Page 37 of Far

“If that’s what you want to do, then yes. You should pursue what makes you happy. Life’s too short to spend it doing something you don’t love.”

He’s right. And that’s what I’m doing. It’s sometimes stressful, yes, or a broody, arrogant hacker appears, but I love what I do. Even if I may never be enough for my father to let me take over or my mother to stop trying to marry me off.

“This really is delicious, by the way,” he says.

“Yeah, it is, right?” I smile. “It’s so funny that after all these years, some things don’t change.”

“You’re right. The familiar things ground us.” He pauses, glancing down at his plate and back up, his expression now serious. “But change can be good, too. It opens up new possibilities.”

“Possibilities, sure. As long as they’re the right ones.”

Connor leans forward, bracing his arms on the table. “How do you know which are the right ones?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes, you have to trust your instincts.”

“And what are your instincts telling you right now?”

“I...”

The waiter appears to clear our plates, and I exhale slowly as Connor sits back, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. He knows exactly the effect he’s having on me. And damn him, but I’m enjoying it too.

Connor retrieves his buzzing phone. “Sorry, I have to get that.”

“Sure.”

He nods at me, walking towards the exit to take the call. His broad shoulders fill out the suit jacket, making it fit snugly.

No. He’s arrogant, rude, patronizing, withholding my phone, and acting like he knows me so well. He flirts with other women. He keeps me from drinking coffee. His tie is awful and his brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, and the dimples or his soothing timbre voice. Or how he listened with genuine interest to the spaghetti story.

This was the third time I told someone about it. The first was on a date. He said that I should be lucky that I didn’t get food poisoning. The second time was on another date, and he rambled so much about his own amazing cooking skills that we went to his home, where he put his so-called cooking skills to the test. It was horrible. As horrible as the smug, heart-melting smirk on Connor’s face. Let’s not forget that.

Ugh, this is useless.

I glance around, trying to catch the eye of a waiter, but instead, my eyes land on a woman hurrying out of the kitchen, her red designer dress and black hair disheveled. Her cheeks are flushed, and she keeps casting furtive glances around as she scurries towards the bathroom, head bowed.

Holy shit, is that Serena Morgan? The one and only Manhattan socialite, dripping in diamonds and designer everything?

Serena is one of the most poised, put-together human beings I know, or not, because she’s like some kind of goddess. Seeing her so flustered is… like spotting a unicorn. The ice queen has finally met her match. But I thought she was dating Bash.

Anyway, I have my own issues to deal with, starting with a certain infuriating yet infuriatingly attractive security consultant.

Speaking of which, I glance back towards the exit. Where did he go?

“Is everything alright, Miss Wempton?” The waiter appears beside me with a concerned expression.

“Uh, yes. Can I have the check, please?”

“Your boyfriend has already taken care of it.”

“Boyfriend?”

Before the waiter can respond, Connor returns to the table, his eyes scanning our surroundings before settling on me.

“Did you want anything else, Blue? A dessert, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Have a nice day.” The waiter bows and leaves our table.

---