Page 114

Fifty-five
Conner
God, help me, I want to kiss her. I want to kissher so goddamned bad I can feel the ache of it in my bones.
I want to but I won’t.
Can’t.
I’m drowning as it is.
Kissing her would be like breathing underwater.
“Where’s your broom?”
As soon as I say it, her gaze drops to my mouth, and her brow furrowed slightly. “What?”
“Your broom,” I say, swallowing a groan. “I tracked mud all over your floor. I’d like to clean it up.” It’s never been like this for me. My dick has always been a tool. One I use. Apply appropriately and as many times as necessary to achieve the desired end result. One that responded and reacted on command. It’s never been about want.
It has always been about necessity.
That is no longer the case.
Now, want, and need are all I feel.
Getting her under me is all I think about.
I’m hard all the time. Every time I see her. Think about her. Hear her name.
My damn cock has gone rogue.
Thinking about sweeping her kitchen floor makes me think about my kitchen floor which makes me think about what I did to her on it Friday night.
That’s how bad this is.
Thinking about sweeping her floor is making me so fucking hard that passing out is a distinct possibility.
She pulls her hand from under mine and takes a step back. “There.” She indicates a narrow closet next to the fridge before turning back to her pancake batter.
I retrieve the broom and start to sweep, gathering bits of dried mud and grass while she lights the burner under a skillet. By the time I’m sweeping my mess into the dustpan and dumping it in the garbage, Henley has a stack of pancakes waiting for me on a plate.
“Here you go,” she says, handing me the plate. “Butter and syrup are on the table.” She tips her chin toward a formal-looking table on the other side of the living room, in front of a pretty spectacular view of Fenway Park.
I carry my plate to the table, sitting at the end of it, back to the window, so I can watch her while she builds her own short stack before joining me.
“Is something wrong with your pancakes?” she says, head angled toward her own while she doctors them with butter and syrup.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, trying to cover up the fact that I’m taking a mental picture of her. The way she looked when she made me pancakes.
This is the closest thing to a date I’ve ever been on. Tess is the only woman I’ve ever shared a meal with, but that’s not what makes this a moment worth remembering.
It’s that it’s with her.
When I don’t finish my sentence, she looks up at me, and I clear my throat. “I don’t know.” I start over, taking the syrup and adding a generous pour between each one. “I’m pretty picky about my pancakes.”
She raises her eyebrows, sliding the side of her fork through her stack. “Well, hopefully, they meet your impossibly high standards.”
I don’t want to tell her that they could taste like horse shit and have the consistency of an old leather boot and I’d eat every last bite. Instead, I give her a cheeky grin. “Either way, you get an A for effort, Daisy.”
“Shut up and eat your pancakes.” She narrows her eyes at me just enough to let me know I irritated her. “And stop calling me, Daisy.”
“Sorry.” I grin at her, sinking my fork into the stack of warm, buttery cakes in front of me.
“No, you’re not.” She sets her fork down to lift her napkin from her lap, giving the corner of her mouth a dainty, lady-like dab, the refined gesture at total odds with the hard jab of her words.
“Yeah,” I say, forking up a bite. “I’m not.”
And fuck me if these aren’t the best pancakes I’ve ever tasted.