Page 19 of Ripped

“Now you’re getting the idea.” He smiles at me like I’m some kind of hero and I spin toward the stove to start heating up a pan.

“So, um, you’ll have to work with Wyatt for the grant?” I ask, keeping my back to him. It’s safer that way.

He doesn’t answer right away and I peek over my shoulder at him. He’s pouting again and it’s my fault. I want to bring back that smile, that laugh.

“Sorry, we don’t have to talk about that.”

Connor sighs and his shoulders slump forward. “This grant is kind of a big deal and if there’s any chance that we could get it, it feels stupid to throw it away. But I don’t know if I can work with Wyatt anymore. I mean, what if we go through this whole process and don’t get the grant in the end? Or what if we do get it and then I’ll have to keep working with Wyatt for even longer!”

None of those options sound all that spectacular and I don’t know what to tell him. Make up with Wyatt because no guy is worth throwing away something so important? Or cut his losses and apply for other grants on his own? It’s a big decision and he’s got a lot of emotion tainting his perspective right now. I know less than nothing about the film industry, so I have no clue what direction to point him in.

“Is there anyone you can talk to about this? Someone who knows the industry well?”

Connor blinks and furrows his brow. “Maybe Rick. He’s my boss. There’s a professor from school I keep in touch with.”

“Maybe they can help you see the bigger picture.”

Connor nods, his expression serious. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks.”

I didn’t actually do anything, but I’ll take the shy smile he sends my way. I hold it close and let it fuel the embers he’s brought to life inside me.

CHAPTER NINE

CONNOR

“I cannot believe you’ve never seen The Count of Monte Cristo! Hello, Jim Caviezel? Guy Pearce? Baby Henry Cavill? With sideburns! In cravats!”

Donnie stares at me like I’m speaking a different language. “I don’t know. Maybe? If I have seen it, I don’t remember it. Must not have been memorable.”

“Oh my god, sacrilege! This is an emergency. We need to remedy this.”

We’ve finished our dinner of beef and broccoli on cauliflower rice, which—again—isn’t bad, but isn’t rice. Now we’re in the middle of cleaning up and Donnie drops this bombshell on me. It isn’t his first. He’s never seen Casablanca or Citizen Kane or Dr. Strangelove either. Never mind Psycho or Carrie or The Exorcist. I’m sleeping under the same roof as a film virgin and I have my work cut out for me.

“It’s not that I don’t like movies. They just… don’t make an impression, I guess.”

I take the plate Donnie hands me and run the microfiber cloth over it until it’s dry. “Okay, name one movie that’s made an impression.”

Donnie narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Titanic?”

“Oh my god!” I set the plate down carefully and snap the towel at Donnie.

He screeches and darts away, laughing. He looks amazing like that with his hazel eyes dancing and the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes out in full force. It’s been like this for most of dinner. Jokes and teasing and easy conversation that flows like we’ve known each other forever.

It’s comfortable. Not like old sneakers comfortable, where you should’ve replaced them ages ago, but couldn’t be bothered. More like finding that perfect pair of jeans that you buy in every available color.

Being with Donnie feels so normal it’s kinda freaky. We really have very little in common. He’s all into healthy eating and staying active. He knows a lot about how the body works. None of that is surprising because obvs, he’s Donnie, The Spin Instructor. But he also reads like, five books a week and listens to all kinds of weird music.

Movies and TV, though? Not so much. Not huge into Broadway either—musicals or plays. He almost never eats out and there are like, no snacks in the house. At least, nothing I would consider a snack. Granola is not a snack. At most, it’s breakfast. I need chips.

Donnie and I stand off in the kitchen. Him with wet and soapy fingers. Me with my towel-snapping skills. We stalk around each other in circles, each waiting for the other to strike first.

“Connor,” Donnie warns. There’s a twinkle in his eyes that urges me on.

“Donnie.” I mimic his tone, holding my towel in attack mode.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

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