by Elle Kennedy
I recognize him from the banquet as the dude standing with Conor’s team captain. He’d beat Conor home, but that’s my fault—I needed to hit the ladies’ and the lines had been atrocious.
“What one?” I ask, playing dumb.
“The one who sent Con to his knees and turned him into a slobbering, love-professing fool?” Mr. Dimples eyes me expectantly, waiting for me to fill in the gaps.
“Oh shit, that was you?” another guy demands. “Can’t believe we skipped out before the big show.” He pins an accusing look on the guy beside him. “Told you we should’ve stayed for one more drink.”
“No interrogating my guests, Matt,” Conor grumbles. “Same rule applies to all of you.”
“Are you our new mommy?” The third guy cracks open a beer, smiling with stupid puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t help but laugh in return.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Conor kicks Matt off the smaller of the two couches and gestures for me to take a seat. “This is why you dumbasses don’t get visitors.”
Their house is huge compared to my little apartment. A big living room with old leather sofas and a couple of reclining chairs. A massive flat screen TV with at least four different game consoles hooked up to it. When Conor said he lived with four roommates, I expected to walk into a nightmarish cave of man smells, pizza boxes, and dirty laundry, but the place is actually pretty tidy and doesn’t smell at all like feet and boy farts.
“Yo, visitor?” A fourth face appears in the doorway that separates the living room from the kitchen. “What do you want from Freshy Bowl?” he demands, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Grilled chicken salad, please,” I call back without delay. I’m very familiar with the menu of one of Hastings’ only healthy eating choices.
“On me,” Conor murmurs when I reach for my purse so I can chip in.
I glance over. “Thanks. I’ll get the next one.”
The next one? As if this rare occurrence of me having dinner at Conor Edwards’ house will ever fucking repeat itself? There’s a better chance of Halley’s comet showing up a few decades ahead of schedule.
And I’m not the only one marveling over this unforeseen turn of events. When Sasha texts a few minutes later and I inform her where I am, she accuses me of pranking her.
While Conor and his roommates debate over which movie to stream, I surreptitiously text my best friend back.
ME: Not a prank, I swear.
HER: You’re actually at his HOUSE????
ME: Swear on my signed poster of Ariana Grande.
That’s the only pop star Sasha allows me to fangirl over. Usually it’s “if they can’t sing live without lip-syncing or using their auto tuner, then they’re not a real musician, blah blah blah.”
HER: 50% of me still thinks you’re lying to me. Is it just the two of you?
ME: Six of us. Me + Con + 4 roommates.
HER: Con???? WE’RE ON NICKNAME BASIS NOW?
ME: No, we’re on shortening his name for texting convenience basis.
I’m about to punctuate that with an eyeroll emoji when the phone is unceremoniously snatched from my hand.
“Hey, give it back,” I protest, but Conor just flashes an evil grin and proceeds to read my entire text convo with Sasha out loud to his roommates.
“You have a signed poster of Ariana Grande?” Alec demands. At least I think it’s Alec. I’m still trying to learn all their names.
“Do you kiss it good night before bedtime?” inquires Matt, which evokes a howl of laughter from the others.
I glare at Conor. “Traitor.”
He winks. “Hey, like my junior high teacher Ms. Dillard always warned, if she catches you writing notes in Geography, she’ll read ’em out loud to the whole class.”
“Ms. Dillard sounds like a sadist. And so are you.” I roll my eyes dramatically. “What if I’d been texting about my horrible period cramps?”
Next to Alec, Gavin blanches. “Give ’er the phone back, Con. Nothing good could come of this.”
Conor’s gray eyes dip back to the screen. “But T’s friend doesn’t believe we’re all hanging out. Hold on, let’s show receipts. Smile, boys.”
Then he has the gall to snap a picture. My jaw drops when all four roommates flex their biceps for the camera.
“There,” Conor says with a satisfied nod. “Sent.”
I forcibly wrest the phone from his stupid hand. Sure enough, he’d sent Sasha that pic. And her response is immediate.
HER: OMFG. I want to lick Matt Anderson’s dimples.
HER: And then suck his dick.
I burst out laughing, which prompts Conor to try to steal my phone again. This time I win the battle, and firmly shove the iPhone into my purse before anyone can get their grubby hands on it.
“See this?” I tell the room, holding up the leather purse. “This is a sacred place. Any man who dares snoop through a woman’s purse will be murdered in his sleep by the Bag Butcher.”
Conor snickers. “Damn, babe. Your serial killer is showing.”
I just shoot him a saccharine smile. Then I finally shrug out of my cardigan, because all these big male bodies are generating a crazy amount of heat.
The moment the material slides off my shoulders, I feel more than one set of eyes travel to my chest. A flush rises in my cheeks, but I ignore it and purse my lips.
“Everything okay there?” I ask Gavin, whose brown eyes are completely glazed over.
“Um, yeah, all good. I’m…you’re…ah…I like your dress.”
Matt snickers from his new perch on one of the recliners. “Pick your tongue off the floor, loverboy.”
That snaps Gavin out of his stupor. And despite their initial ogling, the rest of the guys go back to acting normally, which I appreciate. I wouldn’t quite call them perfect gentlemen, but they’re not sleazebags, either.
Once the food arrives, the guys stream DeepStar Six. I eat my grilled chicken salad and watch as the underwater naval station is under attack by a giant crab monster, all the while wondering how I’ve been hypnotized into hanging out with Conor Edwards.
Not that I mind, exactly. He’s fun. Sweet, even. But I still haven’t figured out his angle. When it comes to men and unprovoked friendship, I tend to lean toward skeptical. In the car I’d quizzed him about why he’d made that big show in front of Abigail and her cronies, and he’d merely shrugged and said, “Because it’s fun to mess with the Greeks.”
I do believe he had fun messing with them, but I also know there’s more to the story. I just can’t ask him in front of his roommates. Which makes me wonder if he knows that, and is therefore using them as a shield so he doesn’t have to answer any questions.
“Like how does that even make sense?” Joe, who told me to call him Foster, hits a bong while reclined on the La-Z-Boy. “The pressure variance between such extreme depths would require several hours of decompression before ascent.”
“Dude, there’s a giant crab monster trying to eat their mini sub,” Matt says. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Nah, man. This is preposterous. If they expect me to take their premise seriously, they have to stick to certain basic laws of physics. I mean, come on. Where’s the dedication to storytelling?”
Conor’s shaking his head beside me on the love seat, visibly holding in a laugh. He is so ridiculously attractive it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the chiseled cut of his jaw, the perfect symmetry of his movie-star face. Every time he glances over at me, my heart flips around like a happy dolphin, and I have to force myself to play it cool.
“I think you’re taking this a bit hard,” he tells Foster.
“All I’m asking for is a little pride in one’s work, okay? How do you make a movie about an underwater sea station and just decide that the rules don’t apply? You going to make a space movie where there’s no vacuum and everyone can breathe outside without a space suit? No, because that’s fucking dumb.”
“Take another bong hit,” Gavin ad
vises from the couch, then shoves a forkful of food in his mouth. “You’re cranky when you’re sober.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna.” Foster takes a long hit, releases a plume of smoke, then goes back to sulking as he angrily eats his quinoa.
He’s a weird one. Hot, though. And obviously highly intelligent—before the movie started I was informed that Foster is majoring in Molecular Biophysics. Which makes him a science geek/hockey player/stoner, the strangest of combinations.
“Aren’t you guys drug-tested?” I ask Conor.
“Yeah, but as long as we keep the intake to a minimum and not too often, it doesn’t pop up on the piss test,” he says.
“Trust me,” mumbles Alec, who’s draped over the armrest and not entirely conscious. He’d fallen asleep on the couch beside Gavin pretty much as soon as the movie started. “You don’t want to know Foster without weed.”
“Bite my ass,” Foster barks back.
“Could you jackasses try not embarrassing yourselves in front of the company?” Conor chides. “Sorry, they’re not housebroken.”
I grin. “I like ’em.”
“See that, Con,” retorts Matt. “She likes us.”
“Yeah, so fuck you,” Gavin says cheerfully.
I wish living in the Kappa house had been more like this. I had hoped for sisterhood and got season one of Scream Queens with my very own Chanel Number One instead. Not that all the girls became as unbearable as Abigail, but it was all too much. The noise, the constant commotion. Every detail of life being a group activity.
I’m an only child, and for a while I entertained the idea that having siblings would fulfill some hole in my life I hadn’t known was there. Well, I learned real quick that some people are built to share a bathroom and some would sooner poop in the woods than spend one more morning waiting for ten other chicks to finish brushing their hair.
When the movie ends, the guys are gunning for a scary one next, but Conor says he doesn’t feel like another film and tugs me off the sofa.
“C’mon,” he drawls, and my heart does a couple more backflips. “Let’s go upstairs.”
7
Taylor
Conor and I retreat to his room to whistles and suggestive grunts from the guys. They’re only a step or two on the evolutionary scale from feral chickens, but they’re certainly not boring. I know they think we’re going upstairs to have sex, but I have a different goal in mind.
“Now that I’ve got you alone…” I say after Conor closes the door behind us.
He has the master bedroom, which is big enough for a king bed with a dark wooden frame, a loveseat across the room and an entertainment center with another massive TV. He’s also got an en suite bathroom and a big window that takes up half the wall and overlooks a small backyard where most of the winter snow has finally melted.
“Yeah, babe, I’m game.” Conor rips his tie from his shirt collar and flings it across the room.
I roll my eyes. “Not that.”
“Tease.”
I take a seat on his bed against the headboard and put one of his pillows between us like he did the last time we found ourselves alone in a room together. The blue plaid bed set says his mom picked out something masculine for him at Neiman Marcus. It’s very soft, and smells like him—sandalwood, with the salty hint of the ocean.
“I want to know—what was that display at the banquet really about?”
“I already told you.”
“Yeah, and I think there’s more to the story. So, spill.”
“Wouldn’t you rather make out?” He climbs onto the mattress beside me, and suddenly the bed feels very, very tiny. Is this actually a king-size? Because he’s right there, and one measly pillow isn’t going to protect me from the heat of his athletic body and the scent of his after-shave.
I force myself not to be affected by the sexy grin he flashes me. “Conor,” I say with the tone I use with my first graders when one of them won’t share the crayons.
His flirtatious smile evaporates. “If I said you didn’t want to know, would you just trust me and let it go?”
“No.” I meet his gaze head-on. “Tell me why you did what you did at the alumni banquet.”
On a deep sigh he rubs his hands over his face and combs his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The confession comes out in a mumble.
“I’m a big girl. If you respect me, tell me the truth.”
“Damn, T. Right in the fucking feels.”
He looks at me with such pained eyes, I have to brace for the worst. That maybe Abigail put him up to the whole thing, that they planned it together. That first dare, the love-bombing at Woolsey Hall…it was all a big scheme to make me catch feelings for him. Only now he’s having regrets? It’s a mortifying scenario, but it also wouldn’t be the worst thing Abigail’s ever done.
“Fine. But keep in mind, these are their words, not mine.”
He recounts overhearing Abigail and Jules talking with their boyfriends earlier about my “hook-up” with Conor. I flinch when he explains in an unhappy tone that their conversation included discussion of my potential as a porn actress, among other digs.
Lovely.
He’s right, I could have lived without the gory details.
Before he’s even stopped speaking, I’m feeling nauseated. My stomach twists at the thought of Conor hearing them say all that shit about me.
“I’m still twenty pounds from my goal porn star weight,” I joke at my own expense.
Most of the time, if you make fun of yourself first, it takes all the wind out of the fat-shaming sails. Showing people you’re self-aware softens their aversion to having a chubby friend. Because it’s important to everyone that we know our place.
“Don’t do that.” Conor sits up to level me with narrowed eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to make me feel better. I have no delusions about how people see me.” The jabs land every time, but by now the nerve endings are mostly dead. At least, that’s what I tell myself. “I was a chubby kid. I was a chubby teenager.” I shrug. “I’ve struggled with weight my whole life. This is what I am, and I’ve accepted that.”
“No, you don’t get it, Taylor.” Frustration crosses his expression. “Your body isn’t something you have to make excuses for. I know I’ve said this before, and I guess I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, but you’re smoking hot. I’d do you right now, in a heartbeat, six different ways if you’d let me.”
“Shut up your whole face.” I laugh.
He doesn’t laugh with me. Rather, he gets off the bed and turns his back to me.
Oh crap. Is he mad that I told him to shut up? I thought we were kidding around. That’s our thing, right? Wait. Do we know each other well enough to have a thing? Fuck.
“Con—”
Before I can fix whatever I’ve broken, Conor starts unbuttoning his shirt, then peels it off his shoulders.
Stunned, I sit in admiration of his bare back. Tan skin over long, lean muscles. God, I want to press my mouth against that spot between his shoulder blades and explore it with my tongue. The notion sends a shiver running through me. I bite my lip just to keep from making a totally unbecoming noise.
He throws the shirt across the room, then undoes his trousers. They hit the hardwood, and now he’s left in nothing but black socks and boxer-briefs that cling to the tightest butt I’ve ever seen.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
“Take your clothes off.” He turns around and stalks back to the bed with fierce determination.
“Excuse me?” I scurry on my knees to the far edge of the mattress.
“Get naked,” Conor orders.
“I certainly will not.”
“Listen, Taylor. We’re going to settle this and then there’ll be no more arguments.”
“Settle what, exactly?”
“I’m going fuck your brains out and prove my dic
k is totally into you.”
Excuse me?
Even as I gape at him, my gaze unwittingly drops to his crotch. I can’t tell if the bulge beneath that stretchy black fabric is a hard-on or just his normal old package. Either way, Conor’s declaration is so preposterous it summons a loud, hysterical bark of laughter from deep in my gut.
Then another.
And another.
Soon I can’t breathe, doubled over in a painful fit. It just won’t stop. Every time I look at his face, a new wave of laughter overtakes me, and tears spill down my cheeks. He’s too fucking much.
“Taylor.” Conor rakes both hands through his hair. “Taylor, stop laughing at me.”
“I can’t!”
“You’re doing irreparable harm to my ego here.”
Gasping, I take deep breaths. Eventually, the laughter subsides to giggles. “Thank you,” I manage to croak out. “I needed that.”
“You know what?” he growls, a cranky scowl on his face. “I take it all back. You’re dick kryptonite.”
“Aww. Come here.” I climb back on the bed and pet the spot beside me.
Instead of being a normal person, he takes it upon himself to lie down and drop his head and shoulders across my lap.
It doesn’t escape me that I now have a sexy man in his boxers draped over me. And it’s difficult to focus with him looking so, well, like that. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Conor half-naked, and yet the effect is no less impressive. He’s what guys picture in the mirror when they’re lifting weights and mugging for gym selfies. Every douchebag in a tank top thinks he’s Conor Fucking Edwards.
“I can’t believe you didn’t get naked,” he grumbles in accusation.
“I’m sorry. That was a very sweet invitation, but I respectfully decline.”
“Well, that makes you my first.”
Conor stares up at me with those gorgeous gray eyes, and for one fleeting moment an image flashes through my mind. Me, leaning down. Him, cupping the side of my face. Our lips meeting in the space between us…