m actually here at his direction, and not to kidnap them.

Brayden swings the door open and rushes me inside.

“Okay—come in quick.”

He slams the door shut, locking the bolt and the chain with one hand and gripping a wooden baseball bat in the other. Rosie the German Shepherd stands beside Spencer and I bring my hand to her raised nose, letting her smell it.

Then she trots off into the house, completely uninterested. Connor said she’s not much of a guard dog.

“I’ve decided to accept the babysitting position,” I announce to Spencer.

“Niiice,” the ten-year-old drawls, sounding so much like his dad I can’t not smile.

“So why are you two so scared?” I ask them. “Did something happen?”

Brayden cops to it immediately.

“We watched Hereditary.”

“Are you nuts? That’s like the most disturbing movie ever made.”

“It was a bad choice,” he confesses regretfully.

Spencer concurs. “Especially when that old lady climbs up the wall and—”

“Nooope—don’t remind me, I’ve seen it.”

And no part of that film isn’t terrifying as shit.

“All right, here’s what we’re going to do . . . you guys go get your pillows and blankets from your room and we’ll camp out down here on the couch together for the night.”

I wouldn’t want to sleep in a room by myself after watching a movie like that if I were them. I’m not sure if I want to sleep in Connor’s room by myself after being reminded of the movie.

“And we’ll put a wholesome, totally non-scary show on the TV.”

“Okay.” Both boys march up the stairs.

But halfway up, Brayden turns back.

“Can you . . . come up with us so we don’t have to go upstairs alone?”

“Please?” Spencer adds like he thinks I’d actually say no.

“Of course.”

I check out my surroundings on the way up the stairs, because this is where Connor lives—where he raises his boys, where he sleeps. His essence lingers—I can feel him here—his scent, the warm strength of his presence.

And the house is gorgeous, with a long, curved staircase and oak railings, gleaming hardwood floors, and a landing at the top of the steps that looks down into an immense family room. But it’s a little . . . sparse. Barebones. You can definitely tell it’s home to four guy-boys.