Page 12 of Rogue Survivor
Her little huff makes me laugh. “Fine. I’ll make it easy for you. On Tuesday, Mitzi and I have to study for the AP English exam. We’ll be busy all night. You won’t miss anything because we won’t be done until at least nine or ten. Go out with this guy. You can pick me up at Mitzi’s dad’s when you’re done.”
There go all of my excuses. “Fine. But you cannot spend the whole car ride home interrogating me. Deal?”
“Deal.” She pulls her free hand out from under the table to show me her crossed fingers, but I can’t be angry with her. She’s right. Tony would want me to be happy, and while Veronica is everything I could have hoped for in a daughter, I deserve to see where thisthingwith Connor goes.
Pulling up his last text, I don’t think twice about my reply.
“I’m free Tuesday night. Do you like Italian?”
Connor
Sitting in the back of the coffee shop—at what’s become “our table” over the past two weeks—I wait for Isabel. We agreed to try a Monday morning date, and while I’ll miss working out next to her, this gives us more time to talk. It’s been almost ten days since I had a halo or any problems with my balance, and while I still can’t pass that damn physical fitness exam, Brent agreed to plead my case to the special agent in charge. Limited desk duty would be better than nothing, and would get me out of my own head twenty hours a week.
Isabel rushes in, and I push to my feet. “Mornin’, dar—Isabel. Got your coffee right here.”
Did she notice I almost called her darlin’? I watch her for any sign she wasn’t ready, that she took offense, but she leans in, hands on my biceps, and pecks my cheek. She smells like vanilla and something sweet, and her lips are warm against my skin until she jerks back. “Oh, God. I didn’t think—was that okay?” A furrow appears between her brows and her body warms against me.
“Come here,” I say, keeping my voice low. Sliding my hand from her back up to her neck, I draw her closer. Her lips are the stuff dreams are made of, and more than once this weekend, I imagined what it would be like to kiss her. Her taste. The sound she’d make—if any at all.
Gently, I slant my mouth over hers, and her fingers tighten at my waist. Every cell in my body wants more, but I don’t press her, don’t run my tongue along the seam of her lips, don’t reach down to cup her ass. We’re two consenting adults who’ve been around more than one block, but Isabel deserves my respect. Always. Even if my jeansareabout to strangle my dick.
“Connor,” she breathes when I release her. “Wow.”
“Wow?” Pulling out her chair, I wait for her to sit before taking a seat across from her. “When was the last time you were kissed, darlin’?”
Her hands curl around her mug, and she stares into the dark liquid. “Nine years ago.”
“Nine years? Fuck, Isabel. You haven’t kissed a man since…”
“My late husband.” Her eyes shimmer, and she abandons her coffee for the scone I hoped she’d enjoy. Breaking off a corner, she stares at one plump blueberry. “I can’t even tell you when it was, really. Not the night he died. Veronica was running a fever. She was miserable, and I was on the couch with her, trying to keep her comfortable. Tony was obsessing over the thermometer, driving me batty, and I finally sent him to the convenience store for some chocolate ice cream and aspirin.” She falls silent, staring at the scone for long enough I’m about to clear my throat when she takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. That was a lot first thing in the morning.”
I nudge the plate closer to her. “I can handle ‘a lot.’ I told you I wanted to get to know you, Isabel. That don’t mean just the good parts. My life ain’t pretty. Now or…before. And one of these days, I’ll tell you about it. Never thought I’d want anyone to know what happened to me, but with you…” I reach up and touch the depression in my skull. “Got no interest in hiding.”
She stares at me like she can’t believe I’m real. The feeling’s mutual.
“The first day you asked me out for coffee? I told myself it was a one-time deal. That we’d spend half an hour talking about superficial shit, and then I’d disappear. Start workin’ out earlier so I didn’t make a damn fool of myself trying to be normal. But the next day, I couldn’t do it. Showed up at noon again, hoping I’d see you.”
“A one-time deal? Why?” Hurt edges her tone, though she reaches for my hand.
Holding on, her soft fingers against my rough ones, I pray what I’m about to do won’t send her running for the hills. Carefully, I scoot my chair closer, then guide her hand to the top of my head. “Feel that?”
“Oh, my God. You said ‘a dent,’ but I didn’t think…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought. How—?”
“That’s a story that needs alcohol. The short version? A baseball bat. Spent three weeks in the hospital. Lucky to be alive, lucky to still be able to walk, talk, think...” With a heavy sigh, I sit back and take a long sip of coffee. “Some days, I still have a hard time with all three.”
“Shit, Connor. Are you okay to drive tomorrow? I never asked. Do you drive…at all? I could pick you up instead of meeting you at the restaurant.” The briefest hint of pity lingers in her eyes, but she blinks once and it’s gone, concern taking its place.
Finishing the last of my coffee, I want to escape. To head to the gym and run my problems away. But running would just make them worse. In some ways, I’ve been running for three months now, and I’m tired. So tired. I can’t keep hiding from the world. And I definitely don’t want to hide from Isabel. “Doc cleared me to drive last month. I can tell when I’m likely to get a migraine. That’s when things get bad. You don’t have to worry about me, Isabel.”
She wraps her hands around her mug and holds my gaze. “I’m notworried. I’m…I care.”
There’s no deception to her words. I’m trained to read people. Isabel is as honest as they come. “I care too. After dinner tomorrow, will you let me take you to this quiet bar on Ninth? I want more time with you than just a meal. Time to get to know you. And maybe, I’ll tell you about my brother and what happened to me when I tried to protect him.”
Her smile, though sad, settles me and gives me hope I’m not too broken to find someone who understands me. Someone who’ll accept my jagged edges, my scars, and most of all, my failings.
“I’d like that,” she says. “Very much.”
Isabel
