Page 32 of Not a Perfect Save

Chapter Nineteen

ELLA

I don’t mindmy new routine. My foot is fine. And for one, my head seems to be screwed on right—that knock on the head may have been exactly what I needed.

Connor is over almost every night. It’s still strange to see him in my apartment—he’s shiny and polished and perfect in the shabby chic of my home. Sometimes he brings food, sometimes we make dinner together, me serving as his sous chef. Mostly, we jump straight into bed, and then order in afterward so that we have sustenance enough for round two, three, four, before I send him home.

He keeps me in a constant state of near-combustion, and so far, his interest has shown no sign of waning.

* * *

He hasn’t been clearedto play yet, but he still travels with the team for games. On days he is away, he has food delivered to me with accompanying puns.

There was a jar of pickles by a note saying, ‘I’m a big dill’. He sent me apples with ‘I find you a-peel-ing.’ The one that made my insides squeeze is when he sent me bacon with ‘Don’t go bay-kin my heart.’

* * *

One evening,he even comes over with a box from a familiar New Jersey bakery filled with cupcakes in different flavors—all twenty-seven of them, then proceeds to eat the icing off me. I promptly return the favor.

* * *

What surprisesme most is that we never seem to run out of things to talk about—movies or theater or a shared fascination with heavy metal music. He even surprises with a limited-edition record of a band we both enjoy. I love that I’m getting to know him this way, but faintly terrified at the same time.

* * *

I don’t even mindwhen Connor gets lost in his head. I know he’s worried about playing.

“Penne for your thoughts?” I attempt, when we are in that space between sex and sleep. He rolls his eyes at my pun, but I’m gratified to see his lips twitch. I know how to distract him now, and run my hand down his front. His chest is well defined, with pectoral muscles and little brown nipples. The only thing that mars his looks is a little scar near his left eyebrow.

“Army?” I sweep my thumb over the thin white mark.

“Tee-ball.”

I snort.

His eyes twinkle.“Surprised you there, didn’t I?”

“Boy Scout, you’ve been surprising me this entire time.” I trace my finger down his jaw to his sternum. “You are just too good to be true,” I muse aloud.

He stiffens. My eyes snap up to his and I whip my hand away. He snatches it back and presses it against his warm skin, with my palm flat over his heart.

“I’m not. Not even close.”

* * *

But faint warningbells sound in my head when he suggests we join his teammates for drinks. I’ve demurred so far. I have little reason to venture far from my lair if I’m getting food, sex and sleep. Throw in a little reality TV and what more could a cavewoman want?

The one thornin my side is Hannah’s stupid wedding. I’ve been avoiding meetings with her and my mother, pretending my foot’s still injured. That doesn’t stop her from using a messenger service to cart over even more clothes for me to alter. This time, outfits she’s selected for her entourage. We’re all supposed to be in matching colors for each of the events, though the styles can be different. I haven’t seen my own dress for the welcome party yet, even though Hannah’s promised I’m going to love it. I already know I won’t, but given that it’s her big day, week, whatever, I don’t complain. Instead, I send evil looks at her outfit for the first night, a pink explosion of tulle and tastelessness. It hangs on the mannequin in the corner of my apartment. There are hundreds of pins in my life-sized voodoo doll and a tape measure strapped around its neck like a noose.

I’ve been working all day, but I’m still behind even though I’m about to go cross-eyed after poring over the tiny stitches for hours, and my back creaks when I stand to stretch.

Right on cue, a welcome distraction buzzes. Connor’s picked up dinner. There was much debate earlier before we settled on Jamaican jerk chicken.

I should send him home right after we eat though, because if he sexes me, I will be useless and there’s too much to do. I sigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

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