by Annette Lyon
Sam said a fake good-bye and pretended to hang up, then brought the novel up on her phone. Sitting cross-legged on the washer — still mostly facing the guy — she tried to read, but mostly swiped pages without comprehending the words. Instead, her gaze kept returning to him. She hadn’t yet gotten a good look at his face, but a few glimpses told her that he was definitely bordering hot. Not that it mattered. Sam had a significant other of her own.
If the sweatshirt belonged to a girlfriend, then he was either a student too or not much older than one. He seemed a little older than the typical college student, so maybe he was in grad school. She kept pretending to read, and even made a real effort to, but even if her college degree had depended on it, couldn’t have described the first thing about the story.
With his one machine running, the guy turned around and leaned against it, looking at his phone too. Sam’s attention kept returning to the sweatshirt, still visible behind him. Strange that he’d brought it but not washed it.
Unless it wasn’t his, and he didn’t need to wash it.
Wait. Where’s mine? She looked around but found nothing in the empty mesh bag. She remembered putting the sweatshirt into it — but didn’t remember putting it into the washer with the rest of the colored load. Had she put it in with the whites? She hoped not; the blue shirt would turn her socks and underwear pale blue or gray. No, she didn’t remember seeing it at all since she’d stuffed it into the laundry bag back at her apartment.
It had probably fallen out on her way. She’d just have to look for it in the morning when the sun was up, even though the chances of finding it were slim. She’d worn that shirt at almost every meaningful college experience since her first home football game freshman year. She considered it a lucky charm, often wearing it while studying for tests along with her pink bunny slippers. She could replace the shirt at the university bookstore, but a new one wouldn’t be the same.
I get to talk to Steve soon, she thought to lighten her mood. And he has something to ask me. Sam tried to read again.
“Um, miss?” Laundry guy’s voice seemed amplified in the room filled with metal machines.
Sam looked up at him. He looked oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Maybe they’d crossed paths on campus. She didn’t answer, exactly, just made a noise that might have sounded a bit like, “Hmm?” or maybe, “Me?”
He picked up the sweatshirt and held it out. “This may sound like a weird question, but ... is this yours?”
“Uh, I don’t—” She meant to return her attention to the book, but the faded elbows caught her eye. Hers was worn in a unique way, and the sleeve hanging in front of her looked just like hers.
He looked closer at something on the collar. “Maybe not. Someone wrote Sam here.” He turned the shirt front to back, looking at it again, then at her.
The movement revealed a dark spot to the right of the letters HVU — what remained of an epic food fight from a year ago. Alyssa had lobbed a wood spoon covered in melted chocolate right at her.
No one was ever supposed to see Tara’s faded handwriting, done with a black Sharpie. She’d written everyone’s names into their shirts to avoid any mix-ups. Sam had protested that they were adults, not kindergarteners, and could find their own clothing, but more than once, having their names written inside had been convenient. Now, though, having an attractive guy see it made her feel about six years old. Her cheeks felt warm as she held out her hand.
“That’s me,” she said. “Technically, it’s Samantha. I answer to both Sammie and Sam. My roommate Tara wrote that. But try winning an argument with her, and you’ll lose every time.” She stopped talking, aware that she’d blabbed a long, meandering reply. Her cheeks blushed hotter. She decided to blame the warmth of the room.
He grinned. “So this is yours.”
“Yeah.” She hadn’t lost her school shirt after all. But how did this guy find it — and her? Had he followed her here?
Mom would so freak out.
She could hear her mother’s warning as clear as day. No, Harvest Valley isn’t murder-capital Chicago, but it is the place where a serial killer got away with killing a lot of young women, because they were too trusting of a normal-looking guy.
But this guy was so not normal. He was something out of a movie or a magazine. She felt a twinge of guilt for noticing, but quelled it with the rationalization that she could set him up with one of her roommates. One big point in his favor: he didn’t hold himself like so many guys she’d met whose every word and movement oozed a complete awareness of their good looks. Ironically, that was something she found unattractive more than almost anything else. She tended to gravitate toward guys who didn’t live in a gym, and who would otherwise be categorized as average. Someone, she realized, a lot like Steve.
“Hey, are you okay?” laundry guy asked.
That was what the man had asked when she slipped on the road. Wait. This was the same guy. Had he really come to do laundry? He took a step closer and tossed the beat-up shirt onto the machine beside her.
Confused at the understanding gesture, she reached for the shirt and held it to her chest. He seemed like such a nice guy, but then again, she had to know...
“Did you follow me here?” she asked, looking at the chocolate stain instead of him.
“I live just up the road, and…” He drew his hand down his stubble. “My name’s Connor, by the way.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you follow me?”
“Technically?” He raked one hand though his hair, mussing it, and nodded sheepishly. “Sort of.” He held up a hand and took a step away as if he knew his answer freak her out. “You were carrying a laundry bag, so I figured you were heading here, and when you dropped that” — he gestured toward the sweatshirt — “I wanted to be sure you got it back. Figured it had sentimental value.”
She tilted her head and folded her arms, unconvinced.
“Plus, I have my own laundry to do, as you can see. And I have nothing going on tonight except...” Connor cleared his throat. “Anyway, sorry to interrupt your evening. I’ll leave you alone now.” He returned to his machines, hopped onto one of them as she had onto hers earlier, ignoring the folding chairs in the corners, and pulled out his phone.
For the next half hour or so, neither spoke. Connor seemed engrossed with his phone, scrolling through posts or comments, tapping here and there, reading short things — maybe post comments or tweets. Hard to tell at that distance, but he was certainly reacting to whatever he found online — and not in a good way. His posture rounded slightly. He sighed more than once and began worrying his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger. He looked upset.
Her heart softened toward the guy; he seemed genuinely frustrated over something. It took her a few moments to muster up the courage to break the silence, but finally she asked, “Hey, are you okay?”
He looked up, clearly surprised at the question. He looked at his phone screen and bit his lip again before answering. “Okay, so I really did want to return it to you. Honest. And I assumed you were headed here because of the laundry bag. But full the truth is that I did have another reason for coming here besides laundry.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. Her mother’s voice threatened to break through and ratchet up her nerves again, but she fought back the reaction. “So ... what was the other reason?” Something about him felt familiar and safe — something she could never explain to her worried parents — but for some reason, she wasn’t nervous. She simply waited for Connor’s explanation.
He licked his lips. “This will sound really weird, but I have a favor to ask. If it makes you feel the least uncomfortable, I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again. But I swear I’m not a stalker or anything.” Again he raked his fingers through his already-mussed hair. His expression looked half hopeful, half filled with dread, as if she held his future in her hands.
But Sam grinned. The sudden shift from her feeling insecure and uncomfortable to sensing him feeling the same way
calmed any lingering worries she might have had. He looked vulnerable, and if she could help him, she would.
“What if I say you need to leave? What happens to your laundry?” She couldn’t stop smiling. The shift in tension from her to him put her so much at ease that she found humor in the situation.
He patted the chugging washer and shrugged. “Then I’ll hope my clothes are still here in the morning. Even better, I’ll send my roommate Ben to pick them up. That way, you can be sure you never have to lay eyes on me again.”
“Oh, but that would be unfortunate,” she said, then closed her mouth. Did that come out sounding as if she was attracted to him? Because she totally was. In an odd way, she almost felt as if he were an old friend — just one she couldn’t quite remember.
“But maybe you’ll see Ben,” he said. “He’s shorter than I am, but much better looking. At least, that’s what he says the ladies say. That may be changing, though. After his last breakup, he swore he wouldn’t shave until he kissed another girl, and he’s starting to look like a missing brother from Duck Dynasty.”
At the image his words painted, Sam couldn’t help but laugh out loud. She snorted and covered her nose, embarrassed.
Connor smiled, clearly pleased with her reaction. “If you tell me to get lost and my clothes get stolen because Ben is too slow, then tomorrow I go clothes shopping.” He put on a mock-serious expression. “And I hate clothes shopping. But it’ll be worth the sacrifice if you’ll do this one small favor for me.”
Her curiosity mounting, Sam hopped off the washer and walked toward him, arms folded. “Okay, what’s the favor? Tell me what it is, and then I’ll decide whether to send you packing. And shopping.”
“It’s kind of dumb — and believe me, not my idea.” And he sounded entirely serious, which piqued her interest even more. “But it’s for a good cause.”
She stood right in front of him. “Try me.” If the favor was really silly, it would make an even better story to tell Tara. No matter what it ended up being, it would not be a story her parents would ever hear about.
He pointed to her sweatshirt, which she’d left on a washer. “Could I put that on and...”
“And ... what?” Sam asked, looking at the faded and way too small garment.
“Take a selfie ... with you ... while I’m wearing it?”
“Um, I guess so...” Sam said, confused. “Can I ask why?”
He hemmed and hawed. “It’s for a bet with a — I don’t know what you’d call Trevor, but he’s not a friend.” He set his hands on his knees and tried again. “I’m supposed to wear an article of clothing that belongs to a woman I didn’t know before tonight.”
“Guys are weird, but the favor could have been so much weirder,” she said, confused and amused at the same time. “Would you rather wear something more obviously feminine? I mean, if the bet is more along the lines of Caitlyn Jenner—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he said, waving both hands. “At least, that wasn’t in the rules. It’s the first in a series of dumb challenges to raise money for a charity. If I win, anyway.”
“Okay.” Sam lifted one shoulder and let it drop in agreement. She grabbed the sweatshirt and tossed it to him. “Knock yourself out. But do try to avoid stretching it out.” She grinned, hoping it was clear that she was kidding.
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Actually, there’s more.”
“Are we talking several favors now?” That’s not what he’d suggested, but Sam didn’t mind. She had nothing better to do while waiting for her favorite outfit to get cleaned.
“I need to post the selfie online.”
How would Steve react to seeing her with another guy — and that guy wearing something of hers—what she’d been wearing when Steve first kissed her? Then again, what were the chances he’d see some random picture on a college student’s feed?
“See,” Connor went on, “for it to count, you need to be in the picture with me.”
“For it to count ... for the bet,” Sam clarified. A tiny bell of recognition went off in her head, but it was faint enough that she couldn’t grasp it before it vanished.
“It’s kind of a, um ... public challenge ... thing.” He cringed.
Anything posted online never went away, but it wasn’t as if she were agreeing to do something lewd, illegal, or offensive. Nothing that would hurt a future job interview. Taking a selfie with some random guy wearing a too-tight sweatshirt — where was the harm?
Sam tilted her head again. “How public are we talking?”
“I probably should have led with that part.” He blew out a breath and shoved both hands through his hair. “Here’s the deal. Are you at all familiar with The Trevor Dudes or another channel called—”
“Wynn Rocks.” Her hands flew to her mouth. Sam’s eyes widened so much, they must have made up half her face. “Oh my gosh. You’re — you’re — Connor—”
“Wynn. I take it you’re familiar with my channel.” He got off his washer and held out a hand. “And you’re Samantha...”
She stared at his hand as if a ghost had appeared before her. “You’re Connor Wynn. The Connor Wynn.”
Chapter Four
No wonder she’d felt as if she knew him. She did know him — so much about him — even though they’d never met. How had she not recognized Connor Wynn right away — his face or his voice? She played his videos all the time, but only in her apartment. At a laundromat, the context had been all wrong to put the pieces together.
Who would have ever thought she’d run into the Connor Wynn of Wynn Rocks in the middle of the night? Because of his videos and locations of many of his outdoor adventures, she knew he lived in the Rocky Mountains — but not a few blocks from her.
“The selfie is the first task of The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge,” Sam said, the conversation becoming clear in an instant.
“So ... you are familiar with ... all of it.”
“Um, yeah.” She wasn’t about to mention how familiar.
She turned around and raked her fingers through her own hair as he had. “Oh, wow. This is crazy. Tara will die. Utterly and completely die.”
“Look, never mind. I totally understand. I mean, millions of people will see it, and—”
Sam spun around. “No, I’ll do it. Trevor is a slimy jerk. He can’t win.” She tossed Connor the sweatshirt. “If wearing that helps take him down, do it.”
“Really? Thank you.” Connor’s worried expression softened into relief. “You have no idea — or, actually, maybe you do.”
She extended her right hand as he had before. “Sam McKinley. If you’re going to wear my clothing, I figure you should probably know my full name.”
He shook her hand warmly. “A pleasure.”
A delicious thrill went up her arm. “I can hardly believe you’re the Connor Wynn. I mean, you and Trevor have millions of followers between you. Heck, you have millions of fans of your own.”
“Which brings me to ... are you sure you want to be part of this?”
Sam pulled up Instagram on her phone and searched for the contest hashtag. “Trevor hasn’t posted anything yet. Let’s put up a selfie so you win the first task. I’d love to make someone like Trevor help a women’s shelter.”
“Wow. You’re really familiar with my stuff.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I also know that Trevor hasn’t announced his charity, which seems a bit sketchy if you ask me.” She pointed at the sweatshirt. “Put it on.”
Connor hesitated, as if waiting for her to withdraw her assurance. When she didn’t, he set his phone aside and opened up the bottom of the shirt.
“Don’t stretch it out,” she said. He froze, arms inside the sleeves, and hair poking through the collar. The sight of him stuck half in, half out, got her laughing. “I’m kidding,” she said between giggles. “Really. But I don’t know how you’ll fit.”
She helped tug the opening over his face and then pulled the bottom edge
as far down his chest as it would go, which wasn’t far. His arms stuck out at his sides, the sleeves barely reaching his elbows. “Technically you’re wearing it,” she said through more laughter. “Selfie time. My camera or yours?”
“Mine,” he said.
She turned to face the camera and eased in close enough for them both to fit in the frame, which meant her back pressing against his chest. She wished she’d had on makeup and something a whole lot cuter than yoga pants and a ponytail. But hey, she’d met Connor Wynn. Who cared what she looked like right now? She’d make herself downright beautiful later for Steve.
Connor adjusted the camera angle, then took several pictures of them with a variety of poses and expressions — everything from the classic teen duck face to horror then laughter. When their mini photo session was over, he held his phone out so they could both see the images. They picked their three favorites, quickly made them into a collage, and posted it.
After he’d officially claimed the win, they high-fived. Sam texted Tara, telling her to check the Wynn Rocks Instagram feed ASAP.
Connor cued some music on his phone, blasted the volume as high as it would go, then put the phone in a plastic cup he found in a window sill, creating an effective speaker. She didn’t recognize the artists, but she and Connor danced around like little kids for three tracks.
For the moment, she forgot that it was the wee small hours of Valentine’s Day, and that in a few hours her boyfriend would arrive for a visit. Then a metallic vibration echoed through the music, and Sam realized her phone was ringing, vibrating on top of a washer. Probably Tara or MollyAnne freaking out over Connor’s post.
But when she grabbed her phone, the screen showed Steve’s face — he was making a FaceTime call.
Gripping the phone, she walked to the other end of the room, muttering, “Crap. Crap-crap-crap-crap.” Steve wasn’t supposed to see her like this. He wasn’t supposed to see her until she was showered and primped for a Valentine’s date.