by Ivy Hunt
She sniffs, and her eyes widen. “Wait! Is that—?” Her eyes land on the bag I abandoned by the door.
“Thai food,” I say.
“Oh, my god. I love you!” A hug, followed by a quick peck on my cheek catches me by surprise. My chest puffs like a proud peacock, as if I’ve delivered a severed head and not just take out.
She grabs the bag with an agility that belies her crippled state and digs into it, ripping the brown paper in the process. I snatch it from her. “Manners, Miss Dixon.”
Ella huffs, but parks herself on the couch while I open the plastic containers on the coffee table. She eyes the spread as if it was a feast worthy of a George R. R. Martin novel. The way to this woman’s heart...
We sample dish after dish—I hadn’t known what her favorites were, so I ended up ordering way too much. Ella has a noodle hanging from the side of her mouth. She slurps it in, then takes a gulping swallow, making me laugh.
“So what were you doing in there?” she asks when she comes up for air.
“Hmm?”
“The bodega. I never asked.”
I fidget with my chopsticks. “You really want to know?”
She nods, taking another bite.
“Condoms,” I mumble.
She sputters and swallows. “You went in there to buy condoms?”
“Yep.”
“Must have been real desperate.” She eyes me with interest. It’s not my imagination when I see them dip to my crotch before sweeping back up.
I’m not embarrassed. Not really. But I grab a spring roll up, dunk it in sweet chili sauce, then tap her lips with the flaky appetizer. “Say ahh.”
A surprised expression crosses her face, but she opens her mouth and bites into the roll, shutting her up. Her eyes close in ecstasy. I swallow. Does she look like that when she comes?
Her lids snap open at my grunt. My fingers and the other half of the roll are still suspended in the air. Maybe she sees a hint of what I’m thinking because she leans forward and takes another nip, almost taking my fingers with her.
“Hangry, are we?”
“You have no idea,” she says, her mouth full. “Besides, you did call me a carnivore. Now gimme.” I feed her the rest of the roll.
Gooey sauce coats her lips, and I continue to stare as she meets my eyes. She licks her lips, subjecting me to even more visual torture—this time I think it’s deliberate—before she grabs a napkin and dabs her mouth.
“Perv.”
“Totally.” I lean back and smirk.
I polish off the rest of the food while Ella sinks into the leather couch. She yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Tired?” I ask.
“Nah. Too many carbs.” Her lashes drift down.
“Do you want to go to bed?” I ask when she yawns again. Say no.
“No, not yet.”
“Want to watch a movie or something?”
One eye opens. “With you?”
“No, with your friend over there,” I nod at the mannequin. “Or would you rather I leave?” I don’t want to, but I will if she tells me to.
Ella bites her lip, looking me over. “No. Stay.”
I give myself an internal fist bump as I stand to clear up while she starts flipping through channels. Nasally voices grate through the speakers.
“What is that?”
“The Real Housewives.”
“You want to watch that?” I’m not all that picky about what we watch, not if I get to hang out with her, but I’d have preferred something less… noisy.
All I get is a shrug. When I settle back next to Ella on the tiny couch, our thighs are only a foot apart, and her bad leg is resting on the coffee table. Her attention is fixed on the screen, but her fingers twitch when mine find their way beside them.
The show is fascinating and horrific. I’ve heard of the series before, of course, but I’ve never actually watched it.
A scene comes on at some upper-crust party. Two women are screaming at each other after discovering they’re both wearing the same one-of-a-kind runway outfit. I finally find myself smiling when one of them smashes a cake into the other. I slide a glance over at Ella, but her face is tight.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Her expression is anything but entertained.
She must feel my continued stare because she says, “I don’t know why I watch this show. It’s like watching a bad rerun of my childhood.” Her eyes still follow the woman, now yelling something about dry cleaning and lawsuits.
“You grew up like that?”
“Yes, but think the New Jersey edition. There were the same kind of get-togethers growing up.”
“You didn’t enjoy them?” I ask.
She makes a face. “Hated them.”
“Why?”
Ella finally turns to face me. I grab the remote and mute the TV. “You think that’s bad?” She casts a side-eye at the screen. “It was ten times worse. Felt like a Barbie-gottabe half the time. Well, not really. Hannah was the Barbie. I was the ugly young Skipper.”
“Skipper?”
“Barbie’s younger sister.”
“Huh.” Who knew.
Ella shakes her head. “And you’ve met Hank. He was her Ken Doll. They were the golden couple of our town. Meanwhile, I was the shy, sick kid with braces that everyone felt sorry for.”
“Shy?” I stare. There’s no way that’s true.
Correctly deciphering my look, she says, “When I was younger, yes. My parents meant well, but sometimes it seemed like it was easier for them to forget me and focus on Hannah. It was better for me anyway—keep my mouth shut and try to disappear instead of sticking out for the wrong reasons. Of course, once I outgrew all my health issues, my parents went into overdrive, determined that I would experience everything—dance classes, parties, fancy clothes, the works.” She shudders. “It was as if they expected me to emerge from my cocoon like a beautiful butterfly. Imagine their surprise when they got a little hornet instead.”
I frown when she describes herself like that, but she continues on, “By then, I didn’t even know how to fit in anymore—not that it bothered me.” It didn’t? Sound like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.
“It was easier for Mom and Dad to focus on Hannah whenever I wasn’t in the hospital. They love me to pieces, but didn’t always know what to do with me.” Ella smiles in remembrance now. “But it took forever to convince them that I was more badass than Barbie and let me do my own thing.”
“Then?”
“Then I went off to college. I studied fashion but ended up moving back home after.”
“Wait, you hated dressing up, and now you make clothes?” That’s a contradiction if I’ve ever heard one.
She shrugs. “Just because I don’t like to wear them doesn’t mean I don’t understand the artistry behind them. I had to alter my clothes myself. Mom was delusional because she’d buy outfits for me in Hannah’s size, determined to doll me up. I was forever letting out seams and hemming things in. When I started to get good at it, Hannah would give me her clothes to adjust.”
I take her in, then sweep my gaze to the mannequin in the corner. “You designed that?”
“Modified it actually. My favorite thing is taking clothes apart and then putting them back together differently.” She smiles fondly at her dummy. She looks happy. It’s easy to tell she loves her work—she gets so animated talking about it.
I ask idly. “So did you have a Ken doll of your own?”
Ella’s face twists into a tortured grimace. “Hells, no.”
“Why not?”
“Bland, blond, and brainless.” She rolls her eyes.
My brows rise. “Judgy, much?”
She shrugs. “My parents did try to set me up, like, a million times,” she continues. “Some of them even looked like you.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Like me?”
“You know, the tall, broad, All-American type.”
“Yo
u calling me a Ken doll?” I think I should be offended on behalf of all the blonds in the world, but I’m enjoying this conversation a little too much.
Color floods Ella’s cheeks when she realizes that her words may be interpreted as an insult. “No, no. Just saying you—they—aren’t my type.”
“Not your type, huh?” Maybe she’s not into other Ken-doll types, but there’s no mistaking her attraction to me.
“Nope.”
I study her. “Then what is your type?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. Just different from most of the people I knew. Guys who were happier to be in the background like me. Simpler.”
Background material? Ella? “None of them stuck?”
Ella shoots me a glance. “None of them liked Thai. Deal breaker for me.”
“I like Thai.” My voice emerges husky as I hold her green stare with my eyes.
Just like that, the energy in the room changes. We both know we aren’t talking about cuisines anymore.
“You do?” Her voice is soft.
“Yes. I didn’t know I liked it before. Maybe I just needed a taste.”
Our breath mingles, and the air grows thick around us. Reaching out, I carefully thread my fingers through Ella’s curls and draw her close. My mouth slowly lowers to hers, and I wait to see if she pulls away. She doesn’t. Instead, she meets me halfway. The kiss starts off slow, an exploration. Her tongue dips between my lips and I taste sweet chili sauce. There’s nothing shy or timid about this Ella.
And then it’s not so gentle anymore. I haul her onto my lap, and she moans against my mouth. I swallow the sound as I kiss her hungrily.
My hands slide across her back, tracing her curves through her clothes. My fingers find the bottom of her shirt and slip under it, dying to feel the softness of her skin with nothing between us.
A loud honk outside makes Ella jerk back. My fingers tighten a fraction before I let her go. She’s still on my lap, looking dazed. But the moment she realizes she’s perched on my hardness, she stiffens and almost topples back. I catch her and gently lift her off me, careful of her foot. Her eyes are bright with confusion and her lips are kiss-swollen and all I want to do is haul her back into my arms.
We’re both breathing hard. Ella’s face is flushed and she won’t meet my gaze. Instead, she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. I reach out to stroke it with a thumb. She releases it with a gasp, her eyes flying up to mine. Fuck, I want her.
But I clear my throat and stand. I don’t want to leave, but it’s obvious that Ella’s freaking out and needs her space. I don’t want to come on too strong, even though everything in me wants to bulldoze through any of her excuses before she kicks me out again. But one last thing.
“Give me your phone.”
She looks at me, still a little bewildered, so I look for it myself. Grabbing it from the kitchen counter, I give it to her to unlock before taking it back and punching in my number. I’m not flattering myself when I say those digits are highly coveted. I call myself and save her name to my contacts list.
She tilts her head at me when I press it back into her hands. “Just in case.”
Chapter Thirteen
ELLA
Sleep has been crap. The first night back at my apartment, thoughts of the robbery kept playing on rewind in my head. I eventually dozed off in the dawn hours, only to be awakened by the insistent ringing of my phone, my concerned mother. I'd barely hung up when Hannah called. Her inquiries were less solicitous. She was more interested in pumping me for information on Connor for Hank and talking about the various events at her upcoming wedding week. My opinion is that it will more closely resemble an all-inclusive stay in purgatory.
I zombied around for the rest of the day. Then Connor showed up. With Thai food. He is what Mom and Dad would call a keeper. Dangerously close to the type they favor. And the kicker? I was happy to see him, too.
How is it that I’m attracted to Mr. All American? It’s like Freaky Friday, except I’m exchanging places with a younger version of myself.
Stop overthinking. Don't they say that traumatic situations bring two people together?
Fine. So Connor and I have a fleeting affinity. It's like a temporary tattoo—it will wear off soon enough.
But the stupid kiss has imprinted on my brain, rattling around and keeping me awake a second night. It’s barely dawn and all I want to do is go all ostrich on the world and hide my head in the concrete rather than face the day. Completely unacceptable. Especially since last night was a fluke. An aberration in the space-time continuum. A skipped stitch in a couture outfit.
I need to clear my head. Caffeine. And I have none stocked up.
What I do have is a number on my phone that I'll never use, a bit of useless temptation. It’s like when there’s a new flavor at the ice cream parlor and ask for a sample even though you know you're going to order your go-to anyway.
Now, I need a palate cleanser—sorbet, caffeine—whatever. I have to wipe the taste of Connor Hall from my tongue so I can settle back into my life.
I pull up his number. I bite my lip as my index finger hovers over the delete button. I squeeze my lids shut, and bring it down—right as the phone rings. My eyes pop open and I barely manage to keep the screen showing Hannah’s face from vibrating out of my hands. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
"Hello?" A sleepy, sexy male voice emerges from the device. My heart stops. Not. Hannah. Not unless hormone supplements are the latest diet de rigueur.
"Ella?" Connor says again, more alert now. "Do you need anything?"
It’s like a cat’s gotten my tongue and took my brain along with it. I had a game plan. What was the game plan? Fuccing Boy Scout, always screwing things up.
"I, ah—“ So flustered, I end up hanging up instead of trying to fake my way through a conversation. I delete his number immediately after. What I need is to find my fuccing mind.
My head finds my phone with a thunk. But before I can thump it again, it rings. Hannah. I’m about to ignore her for real, but nearly drop the phone again when an unfamiliar number simultaneously lights up the screen. The ghosts of contacts past and present, here to haunt me via modern technology.
Gingerly, I set the device down on the kitchen counter and take one step back, followed by another, eyeing the phone like it’s a grenade about to go off.
The ringing stops, thank goodness. I spin around on my good leg, grab my crutch and coat, and leave just as it starts up again.
Chapter Fourteen
CONNOR
My heart is hammering as I rush out the door. I’ve called Ella multiple times since our call dropped, but there’s been no answer. Is she hurt? Fuck. It couldn’t have been a medical emergency, could it? She’d have called 9-1-1 or her parents before calling me if it were. Well, maybe not her parents.
Miraculously, a yellow cab is letting someone out across the street from my apartment. I jump in before the other passenger is done paying, ignoring her nasty look.
I spit out Ella’s address while I hit the redial button again. Each ring only increases my alarm. Meanwhile, the car is the equivalent of a bee wading through molasses. I text Logan, telling him I’ll be late for morning practice, tell him to make up some excuse.
Thankfully, when I get to Ella’s building, one of her neighbors is leaving and I’m able slip inside before the door shuts. I bound up the stairs, huffing the entire way.
I get to the top floor and bang on the door. “Ella. Ella!” But there’s no response. I fumble for my phone and dial her again.
Ringing sounds from inside the apartment.
“Ella, open up!” I yell.
Nothing. The phone just keeps going. It’s an obnoxious ringtone, a bullhorn one that no one can sleep through. I pound on the wood again, but nothing.
Fuck it. I take a step back, haul in a deep breath, and charge the door with my shoulder. All I get is a low thud. I grit my teeth and try again, only earning another thump.
An alarm starts blaring. Thank fuc
k. Light floods the hallway, and I blink a couple of times before my vision clears. Above me, the motion-activated security activates and the camera eye moves. A garbled voice comes through, but it’s not Ella’s.
“Connor? Is that you?” It’s Barry Dixon.
“Yes, sir.” My heart is thudding hard, a new member of the pre-school marching band.
“What’s going on? Where’s Ella? I got a notification that someone was trying to break in. I was just about to alert the police when I saw on my phone that it was you.” His voice is urgent. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head. I feel sick, responsible. Like I should apologize for not taking better care of their daughter like I promised.
“I don’t know. She called me but then the call cut off. She didn’t answer when I tried her back.” I haul in another deep breath. “Now she won’t open the door, but her phone’s ringing from inside the apartment.”
Barry disarms the lock remotely. I’m inside the moment the catch releases. Ella’s phone is on the kitchen counter, but she’s nowhere near it, not collapsed on the floor like I was dreading. I rush to check the bathroom and bedroom. I even open her closet. Empty.
She’s not here. She’s fine. She must be fine, right? I’m breathing heavily, there’s sweat pouring down my face, and my heart is pounding harder than at any football game or mission I can remember. I step back outside.
“She’s not here, but her phone is,” I tell her parents, still on the camera speaker.
“We’re on the way.” A car door slams in the background. Someone is sniffling on his end. Georgiana? Bile forms in my throat.
“Umm…What’s going on here?”
Chapter Fifteen
ELLA
Connor slowly turns around. I blink, but he’s still there. Is that my phone clutched in his hand?
“Where were you?” He rushes forward, grabbing my shoulders, and tries to draw me close. I brace my hands against his chest, trying to make sense of this situation. His heart thunders against my palms. Anger and concern and relief swim in his blue gaze.