Make Me Fall: Bayshore #2 Page 5

  “Oh,” I start, swallowing a knot of nervousness. But when I look up at Connor’s face, the mischief in his gaze sparks something inside me. “The most affectionate. If we had an affection-o-meter…”

  “To measure the output of our affection?” He prompts.

  “Mm-hmm. Our reading would be off the charts. Like…3500 megahertz.”

  “That’s really high,” Connor says, a smile curling his lips.

  “It’s actually in the dangerous territory, according to recent studies.” It’s too easy to bullshit with him. And I love that this is flowing out of us.

  “Ugh. You two are meant to be together,” Dom scoffs.

  Grayson twists to look at Dom. “You are the living definition of curmudgeon. Why can’t you be happy for Connor? It’s hard for the middle kid to find success. Especially in a family like ours.”

  Maverick snickers. “Jesus, Gray.”

  When Connor scoffs, Gray is quick to cover his trail. “I’m kidding. The middle kid thing—it’s just a theory. It’s half-baked. It doesn’t even…it doesn’t even matter.” He’s finished his beer and opened another. This behind-the-scenes peek at the Daly household is more fascinating than it is offensive. Of course I’m not the one getting rained on—Connor is.

  But Grayson isn’t totally wrong in what he said. The alcohol is making the truth flow more freely—what his version might be of it—and his comments make me piece together something very important about Connor and me.

  We’re both middle children, and the way his older brothers are treating him feels too familiar to be coincidence. My older sister treated me the same way, and my younger sister struck a balance between Weston and Maverick. So in a way, maybe Connor and I really are the same.

  “We don’t need them to judge our affection,” Connor says, turning to me. But he’s saying it loud enough that I know it’s also meant for his brothers. He leans forward, tilting his forehead toward me, which prompts me to do the same.

  “They wouldn’t be good judges,” I say. Our foreheads touch, and the grin that erupts on my face feels too silly to be forced. No, this is all real with Connor. Just my inner teenybopper freaking out that I’m touching Connor’s forehead. Maybe I’ll never wash it ever again. Maybe I’ll circle it with permanent marker so I’ll never forget.

  “Horrible judges,” Connor says, and then brushes his nose against mine. I bite my bottom lip reflexively, my thighs squeezing together. I catch whiffs of his scent despite the woody smoke around us. He’s leather wrapped in spice, and my eyes flutter shut as I relish his masculine scent. “They don’t even know about that time we broke the affection-o-meter.”

  Connor’s hand finds mine again, and he laces his fingers through mine. I giggle—honest to God giggling like I used to absolutely rip my sister apart for when she was a senior in high school and acting a fool with her flavor of the week. This is what I get, though. The fullest dose of I told you so. I never felt like this with my ex, that’s for damn sure.

  “Okay, guys. You made your point,” Grayson says, waving us off.

  “No, no.” Connor tugs my Adirondack closer so that the arm rests bump together. His hot palm finds my bare knee, and I swear to God my panties are soaked on the spot. “We’re not done making it.”

  “You might want to make it up in your room,” Maverick muses. “You can make your point all night long, even.”

  “Just don’t wake up the rest of us,” Weston cracks.

  “Only Dom’s at risk,” Connor says, swinging his gaze toward his eldest brother. “You’re right next door.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Dom shakes his head. “I didn’t leave my penthouse this week only to rejoin a fraternity.”

  “You probably should have stayed in Cleveland, then,” Grayson mutters.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll wrap up beer pong by midnight,” Connor says, swinging that electric blue gaze back my way, his shit-eating grin out in full force.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the warmth in his eyes really was reserved for me.

  As if maybe he saw me as someone he really could spend the night with—and then some.

  I should know better than that. First of all, because this is pretend.

  But more than that? Because I already learned what happens in relationships. I know what happens when you trust a handsome face and dimpled grins.

  Not just heartbreak, but heart shatter. My ex wasn’t half as hot as Connor, but that’s only because most men aren’t. He was fully handsome and 100 percent manipulative. He taught me the extent of my flaws. Just how deep and pervasive they are; how they meant that nobody else, and barely even he, could ever love me.

  So I know the truth. Girls like me aren’t meant for men like Connor. No matter how warm and convincing it might feel at their side.

  Which means that I can’t read into this. Into any of this.

  And hell, I hope I can remember that while we’re in Bayshore.

  Chapter 8

  KINSLEY

  The first night under the Daly roof is more stressful than I imagined. Because once the lights flick off, it’s just Connor and me in the queen bed. Barely clothed and lying there.

  I measure my breaths for the longest time, trying to fake a steady rhythm while simultaneously listening to hear if he’s fallen asleep. We are not touching at all—in fact, I’ve scooted to the farthest reaches of the bed, curled up on my side, in a position that becomes uncomfortable approximately twenty seconds in. But I can’t move. Because we’re supposed to be falling asleep.

  My mind races for what feels like hours. I thought downing all that moscato would help me fall asleep, but Connor’s weight on the other half of the bed erases any vestige of sleepiness. All I can think is, Male body nearby!!!! MALE. BODY. NEAR. BY. As if some sort of purity alarm is going off inside me.

  Despite the elevated mental activity, I do somehow fall asleep. Because the next time I’m aware of anything, sunlight is streaming into the bedroom and I am warm.

  The Dalys keep their house this side of frigid, but I’ve managed to make quite the nest in this bed. And man, it’s comfortable. Pillow-top mattress and all. I yawn, and when I nestle back into my comfortable spot, I realize my cheek has stuck to something.

  I don’t open my eyes or even move much, because that’s against first-morning-of-vacation rules. I need to sleep in and enjoy this for as long as I possibly can. I’ll slowly use my awakening senses to figure out the mystery stick in my own time.

  I tilt my head, and my temple presses into something warm. Hard, even. I draw a deep breath, shifting beneath the sheets. They’re, like, 8,000 count or something and impossibly soft. My arm moves from its resting spot, and that’s when I notice it wasn’t resting on the bed.

  I’m pretty sure I have my arm flung over Connor’s torso.

  This makes the purity alarm start screaming again, and I jolt up.

  Connor’s torso is beneath me. Not the neutral expanse of unoccupied bed as I had assumed.

  No. His naked, perfectly toned and tan torso.

  I blink, taking it in. And that unsightly spot on his chest?

  Yeah, my dried drool.

  My hand shoots to my face, and I can feel the crusty trail leading from my mouth. Oh please God, no. I bolt out of bed before he can wake up and see this. Or realize that I draped myself across him like a needy little nymph.

  I stumble toward the bathroom attached to the bedroom. The early morning sunlight grates on my sensibilities, and I actually run into the doorframe before I make it inside. The door shuts much harder than I intend, and I wince inside. Bull in a china shop at eight a.m. over here.

  I clean myself up as quickly as possible, brushing my teeth for good measure, and then snag my morning pee. I walk back into the bedroom, readier than ever to continue sleeping in.

  Connor is sitting up in the bed, rubbing at his eyes. The sheets are gathered around his hips, and his belly creases as he leans forward slightly.

  “Morning,” he says, lo
oking at me with one eye pinched shut.

  The sight of him is too glorious to comprehend. He is pure tousled bedhead and bleary baby blues. Half of him looks ready to flop backwards and keep sleeping.

  “Are you getting up?” I climb back into the bed and stick to my half of the bed. I settle in, but I know that sleep will elude me. Now that he’s up, I want to be up, too.

  “Yeah.” He yawns, then pauses before saying, “I had a dream we were spooning.”

  I snort, but then I spot the dried drool on his chest and freeze. “You should take a shower.”

  “Do I stink?”

  “No, it’s just—” I have no good reason waiting in the wings for why. “I like to start my day with a shower. I thought you did too.”

  “I do, actually.” He stretches and then finally rolls out of bed. And this is when I blessedly receive the answer to my question. He sleeps in boxer briefs.

  Hallelujah, I’ve seen the flaccid outline of his cock.

  He glances at me, and I jerk my gaze over to the suitcases. I must document this occasion in my journal. This is a major victory for sixteen-year-old me.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Is this weird? I’m used to sleeping in my underwear, so…”

  I look down at my puritan night ensemble: long pants, long-sleeved cotton shirt, and the lemur cartoons printed across all of it. “No, no. It’s fine. I would have slept in my underwear like I normally do too, but…” I gesture to my pajamas. “I just got these, so I need to wear them.

  “They’re cute,” he says offhandedly, but what he probably means is, You’re weird. “Did you sleep well?” He pauses at the dresser. His calves are sculpted. His ass is comprised of two small melons. Every part of him is perfect, and I can’t help but stare.

  I nod so hard, I almost give myself an issue for my chiropractor to sort out. “Yes. Yes. Oh, yes. It was great. Had a great time. I mean sleep.”

  He cracks a grin, which I spot through the mirror. “Good. I’m sure it’s much better than the floor.”

  “Ha. You would be the one on the floor, not me.” I roll back out of bed, heading for my suitcase. “Or is chivalry dead in Bayshore?”

  He snorts. “The bar for chivalry has gone way down, if that’s all it takes.”

  Heat zips through me, though I can’t say why. Any sign from him I’m eager to translate into a profession of attraction, so it’s not hard to warp his words into something more. But I remind myself I’m being silly. Ridiculous, even. We are work colleagues and, during our time in Bayshore, co-conspirators. That is it.

  All I can think of in response is, I’d like to see something on you go way up. But that is not only wildly inappropriate, it is also the least sexy way to tell someone you’d like to bone. So no. Better to say nothing and maintain my last shred of mystery and cool instead of blow it to smithereens on day two.

  Connor scoops up a new pair of boxers and some other sundries from the dresser and nods my way as he heads into the bathroom. “I’ll be quick. Then we can head down for breakfast.”

  The bathroom door clicks shut, and I sink back onto the bed, gnawing on a nail. I should take this time to get dressed, but all I can think about is Connor. I’m totally dependent on him suddenly. Sure, I could waltz downstairs and grab breakfast and coffee on my own, but I won’t risk that frigid reception waiting for me from his parents. I need Connor with me at all times.

  And then, once it’s acceptable to escape, I will run to my parent’s house—sans Connor—and pretend this is one giant happy happenstance.

  While the shower runs, I try to imagine what the next two weeks will really look like. Visits to the lake: obviously. More bonfires with the Daly brothers: most likely. Continued frostiness from the parents: very probable.

  But what about visiting my family? Once I see my parents today, they’ll want to claim all of my available evenings. Both of my sisters live elsewhere; my younger sister Katie just finished her junior year of college in Cincinnati, but she’s living down there for a summer internship. My older sister Kestrel lives in Columbus, but she barely makes it home with her crazy schedule. So when I show up? Mom and Dad are gonna try to squeeze their time for all three of us out of me alone.

  And since I’ve decided that I’m here strictly as a surprise family-and-friends tour, I will not be telling my parents that I’m staying with the Dalys, much less dating Connor in any respect. Because after yesterday, I realized the sad truth. My parents would probably give Connor a similar reception as Annette and Damon gave me.

  Connor coughs from inside the bathroom, which sets me on high alert. God, he’s in there right now, completely naked. I wonder if he uses a loofah. Or maybe a bar of soap and a washcloth. Gliding over his taut muscles, slick and slippery.

  Shower sex. It’s something I love but have only ever done once in my life. The early days with my ex were the best—the days when he acted like my biggest fan—and in those dreamy, sexy times we did a few things worth reminiscing about. But that period lasted about three weeks, and then it was a slow downhill trek to the bottom of an abandoned well.

  Shower sex with Connor? The thought alone seems too scandalous to even consider. A chill races up my spine. My thoughts are hopelessly riveted on imagining the steamy, slippery scenes that I could create with him—if only he were ever attracted to me—while I slip out of my lemur pajamas. He seems like an attentive lover. Someone who would at least kiss me before shoving his hands down my pants, like the majority of my college hookups failed to do. I’m moving in a daze, caught halfway between reality and my fantasy shower world, when the bathroom door swings open.

  I freeze. I’m wearing pink granny panties and a tank top. My cheeks flame instantly, and I grimace, hurrying to dress. I had so much time to get ready—if only I hadn’t squandered it in the washcloth vs. loofa debate.

  I bend down in front of my suitcase, pawing through the contents for my jean shorts. Dammit, I know I brought them. I toss aside Pride and Prejudice, grunting. My entire body is hot, and I can’t tell if it’s because Connor is greedily gobbling up the view (which I hope), or if my embarrassment is slowly incinerating me from the inside out (which I suspect).

  I snag my jean shorts and hurry to slide them on, hopping from one foot to another. When I have them buttoned, I turn around, affecting my best I’m used to being caught half-naked in front of heartthrobs smile.

  Connor is facing away from me at the dresser, which makes my smile droop a little. So he wasn’t staring at me, gobbling up my half-naked glory. Why would he even care about my tomboy body? He dated Tamara after all, and she has the type of body that puts hourglasses to shame.

  I head back to the bed to make my side, and the steam rolling out of the bathroom finally hits me. It is heat and musk and cologne all wrapped up into one tantalizing mist. Connor tugs on a muscle shirt to go with his gym shorts, allowing those tanned biceps to come out and play.

  “Are you ready for breakfast?” He doesn’t look at me as he asks it, grabbing his wallet off the dresser, followed by his phone.

  “Of course. And then I think I’ll head out after we eat and go spend the day with my parents.”

  “Sweet. I’ll probably head to the beach for a while. Text me when you plan on coming back, and we can meet up.”

  He runs a hand through his damp, sandy-blond hair, exposing the darker hair of his armpit. My core tightens—yes, his armpit hair is erotic—and I grab for my enormous purse. He looks at me, something suspicious in his gaze. As if he’s about to accuse me of something or tell me that I’ve got an enormous booger hanging out of my nose.

  I meet his gaze for the briefest of seconds, then I glide toward the door. Whatever it is, I’m not ready to hear it. “You ready?”

  He follows me, and whatever he was about to bring up fades into obscurity. “Yes, sweetie,” he says, the smile more than evident in his voice.

  I grin as I lead the way down the hallway, bringing us closer to this episode of Fake-Dating the Daly Brother, Episode #2.
>
  And one can only imagine what this day will bring.

  Chapter 9

  CONNOR

  Kinley doesn’t text me to meet up at all that afternoon or evening. Which is fine. Because she’s her own woman with her own life. And we’re not dating.

  Even though two days of pretending to date has me in boyfriend mode.

  I spend the day as lazily and thoroughly as possible. Grayson and I head to the docks to ride out onto the lake on the two family Jet Skis. We crash through white caps and chase each other until we get hungry, then grab lunch at a diner downtown and spend a grand total of $10 for both of us to eat. That sort of price is unthinkable where we live, so we leave a $20 tip because we’re used to paying that much.

  In the evening, I run into some high school buddies, and we grab a beer at High 5’s which sits right on Briggs Bay. I’m drinking a local lager and watching sailboats drift on the tranquil blue water while double checking roughly every half hour to see if Kinsley has texted.

  It’s not because I need her here or because I think she needs me. Really, I sort of want her here. It would work out perfectly if she texted now, and I could tell her to come to High 5’s and we’d grab a drink and talk a little bit more about those lemur pajamas. And then, once the buzz kicked in, I could convince her that we needed to kiss, because Grayson would inevitably arrive and, well, this ruse must be consistently reinforced.

  But she doesn’t text. So I close out the bar tab and start a slow, touristy pace down the boardwalk. The evening is completely aflame in golden, crimson-tinged sunlight. Couples dot the benches overlooking the bay. Seeing the contented smiles and clasped hands inspires a strange cocktail of emotions inside me.

  I should be thinking of Tamara, who was my actual girlfriend for six months. But instead, my mind goes to Kinsley. It’s a little too easy to pretend with her—last night around the firepit proved it. Somehow, the quips and laughs just flow around her.