Taking Connor (6 page)

“Okay,” I interrupt, desperate to change the subject as I lay a plate of scrambled eggs on the table. “Breakfast is ready.” We all sit and enjoy the meal together. Of course, Lexi leaves immediately afterward, feigning a headache, and Wendy and Jeff leave claiming his mother has already called his cell four times wondering when they’ll be home. None of them help with the dishes.

I walk Wendy to the car and hug her goodbye. When I return to the kitchen, Connor is standing at the sink washing dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

His mouth curves as he rinses a dish, “It’s the least I can do.”

I start clearing the table, and when I finish, I dry the dishes he’s washed. “Does it feel weird to be out?”

His mouth quirks to the side before he answers, “It feels . . . a little overwhelming. But I’m happy to be out.”

“Would you like to go into town and visit Grams today? I know she’s dying to see you.” Grams is Blake and Connor’s grandmother. She lives in an assisted living facility in town.

“You don’t have work today?” he asks, surprised.

“Summer break, so my days are way shorter. I took a few days off to help you settle in.”

He doesn’t respond to that, just keeps washing the plate in his hands, before handing it to me. “Actually, could we go in a few days?” he finally asks. “I’d like to get myself . . . get things a little more situated before I see her.”

“Sure.” I shrug.

He lets out a breath and releases. “This is embarrassing, but my parole officer has to come by here and validate t?” his as my place of residence. Plus, my place of employment is here, I guess. He’ll probably need to validate that, too. I’m sorry, Demi,” he apologizes, not looking to me. His expression reads shame.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Connor,” I assure him. “I want to help you. If you want to start a new life, live free and happy, I’m happy to help you start that life.”

“That’s all I want,” he admits. “So . . . we’ll see Grams in a few days?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” I smile. “She’s going to be thrilled to see you.”

“I can’t wait either.” The softest of smiles lights up his face. It’s obvious he loves his grandmother when the mere thought of her puts a grin like that on his face.

When we finish the dishes, he wipes the counters down and before he leaves, says, “I’m going to work on the bike for a bit, and then I’ll go into town to get the parts I need to fix your car.”

“I’ll pay you, Connor,” I tell him.

“No, you won’t,” he adds. “I know I probably seem like a worthless mooch right now. I mean, I know you only welcomed me here because it’s what Blake wanted,” he corrects himself.

“No—”

“But I fully intend to pull my weight, Demi,” he interrupts. “I will repay you for all of this. And I’ll get my own place as soon as I can.”

I hate that he’s right in a sense. I am only doing this for Blake. Or at least I was. But something about his proclamation touches me. And maybe it’s only been a day, but I believe Connor. I believe he wants a new start a new life. And maybe it was Blake who mapped all this out, but I’m the one that’s here right now. I’m the one that can help this man find the life he wants. Why shouldn’t I try to help him wholeheartedly?

Walking up to him, meeting his gaze head on, I say, “This is your home now, too. You’re welcome here as long as you need or want to be here. In fact, it’ll be nice to have someone around. It can get a little lonely.” I can’t help frowning with the admission. It has been terribly lonely in this house since Blake passed away. When I move my eyes to Connor again, his mouth is in a flat line, his brows furrowed slightly in sympathy for me.

I take a deep breath and smile, fighting the melancholy I feel. “And yes, Blake set all of this up, every single thing,” I admit. “But Connor, I want to help you.”

He moves his eyes to the floor and swallows before quietly saying, “Thank you.”

Deciding it’s time to move on from the heavy, I change the subject. “I appreciate you working on the car for me, Connor. I’ll probably head to the store before you get started on it and before it gets too warm. Any special requests?”

“What’s your favorite meal?”

“Mine?” I question, surprised, as I slide a plate into the cabinet next to me.

“Yes. Yours. I’d like to cook dinner for you. Part of a huge thank you that I owe you.” I can’t help smiling even though he’s not looking at me. “I’ll cook for you Tuesday night if that works for you.”

“That would be nice.” And it would be. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked a meal for me. “My favorite meal, hmm . . . let’s see. Roasted duck with plum sauce.” Connor freezes and turns his head to me, his mouth twisted to the side. I try to fight it, but my laughter bubbles up and bursts from my mouth. “Spaghetti,” I chuckle as I toss the dishtowel at him. “I absolutely love spaghetti.”

He lets out a huge sigh of relief and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank goodness.” His hand rubs his head. “I was going to be in deep shit if I had to make roasted duck.”

“Your face was priceless,” I laugh again, heat blanketing my face as I do.

“What in the hell is plum sauce?” he questions as he shakes his head.

“I have no idea. It sounds disgusting.”

“Dinner tomorrow night then?” he chuckles, and I can’t help but notice how deep and real it sounds. He heads for the backdoor and stops, waiting for my confirmation.

“Sounds good.”

“Your sister says he’s covered head to toe in tattoos!” My mother practically shrieks at me.

I grit my teeth, threatening Lexi’s life in my head. No doubt she called my mother immediately after she left my house this morning, foaming at the mouth to tell her about Connor. Now, Gladys will be distracted with me and stop lecturing Lexi on what happens to loose women. FYI: they grow old, and their vaginas get saggy—according to Gladys. My mother, the wisest woman in all the land.

Holding my cell phone between my shoulder and ear as I push the grocery cart through the store, I reach up and grab two cans of spaghetti sauce. “Mom, you have to calm down. Yes, Connor was in prison, but he was Blake’s cousin. Do you really think Blake would do anything to put me in danger?”

“You didn’t have to move him in with you,” she argues, not answering my question.

“He’s not living with me. He lives in the apartment over the garage.”

“Do not give him a key to your house.”

“Mom, drop it,” I warn, having lost my patience. “You haven’t met him. You have no idea who he is.”

“And neither do you.”

On that point, I can’t argue. And if I’m honest with myself, the same stereotypes about felons still cross my mind even though Connor seems to be different. I never got explicit details from Blake about who Connor hurt or why. I asked once or twice, but Blake would always divert and change the subject. I summed it up as he was afraid I would think less of Connor if I knew, so I stopped asking. Be that as it may while my mother’s fear mongering rattles in my brain, something inside me, somewhere deep where that gut feeling takes over, is telling me that Connor is so much more than anyone could ever assume.

“I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” I hang up quickly and toss the phone in my purse. My mother is as uptight as they come. She’s your classic overbearing, anal-retentive, know it all. Clenching my eyes closed, I raise my head and say softly in front standing in the middle of the bread aisle, “Lord, please grant me the strength I need to be patient with my mother and not kill her.”

“Peace be with you, child,” a deep voice answers and I stumble back as my eyes fly open. A tall man with shaggy hair and blue eyes stares back at me as he grins. He’s very broad, and the sleeves of his dirty T-shirt hug his large biceps.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “I heard you praying, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Something about his laugh is infectious, and I join him. My face must reflect my surprise and complete embarrassment. “You must think I’m insane?”

“No. I empathize.”

“You have a bat-shit crazy mother, too?” I question.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies in a serious tone. “You know, they have a support group that meets every Wednesday down at Church of the Ascendants. The group’s called Children of Meddling Mothers.”

I stare at him blankly. Is he serious? I wait a moment before responding, thinking he’ll laugh or say ‘just kidding,’ but he just stares back at me.
Shit.
He is serious. “Do you go to these meetings?”

His features lift and a huge grin spreads across his face. “I love that you just believed me.”

And my face grows two thousand degrees hotter. I shake my head. “God, I’m so naïve. I totally just fell for that.”

“I’m Vick Reynolds,” he replies as he switches the grocery basket he’s carrying to his left hand and reaches out his right hand to shake mine. As his fingers curl around my hand, I notice his nails are caked with various colors of paint.

“Demi Stevens,” I mumble through my humiliation. His hand is firm and holds mine until my eyes meet his again.

“Painter,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused.

“You were looking at my nails. I thought you might be wondering why they’re caked with paint. I’m a painter.”

“Oh . . . like art or like house painter?”

“Well, both actually. We do commercial painting. Unfortunately, the artistic side doesn’t quite pay the rent. I just moved here from California. I’m working with my uncle, Gregory’s Paint. Have you heard of it?”

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.” He nods once at my response, and an awkward beat of silence falls between us. Of course, I feel obligated to fill it. “How do you like it here so far? I imagine this small town is quite different from any place in California.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile as his blue eyes stare at me. “As of about two minutes ago, I think I like this town a whole lot better.”

Whatever the reddest shade of red is, I have to be that color as I continue to blush. His line was cheesy, but I still appreciate the compliment. “That was quite a line, Vick,” I jest.

He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of practice here. It’s been a while.”

“And why is that?”

“Women don’t like starving artists,” he admits as he runs his paint dappled hand through his shaggy hair. “And what do you do, if I may ask?”

“I’m a Pre-K teacher over at Monroe Elementary. I work with children on the Autism Spectrum.”

“Wow,” his brows rise. “So you’re extremely attractive and a really good person.”

“Are you hitting on me?” I blurt out.

He laughs again, his perfectly placed white teeth on full display. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while for me, too,” I admit, pushing some of my hair behind my ear.

“And why is that?” I hadn’t realized how bold of a question it is until he asked me. He answered when I asked; I guess it’s only fair I do, too.

“Widow,” I answer quietly. “He passed away two years ago.”

“Damn,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.” He has that same look all people do when I tell them I’m a widow. A look of shock and surprise—and having no idea how to respond.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to sound insensitive here, but . . . you haven’t been on even one date in two years?”

I snort. “Nope. I think the men in this town, they knew Blake, and I think they feel like it’s disrespectful to him or something.” This is true, but even if they had asked, I’m not sure I would have been ready.

Vick watches me for a long moment but says nothing. I’m biting my tongue to keep myself from babbling.

“It was nice to meet you, Demi. Sorry, I interrupted your prayer, there.”

I’m not sure how well I do at hiding my shock. Wasn’t he going to ask me out? Internally, I roll my eyes at myself. I must’ve scared him off with my widow business. I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed he didn’t ask. It’s the first time in two years that I’ve considered even going out with someone.

“Yeah. You too, Vick. Good luck with the new job.”

As I watch Vick until he disappears from the aisle I’m standing in, my cell phone rings again and from where it sits in my purse, I can see
Mom
lit up on the screen. Thrusting my cart forward, I ignore her call and finish my shopping, wondering if the new guy in town was even remotely interested in me.