Page 47 of Problematic Summer Romance

She bursts into laughter.

Chapter 15

Three years, two months, two weeks, and six days earlier

Edinburgh, Scotland

The guys are a few feet from us, currently talking about the Antonine Wall, the fort in Newstead, some other shit that always seems to loop back to the Roman Empire, and I must admit it: it’s kinda hot, watching Conor lay his dick on the table.

The way my male friends gather around him like he shits good advice and life skills gives me some secondhand embarrassment, but it’s nice that he doesn’t look too out of place, even in a bar that’s literally in a student union—a converted library where the median age isnowherenear his. His clothes are simple, but too high quality to really blend in, and there is an assurance about his presence that sets him apart. Still, since he settled everyone’s tab and kept the bill running, Alfie has been giving him resentful glances, and witnessingthatfeels almost as good as sex.

I don’t think Conor enjoys being at the center of attention. He’s well practiced, socially adept, but it’s obvious to me that he sees my friends as infants who just outgrew their diapers. I’ve been developing a theory about him, which is still half-baked, but here goes: The smooth manner in which he conducts himself, the ease as he walks about the world, is only superficial. He has learned how to be congenial and businesslike, but that’s just the surfacing tip of the iceberg. Deep down there is something else. Wilderness, maybe. A block of ice. Alotof control, for sure.

The worst part is,Iam the one he should be hanging out with. He keeps looking in my direction, maybe bored, maybe just checking in. We both know that if it was just the two of us, we’d be having way more fun.

Like we did today.

Sorry, I text him from my table.

When he reads the message he turns toward me to mouth,You better be, and I don’t hide my grin.

“You know,” Rose tells me, sipping her hot toddy, “I briefly wondered if you had lost your mind and were letting some old guy dip his cookie into your milk just to get back at Alfie, but…”

I follow her gaze all the way to Conor. “But?”

“Now that I’ve seen him, no notes. I’d do him.”

I laugh. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t. The idea is repulsive. But less so than most men. I can appreciate him, aesthetically.” She ponders it. “Maybe it’s because he had more time.”

“More time to…?”

“Become attractive. Maybe hotness is something you marinate toward? The longer you have, the more likely it is to accumulate?”

Maybe. But: “You know, he’s not just handsome. He’s actually really fun to talk to, too.”

“Right, yeah.” Rose seems skeptical. “I reckon you discuss…yachting and certificates of deposit?”

“Both topics have yet to come up,” I say, wondering if she’d be surprised to find out that we spent the day together.

It wasn’t the plan. I stood from our table at Loudons expecting to go our separate ways. It wasn’t premeditated, the way I tugged at his shirt and asked, “Hey, there are usually rowers on the river at this time, on Saturdays. Want me to take you?”

He did. We went. Sat on the grass a little off the walkway and criticized the rowers’ form. “I can’t believe the angle of their grip on the paddle,” I said, disgusted. “So amateurish.”

Conor turned to me. Took off his sunglasses. “Do you know anything at all about rowing?”

“Nope.”

It earned me a deep sigh. His hand grabbed my hood and pushed it over my head and all the way down my face, and I laughed and laughed even though I felt breathless.

Then there was a castle, and while we walked through the stone staircases I told him all about my feud with otters and similarly shaped animals. It was followed byanothercastle, and I found out that he almost got a PhD in biochemistry, and as he told me about his project, he sounded like such a consummatenerd, I couldn’t help teasing him, even as he wondered out loud “whether you’d fit through the arrow slits, Trouble.”

After pressing him for about ten minutes, I discovered that in his spare time—“Which I do not have, Maya”—he enjoys playing grand strategy wargames.“You are a nation,”he explained.“And use its resources to craft a military strategy.”

“Conor Harkness,”I tutted.“You walking red flag.”

“I’m a man in finance in my midthirties, talking to a twenty-year-old about his lifelong hobbies. I’m surprised you didn’t notice before.”

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