Page 41 of If You Claim Me
Connor sits back, listening and watching while my friends—ourfriends—weave a story that pulls us all together, includinghim. He seems to soften over the course of the meal, especially when Lexi and Roman jump in with praise for him.
He’s accustomed to being the media’s scapegoat for his team when they’ve had a bad game. He’s not used to having friends or being accepted exactly as he is.
Neither was I until Flip came along.
I tentatively cover Connor’s hand with mine.
His eyes dart to me in question. I offer him a reassuring smile, and he returns an uncertain one of his own. He turns his hand over, curving his fingers around mine. Warmth works its way up my arm and moves in a slow wave through my body, pooling low in my belly. That same warmth settles in Connor’s cheeks. I can feel our friends’ eyes on me, trying to figure it all out.
They’re not alone. It’s the same for me. Maybe for Connor, too. Our goals might not be the same, but they align, and we feel like an unlikely team.
After lunch and a promise to Meems that our friends will be back soon, Connor and I walk them to the front door—I’m doubtful any of us would have found it without him as an escort. All the boxes have disappeared, probably waiting for me in my bedroom, wherever that is.
I collect hugs, tucking them into my heart to keep it full once they leave.
“I’ll call you later,” Lexi promises.
And then it’s just me and Connor and a whole lot of awkward tension with my shields gone.
“Let me show you to your rooms.” He opens the elevator door and ushers me inside.
“Okay.”
Three walls are mirrored, providing an unparalleled view of Connor’s regal face and cut body.
He pulls the wrought-iron gate closed and presses the button for the second floor. The temperature seems to rise several degrees in the confined space and his proximity. He’s so tightlywound, his emotions locked down most of the time—unless he’s on the ice. Then all that tension and aggression are unleashed. And in rare moments, like with Callie and Meems, I see the soft side of him.
I wonder what he’s like in the dark, when no one else can see.
“What?” He rubs the edge of his jaw.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You.”
We reach the second floor, and he opens the gate, motioning me ahead of him. He points down the hall. “Left off the elevator. We’re in the west wing.”
“Left off the elevator,” I repeat. “Of course there are wings.” I fall into step beside him, counting the doors.
“What about me?” he asks.
“What about you, what?” We pass door three.
“What were you thinking about me?”
I glance up at him. The muscles tense in his jaw, like he’s waiting for the blow. He probably is. That’s what he’s used to from so many people in his life. Media comments about him always start withHe’s an excellent player, but…
He’s too emotional, too aggressive, not a team player.
“Just trying to figure you out,” I assure him.
“Good luck with that.” He pushes the door open and steps aside to let me pass. “This is you.”
“Holy shi…zzle. This is my bedroom?” It’s like falling backwards through time, into an era where ballgowns filled closets and well-read women were rare and kept secret.
“Yes. It’s yours.” Connor looks wildly uncomfortable standing on the threshold.
