Page 39 of Not a Perfect Save

And boy didwe work up an appetite, in the most delicious of ways. I’m much more relaxed by the time we leave my apartment. And happy. Ready to hop puddles in a single bound type of happy.

We take a cab to the Upper East Side and grab lunch at a small French bistro and then stroll through Central Park, fingers laced together in the light drizzle. At first it feels a little strange, I don’t generally hold hands with people. Even as a kid, I remember trying to free myself of Mom’s grip to cross the street on my own. But my hand in Connor’s solid grip feels comforting and not confining, keeping me steady as we navigate the slick paths.

At Bethesda Fountain, we watch besotted beaus (or suckers, depending on how you see it) paddle around The Loeb Boathouse. It’s chilly out for fall. I slide a glance at Connor, tempted to suggest we take a boat out just to see him roll his eyes—followed by his sigh of agreement. Before I can, lightning cracks the late afternoon sky and larger drops start to pelt down. Oars hit the water with increased fury as everyone scrambles for cover. We are drenched in a matter of seconds.

Connor tugs me under the Arcade Terrace, only feet away, to take shelter. I’m wet and cold, but don’t mind too much because he swipes my dripping hair out of my face. He tugs the lapels of my raincoat shut and does up the buttons before leaning in for a kiss. The scent of rain and sage and Connor fills my lungs. Before he can pull back, I loop my arms around his neck and keep my lips fused to his.

It’s almost too romantic. Almost as if we’re alone, even in the midst of the Japanese and Dutch accents surrounding us—tourists taking shelter. I keep myself from taking the kiss further only to avoid shocking the young minds by exposing them to dilettante New Yorkers. Also, I’m running low on oxygen. Our eyes meet and hold. Connor’s thoughts are obviously running along the same lines, because he pulls me to the edge of the park.

Once we’re by the road, my hand lifts to hail a yellow cab, but like cockroaches, they scurried off at the first hint of rain.

“Uber.”

I’m fumbling with my phone. “Already on it.”

We dash across to Lincoln Center. The car says it will take twenty-five minutes to pick us up. We wait at the base of the famed steps. Lights on each riser welcome visitors in a dozen different languages and promote the current performances.

I don’t think I’ll last long enough to make it home, with my mounting desire. I’m about to suggest that we find ourselves a convenient coat closet—not that I’ve ever been an exhibitionist. I’ve always preferred to stay in the background—but it’s a day to make exceptions for everything.

A sharp shriek sounds, and both Connor and I whip around in time to see a woman slip. She lands flat on her back on a wide step, and her body is lit up by LEDs ofBeinvenueandShalomandWelkom.Passersby stop and gape. I turn to Connor, but he’s already bounding over to her. He bends to check on her and yells for someone to call for help.

I rush over, but a crowd has formed around them and I can’t get close. Connor and another man are examining the woman. It’s not as bad as it looks. They are able to help her sit up.

She rubs her temple and looks up at her rescuers. I suspect recognition sets in when her eyes widen on Connor—she’s either really hurt or a hussy because she bats her eyes at him, like literallybatsthem, sixty-blinks-per-second. How does that even work? I flap my own lids a couple of times, but I can only manage five before my vision clouds, and I give up. When the picture comes back into focus, I wish it hadn’t.

The tableau in front of me is shockingly familiar, except that this time, I’m watching it from the outside. Connor, on his haunches, examining the spot on a woman’s head. She’s in a similar pose to mine from that first night. Connor is being just as solicitous. He smiles at something she says.

I take in the other details—the gawking bystanders pulling out phones—the other man, now holding an umbrella over Connor and the woman’s bent heads—the dark jeans she is wearing, with rips in the knees and thighs. From this distance, I can’t tell if they are the result of her fall or a scissors-happy designer.

Rain beats down on me and I shiver. My throat tightens as ugly feelings course through me. The canvas shoes on my feet are soaked and I feel icky between my toes. Jake’s words come roaring back.Connor’s one of the good ones. He’s never met a wounded bird he doesn’t like.I knew that. But is he good to everyone? And in the same way?

Well, he hasn’t slept with her. Yet.

Otherwise, am I any different from the woman? Would any two people have connected because of a stressful situation like ours? Would Connor have ended up in bed with anyone who’d been at the bodega that night?

Maybe I was stupid to think this was more than indiscriminate bonding.

Knots coil in my belly as I try to curb my other qualms. And fail.

Would he have brought over her favorite food? Hung out and watched crappy TV? Looked at her like he thought she was more than just temporary? Held her close, kissed her slowly, as if he had all the time in the world?

I need to get out. Escape. Because the petrifying truth is that I am falling for Connor Hall.

My hand twitches, ready to make another, likely futile, attempt to find a cab. But Connor’s already walking back to me before I can move, a grin on his beautiful face.

I attempt an answering smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Boy Scout?” I say, but my voice cracks, just the tiniest bit.

He gives me a questioning glance. I avert my eyes, instead focusing on the little car moving on my phone screen.

Maybe this is exactly what I needed. A reminder that this, whatever it is, is fleeting. Better to sever the threads holding us together now, before I become more attached, before I am left, ragged and raw, when we part.

Chapter Twenty-Five

CONNOR

Something happenedwhile we were outside, but I can’t tell what. Ella was quiet after the incident at Lincoln Center, even though I assured her the woman who fell would be all right. She gave me a single nod in response before clamming up, and I’m not able to find out what’s bothering her because the Uber driver recognizes me and peppers me with questions the entire ride to her apartment. I give him the shortest answers I can without appearing rude, my eyes returning to Ella over and over during the interminable journey to her place.

She spends most of the drive looking out the window. Finally, she shuts her eyes and drops her head back against the faux leather backrest with a deep sigh.

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