Page 9 of Mr. Swoony

He sits on the sofa, tucking himself into the corner. One arm lies across the arm of the couch, and the other is along the back. He’s a big guy. His half-eaten Snickers bar is in his hand. Those girls outside the door would die if they saw him right now.

“So, what do you want to talk about for the rest of the night?” he asks before taking another bite of his candy bar.

I grab a bag of chips and two bottles of water and join him on the couch. I keep my distance, sitting at the far end of the couch, but slide his water over to him. “I don’t know.”

He looks at the coffee table and spots my wedding planner. He leans forward and reaches for it, but I’m faster, leaping forward to swipe it away.

“What are you hiding?” he asks, reaching down to the carpet and picking up a piece of paper.

Oh no. Dread weighs in my stomach like a lead weight.

“I’ll take that.” I hold out my hand, but he doesn’t hand it over.

I watch him scan the paper, his smile indenting more and more the longer he reads.

“Conor.” My voice is pleading because this is embarrassing.

“Thirty before thirty bucket list?” He looks up from the paper, and my cheeks heat faster than if I was standing in front of a bonfire, and someone doused it with gasoline.

“It was just something I made when I was twenty-five. I found it this morning.” I reach forward, but he holds it away from me. “Can I have it back please?”

“I could get down with this bake-a-cake-from-scratch thing.”

“Conor,” I plead.

“Sorry, I’m an older brother and tend to do asshole things. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.” He holds it out to me, and I take it back.

“It’s nothing. Just a list I wrote when I felt a little lost in life.” I stare at it and think about how different I feel now than I did when Jade and I sat down on a beach at dusk and made the list, wanting to make sure our lives weren’t wasted.

“I think it’s pretty awesome. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

I place the list in front of me on the couch cushion. The planner wouldn’t have even been out had Tristan’s mom not called me to discuss seating arrangements. Again. Seriously, my people-pleasing tendencies are approaching the edge of a massive cliff when it comes to her.

“Go for it.”

“Why isn’t anything crossed off? Isn’t that the point of the list?”

My stomach hits the floor.

God, he’s right. There’s not one check mark or line through any of the thirty items. How have I gone four years without trying to accomplish these things?

“Life, I guess.” I shrug. “I forgot about it until I was moving out of my apartment and found it in the bottom of my underwear drawer.”

“Why was it at the bottom of your underwear drawer?” He crunches up the Snickers bar wrapper, tosses it on the table, and grabs his water. Again, those corded muscles in his forearm flex as he twists off the cap. Then I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

I’ve never once thought it was sexy when I watched Tristan take a drink, so why the hell am I fascinated watching Conor do the same?

After he finishes, Conor eyes me, and I realize he asked me a question while I ogled him like girls used to do to Henry back in the day. I never was a huge athlete girl. Their schedules are so grueling all the time. But I’m starting to see the appeal with Conor.

“I’m sorry, what did you say again?” I ask.

“Underwear drawer. Why wasn’t the list posted on the fridge or the bathroom mirror to remind you?”

He has a point. I track my memory back to why I thought I needed to hide the list. “I’m not sure. I think… Tristan—my fiancé—was coming to my place for the first time, and I think I thought it made me seem lame. I don’t think he’d understand something like this.”

Why am I so ashamed of this list? I wrote down these things because I wanted to experience them before I turned thirty.

“Why?” He sounds curious and interested, not at all judgmental, which makes it easy to answer him.

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