Page 75 of Pack Rivals: Part Two
“All the kinds of things I’ll be asking any man who turns up wanting to see my daughter,” Connor says firmly, making something in my stomach swoop.
I can’t think about Connor and children. Connor and a daughter. A little girl. My ovaries might explode.
“Did you just get here?” I ask him.
“No, I arrived late last night. I’ve been waiting for a civilized hour to come see you.” He pauses. “I wasn’t sure youwouldsee me.”
“I’m feeling a little less angry,” I admit. “But only a little.” I frown at him.
“I understand.”
We walk around the corner, past more houses that look just like my parents. Old Jimmy Gregor is mowing his lawn and the sprinklers in the Symms’ house are on so high it looks like a Vegas fountain show.
“Are you really moving back here?”
“For the time being, yes.”
“I could never stand these small towns myself,” he says, eyes sliding to me.
“Why? Not exciting enough for you?”
“It always felt like I was being watched, watched and talked about. Everyone knows your business in a place like this.”
“Everyone knows your business in the city. Every magazine I read had an article about your pack.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, maybe it isn’t so different.”
“If you’ve come to ask me to come back with you…”
He shakes his head and we walk past the St Luke’s Church, its walls newly painted a bright white, its metal cross bright in the morning sunshine.
“You talked to Silver a couple of days ago about your dream job.”
“I did …” I say with suspicion. “You’re not going to offer me another job, are you, because I can’t accept it.”
“No, I haven’t got a job to offer you that you’d want. But,” he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out some sheets of printed paper.
I halt, taking it from him and scanning through the text with curiosity.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“I did some research. Some of the environmental organizations have trainee programs.”
I hand the pieces of paper back to him. “I’m not a graduate, remember? They won’t want me.”
He shakes his head, refusing to take the papers from me. “It doesn’t matter; anyone can apply.”
“Really?” I say, eyeing the text again.
“Really. And we’d write you a glowing reference.” He grins at me. “Might even offer to make a donation if they take you on.”
“Noooo,” I say, shaking my head this time. Then I peer up at him and those blue, blue eyes of his. Like the ocean. My knees shake. I swallow. “You could have emailed these to me,” I point out. “You didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”
“I don’t have your email address.”
“Text message.”
“I’m pretty hopeless at technology.”
