Page 103 of Unspoken Words
Lowering my head to the rim of my coffee mug, I continued to glare but mostly decided to ignore them. Mornings weren’t the time for thinking straight.
Connor pushed off from the cupboard he’d been leaning against and stalked toward me, his signature jeans-and-t-shirt ensemble somehow different each time I saw him. Clean. Fitted. Smouldering.
“Come on,” he said, taking my mug from me and handing it back to my mum.
“Hey! That’s—”
“You can get another one at breakfast.”
He grabbed my hand and led me from the kitchen, my heels clicking on the floorboards as I hurried along behind him.
“Slow down.” I yanked my hand free of his and gave him a little shove. “I’m barely awake, and these shoes aren’t fit for a morning rush.”
He laughed and turned around, eyes wide with surprise. “It’s not my fault you wear those things now. Don’t get me wrong, they look hot, very lawyer-like, but I much prefer your Chucks. They were less painful when connecting with my knee.”
“My Chucks? Ha!” I smiled, remembering my childhood coloured shoes. “I haven’t worn a pair of them in years.”
“Why not?” He opened the front door.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. The weather is warmer up north so I kinda live in flip-flops, and if I’m not in flips-flops, Byron and I normally go out to gatherings and stuff, so I’m in heels a lot.”
I felt awkward explaining my footwear to him. It was a weird topic to discuss, not to mention none of his business.
Connor sounded a “hmm” as we walked to his truck, which aggravated me further.
“What was that for?”
“What?”
“That judgemental hmm.”
“It wasn’t a judgemental hmm. It was a curious hmm.” He stopped by the passenger side door and opened it for me, his hand casually resting on the belt of his jeans, his face alive—too alive for the time of day.
I cocked my hip but soon melted under his gaze and sweet chivalry, instead thanking him with a playful grunt and choosing to let the ‘hmm’ discussion go.
“Now, are you going to try and kill my seatbelt again, or do you need me to help you with it?”
Rolling my eyes, I reached back and took hold of the belt, slowly unravelling it and dramatically clipping it into the buckle across my lap, my teeth pressed in a cheesy open-mouthed smile. “Was that okay?”
His eyes shot to my mouth and held there, his stare intense. My stupid smile faltered, and I swallowed, heavily, the sudden urge to stare at his mouth, too, now overwhelming. I bit my lip, and he licked his.
A car sped by and tooted its horn, distracting us. I sat straight and placed my hands on my lap as if in class at finishing school.
Connor smirked and said, “Seems we’re good to go then,” before closing the door and making his way to the driver’s side.
My eyes followed his every step. The way he dragged his hand across the bonnet and scanned the street for oncoming traffic before stepping onto the road, and how his eyes met mine before he opened the door.
He seemed different: carefree and mature. Confident. He now wielded an air of arrogance and control albeit still playful. He no longer seemed reserved and … unspoken. He’d definitely changed, though, and I wasn’t quite sure if it were for the good or otherwise.
“So where are we going for breakfast?” I asked, hugging my handbag to my chest.
He turned the key in the ignition, threw the car in reverse, and flashed me his pearly whites. “My house.”
*
Déjà vu settledover meas Connor opened the door to his house, but more so when the sound of Trevor Trout’s high-pitched voice halted my steps. “Eloise, please kiss me.”
I gripped the handle of my handbag and fought back a smile, remembering the time Connor had helped me catch my first fish—Trevor Trout—and how he’d coaxed me to kiss it just like he was doing now.
