Page 29 of The True Love Experiment

“Just saying good night to my daughter.” He motions for me to lead the way as we head back toward the car. It’s one of the most beautiful nights in recent memory. The air is warm, heavy with condensation; the briny ocean breeze feels like a gentle cloak.

“This weather is so perfect,” I say, taking this last moment to soak it all in. I’m finally coming back into myself and the beast part of me wants to throw myself into his arms just to thank him, to tell him he has no way of knowing that he’s helped me just by being attractive and laid back and a good listener. But I manage to contain the impulse, continuing only to say, “I want to stuff this happiness in a pie crust and eat it with ice cream.” I close my eyes, pretending to take bites of the sky, “Nom, nom, nom.”

When I look back at him, he’s staring down at me with an unreadable expression.

A haze of electricity settles around us and I don’t know where to look. My eyes keep getting dragged back to him, to his throat or lips or shoulders or those massive hands. I’m never in the gray area like this, where I’m attracted, and I think he’s attracted—but I’m not sure—and even if he is, I don’t think we’re supposed to do anything about it. My romantic life before, I realize, has been so black-and-white. Accept or refuse. Take to bed, or don’t. No subtlety, nothing nuanced.

At his car he reaches past me, and it’s only after I’ve tilted my face to his that I realize he’s not coming in for a kiss. He’s unlocking the door for me. But then he doesn’t pull back immediately. He stares down at me, looking a little lost.

“Should we head home?” he asks.

“I guess.”

Even coming from San Ysidro, the drive is too short, and I watch out the window as the car slows at my curb. Connor looks at me across the console, and it suddenly feels like making out, this eye contact, the way his gaze softens and makes a circuit of my face. But then he sucks in a sharp breath, turning and bursting out of the car.

Okay.

I follow him out and we make a slow death march to my front door. “You okay?” I ask.

“Great.”

“That was some night, huh?”

He laughs but doesn’t say anything.

Now we’re on my porch. “Are we gonna pretend it didn’t totally feel like a date?”

He turns to face me. “Good practice for you,” he says lamely.

I reach up, daring him to dodge my touch, but he doesn’t. He lets me brush his hair off his forehead. “Wear your hair like this more often.”

“It’s messy.”

“It’s great.”

“It gets in my eyes,” he says, more quietly.

“It’s sexy.”

He closes his eyes. “Fizzy.”

“Come inside.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes again and his gaze dips to my mouth. “What for?”

“You know what for.”

He laughs, but it’s not out of amusement or mockery. It’s a laugh of defeat. It’s agreement. And for a flash I’m elated.

But then he says, “You know we can’t.”

“Technically we can. My contract prohibits me from dating or any outside romantic involvement only during filming. I checked.”

“Fizzy. We absolutely cannot.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. And they’re hidden but I remember them like they’ve been imprinted in my retinas, and all I can think about is those big hands gripping me, walking me backward, bossy and directed, pushing me up against a wall or down on a bed. His strong arms bracing over me, those long fingers exploring. I want him above, blocking out every light source. I want to know nothing but the heat and scent of his skin, the rough sounds he makes when he comes.

“Why not?” I aim the question at his throat and it bobs with a swallow.

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