Page 38 of The Problem with Perfect

“Elijah doesn’t work on Thursdays,” he supplies. “But he’ll be here tomorrow if you want to come back to see him.”

“Cool, well…thanks for that.”

Before I can turn and walk off to grab Emily and get the hell out of here, Connor speaks again.

“You know, I never would have guessed you two were together. You and Rusty, I mean.”

I lick my lips.

“Yeah, well, opposites attract, you know?”

He bobs his head, his lips pursed, like he’s thinking something over. “I mean more because, the last time I was in town, you seemed pretty single, at least to me. And so did Rusty.”

“That was what, three months ago?” I shrug, trying to seem more confident than I feel. “We were still figuring things out.”

I don’t mention the fact that Connoralsoseemed very single, though it feels like a very big and obvious elephant in this conversation seeing as how he’sengaged.

“And now you’re so serious that you’re telling everyone? Friends, family…” He trails off.

Something inside me snaps, and I’m suddenly less concerned about maintaining my lie and more exasperated by his unusual nosiness.

“What are you getting at, Connor? Why does it matter to you? You’re engaged.”

His eyes narrow just slightly before he affects that charming smile. “Look, Bells, I’m just worried you’re wasting your time on a guy like Rusty—who we both know doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body—because you’re upset about me and Stace.”

“You know what? Rusty might not beyouridea of a great guy, but he certainly is mine, and that’s all that matters. So why don’t you keep your thoughts about our relationship to yourself.” I pause. “And don’t call me Bells.”

Thankfully, I spot Emily emerging from behind the concierge desk.

She beams at me. “Guess who got her paycheck early!” she says, waving a check in the air. Her hand freezes and her smile drops when she sees my expression, her eyes flicking to Connor and then back to me.

I say nothing, storming past her and down to the exit to the employee lot.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice quiet as we both settle into my car a few minutes later. “You look like you want to strangle someone, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more than mildly constipated.”

I choke out a laugh, thankful for Emily’s go-to tactic of using humor to defuse situations.

“It’s just wild when you realize people aren’t who you thought they were” is all I say in response.

She hums her agreement and rolls down her window again. “Well, if you want someone to talk to about whatever it is, I’m here for you, girl. Lord knows you’ve listened to me ramble on and on about enough ofmydrama to grant you as many vent sessions as you need.”

I glance at Emily, finding her watching me with gentle eyes. “Thanks, Em. I might take you up on that someday.”

We’re silent for the last few minutes of the drive to work, and I try to force myself to let go of my irritable attitude and just enjoy the breeze and the country music playing on low from my radio.

I try, but my mind continues to tear apart my interaction with Connor. There’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him asking questions about me and Rusty because I don’t want him to find out we’re lying. If that happens, his ego will grow even larger upon finding out I concocted this story to try to convince him he’s less important. He’ll take it as confirmation of my feelings for him.

But the larger part of me just wishes he would fuck off entirely, wishes I didn’t have to deal with himat all. Because something tells me Connor is going to continue to surprise me, and not in a good way.

It really is true: you have to take off your rose-colored glasses to see all those red flags.

* * *

Thankfully, my shift passes quickly. That’s how most days are as summer begins to pick up. Tourists swarm the resort and the marina and downtown and the restaurant, pushing all the locals who want a mostly-tourist-free space over to The Mitch.

I’m surprised by the relief that runs through my body when Rusty takes a seat at the bar later that night, but it’s swallowed by nerves when Andy and my older sister Briar sit down next to him. Briar rarely comes into The Mitch, and based on the way her eyes focus entirely on me, I’m immediately suspicious that she’s here to ask me questions, or at the very least, to observe our interactions.

“Happy Thursday,” I say, tossing down coasters in front of all three of them. “What can I get you?”

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