Page 18 of Rules of Association

I waved a hand. “Old news, me and Fergy are friends now. She gave me treats.”

“Like a dog?” he asked, a smirk on his face. I looked at him with a warning glare and this time both sides of his mouth rose in a tiny, amused smile. I was right. The satisfaction of pulling that from him was almost celebration worthy. I kept my cool though, and he went on instead of moving to leave again. “So what happened, then?”

Like cold water raining over me, I suddenly sobered, feeling a rush of uncharacteristic apprehension shower me. This was going well enough. Better than any other conversation with any of the Ferguson boys. Did I really want to sabotage that by divulging the very things about myself that often led to people’s conclusion that I wastoo much to handle? Too much attitude, too much energy, too much everything. Did I really want to out myself so quickly?

I wrinkled my nose trying my best to shake away those weird thoughts. I didn’t usually implore the art of caution. Maybe I was just feeling vulnerable after the events of the day before, and it was causing me to falter. And I wasn’t about to letthatshit show define me.

With temporarily manufactured conviction, I turned toward Connor Ferguson—congenial acquaintance at best, near stranger at worst—to tell him all about my ex. How we’d met at a bar near middle Seaside and he’d charmed me with his shaggy bad boy style. How we spent several months dating and getting closer to each other. How, even though I didn’t think it was some great love or anything, I’d grown feelings for the guy over our time together. All this just to have him turn around and not only disappear but alsostealfrom me.

And then I told him how I got my payback. With my anger, my bat, and the help of his sister.

Connor stayed and listened to the whole story. Face moving in just about all the expressions I thought they would as he listened to my recount of events and bad decisions. Once I finished, instead of gushing over me and asking if I was okay, or even recoiling away from me and acting like I was some kind of catching disease, he just blinked at me and nodded.

Finally, with a whooshing sigh, he said, “That all sounds about right.”

“Excuse me?”

“All that,” he waved in my general direction and shrugged like it summed up everything I’d just said, “It seems fitting.”

“Excuse me!” I repeated slower, not believing that this was his reaction to my story. If it had been any one of my brothers or sisters, they would have blown their top. But this guy was just shrugging like this was a normal day in the sun.

When he shruggedagain, I was probably ready to explode. He noticed, apparently able to read me like a book, and narrowed his eyes as he crossed big arms over a bigger chest. “Don’t get mad atme.Youknew exactly what could happen in that situation. You knew that your family wouldn’t approve, so you kept it a secret. You probably knew it wouldn’t last, so you kept your last nameandyour tax bracket hidden from him as a failsafe. You aren’t stupid. Far from it. And you’re not new to this life. You knew the risk and you decided to take it anyway. Deal with the consequences.”

Um… Okay.

That was not what I was expecting from him. Maybe a wide-eyed look of horror and a swift goodbye, but not an unimpressed lecture. I found myself grappling to keep up with the off-putting reaction. The only thing I could come up with was, “Damn, you’re tough.”

This seemed to pull a grumble out of him, and he sighed. “Yeah, sorry. I’m not much of a sugar-coater.”

“Me either,” I said slowly, still giving him an unintentional stink eye. “But even I have some fucking decorum.”

He snickered, “The words‘fucking’and‘decorum’do not belong in like pairs.”

Another smile and even a laugh pulled free from my mouth, and I ducked to hide them in my fist.

Huh. Connor Ferguson. Who knew?

He seemed to watch me then and for some reason I got the feeling he was thinking the same thing. That he wasn't hating this conversation and that it was actually kind of fun talking with someone who could give shit just as much as they could take it.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he kicked his foot a few times as he asked, “So does it work with just anybody, or was my sister a special case?”

“Does what work?”

“Food.”

Food? Did he mean—was he bringing up food because of what I said earlier? Was this his way of saying he wanted to be my friend? I narrowed my gaze on him. “What are you proposing?”

“To eat. I have it on good authority that you like treats,” he said.

“You want to eat with me?”

“I want to eat, and your schedule seems pretty free right now,” he clarified.

“Didn’t you, like, run here or something?” I asked, taking in his athletic shorts, shirt, and running shoes.

“I did. But I can drive your car if your fingers hurt too much from all your bad punches.”

My smile was like a loose marble on a staircase. Impossible to catch. “You’re kind of a little shit.”

---