Page 52 of Mr. Swoony

“Pinkie? Oh, is this one of those hockey names?” I glance at his hand. “I noticed that the first night.”

His hand clenches. “That’s not why my name is Pinkie.” He tears down the sign and dumps it into the trash can farther up on the sidewalk, not bothering to look at the note the brunette left for him.

I enter the security code, and he takes the handle, opening the door. “Am I in danger living here?”

He chuckles and waits for me to walk through. “Why would you ask that?”

“Those girls were asking me questions and were pretty aggressive. Especially this one brunette. She wanted to know who I was here for.”

Conor’s hand slips to the small of my back, and a rush of shivers runs up my spine. I like it a little too much.

“Kyleigh lives here, and no one has bothered her that I know of.”

We go through the gate, and I sit on the stairs outside, ready to cross smoking off my list. “So, fill me in. Why does the sign say the Nest, and why is your name Pinkie if not for your pinkie finger?”

He sits next to me, stretching his arms behind him, tipping his head up to the sun. “Some of the fans refer to our building as the Nest. It used to be called the Den when some Grizzlies lived here. Actually, Cooper Rice owns the building.”

“Cooper Rice?” I exclaim. “Seriously?”

“He you know, but me you had no idea. I’m wounded.” He covers his heart with his hand, which I’m noticing is his thing.

I knock his shoulder. “Sorry, Tristan watched a lot of football.”

“Then you should know, Damon Siska and Miles Cavanaugh also lived here.” He dramatically opens his eyes and covers his open mouth as if he’s fangirling.

I shove him with my hand, and he leans to the side before straightening. “Would you rather me be camped out at the security gate ready to jump you when you come out?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “Yes, I would.”

I distract myself by pulling out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.

“You sure this is what you want to do?” He sits up straighter, resting his arms on his thighs and looking at me.

“It’s on the list.” I shrug.

“You don’t have to do everything on the list.”

“Then what was the point of the list?” I sing-song, taking off the plastic and pulling out a cigarette. I run it under my nose and smell the tobacco.

He watches me intently, then his hand slides into mine, taking the lighter from my grip. I bring the cigarette to my lips.

“Have you ever smoked?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“This should be good then.” He grins.

I bring the tip between my lips again, and he flicks the lighter with his thumb. The small flame heats my face a little.

“Inhale,” he says when the flame hits the end of the cigarette.

His thumb lifts off the lighter, and smoke burns my lungs. I pull it away and cough and cough, unable to catch my breath.

“Happy now?” He takes the cigarette from my fingers.

My coughing fit continues, and he opens his water bottle handing it to me.

After I recover, he’s still holding the cigarette between his fingers. “More?” he asks, holding it out to me.

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