Page 94 of Was I Ever Real
“Where’s Ewan?”
“In the car.”
“Oh.”
Then he’s out the door, heading for my car. Moments later, he’s back with the crate, settling it down on the marble floor. Opening it, he scratches Ewan’s neck as my cat curls around his legs, meowing softly. When Connor straightens back up, he finds me gaping at the scene.
“What?” he says.
“Umm… I think I just hallucinated. What the hell wasthat? I thought you hated Ewan?”
He slides his hands into his pockets. “People change.”
I blink in disbelief, not knowing what to say to that.
Smirking, he winks, holding out his hand. “Come, I’ve made us dinner.”
I place my palm in his, and I swear I feel a small twinge of electricity zipping up my arm from where our hands are touching. I think Connor notices it too, his eyes snapping down and then up as if nothing happened, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Did you just say that you’vecookedfor us?”
While he leads us into the kitchen, he glances over as his other hand pushes his hair back and out of his face. He almost looks… shy.
“Why so surprised?” he jokes. Maybe it’s because of how much I’m starting to learn the intricacies of his personality, but his tone hints at some kind of vulnerability he’s trying to hide behind humor.
“You never cook, remember?” I say as he ushers us into the kitchen, making me sit at the dinner table I’ve never seen him use.
“I guess I’ve never had a reason before,” he says with a casual shrug.
I settle into my chair and watch Connor putter around the kitchen island. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of rosé, pouring a glass and walking it over to me.
“That’s nice of you,” I say, now suddenly feeling a little shy myself. “Smells good, is that—”
“Lasagna,” he interrupts.
I hum into my wine glass as I take a sip. “That’s my favorite.”
“I know.” He takes off his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves.
I smile but say nothing, knowing that he would have had to ask Sunny in order to know that, and just that little detail makes me feel all warm inside. I’m having a slightly hard time merging this domestic side of Connor with the ruthless gang leader he typically portrays.
I don’t hate it. Not at all.
Then it hits me again.
That same all-encompassing feeling that overwrote my entire body when we stood side by side watching the chapel burn.
“I love you,” I blurt out.
He stills, holding the lasagna atop large red oven mitts andfuckcould he be more adorable?
“What?” he says, looking slightly stunned.
For a second I consider coughing and waving it off as if I didn’t say anything of importance. But by the look on his face, I know he’s heard me and that his question is rhetorical. The emotion in my chest, stomach, limbs, heart is too big, too expansive. So I settle into a safer version of myself and roll my eyes as if he’s annoying me by making me repeat myself.
“Isaid,” my voice dies down a little at the end,“I love you.” I swallow hard, staring at him with slight suspicion, challenging him to say something stupid.
Instead, there’s a sudden flash of relief and then he gives me the largest, toothiest smile I’ve ever seen on him, still wearing those silly red oven mitts paired with his thousand dollar suit.