As I enter my hotel room, I decide to think about it a little more; not make any rash decisions.
When Connor emerges from his room the next morning, he looks like a brand new man. I look like death walking. His little hook up screeched all night as his headboard tapped against our adjoining walls.
“You okay?” he asks after taking a long stretch.
“Never better,” I mutter tiredly. His door swings open and our waitress from last night exits wrapped in nothing but a towel, her red hair billowing down her back. She smiles shyly at me, but when she looks at Connor, she bites her lip and gives him a knowing smile.
As she coils her arms around his waist, he looks to me awkwardly. “Uh . . . Demi I’ll meet you at the car. I’ll just be a minute,” he promises.
“By all means, take your time,” I mumble as I drag myself to my vehicle.
It takes ten minutes before I see Red walking barefoot across the parking lot to her car, carrying her shoes, and smiling ear to ear. They must have had a quickie. When Connor climbs in, he nods with a weird smile on his face. He knows I’m not stupid, and I know I’ve been sitting in a hot car while he either A, screwed Red’s brains out, or B, she sucked him off.
“Feeling better?” I tease as I start the car.
Scratching his head, he scrunches his face in embarrassment. “I’m sorry Demi. I’m not really that kind of guy, but . . .”
“Hey . . . eight years is a long time. I imagine anyone would be jonesing for some . . .” I stop myself. “Sorry,” I shake my head. “I just mean . . . I somewhat understand is all,” I explain stupidly. I’m babbling . . . why am I babbling?
“You do?” he questions.
Heat runs rampant across my face. “I mean . . . ya know . . . it’s been a while.”
“Oh,” he nods in understanding, his brows rising slightly.
“I mean . . . since before he died. He was really sick and on a lot of medication . . .”
Connor just stares at me as I verbally vomit. “Shit,” I groan. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I just meant don’t feel bad. People have needs. I get it. I’m right there with you . . .”
I pull my car out of the hotel parking lot, silence filling the cab. Inside my head, I’m waging war with myself. Who talks about their sex life with their cousin-in-law they just met? Their dead husband’s ‘pseudo’ brother at that?
“So, you haven’t . . . ,” he pauses as if searching for his next words. “Been with anyone since before Blake passed?”
I stare straight ahead, hating myself for starting this conversation. “Three years,” I admit gruffly.
He doesn’t say anything else, which I appreciate, but hate as well. It leaves me questioning, ‘is he dropping it because he doesn’t know what to say to me because I’ve obviously overshared, or does he think I’m selfish for complaining about it, not that I was complaining.
We make it home in eleven hours, and I’m wiped. We stopped at an auto parts store on the way after Connor figured out the issue with the AC. It needed a charge, so we stopped and got it charged. Unfortunately, it only lasted about four hours until it crapped out again.
“Must be a leak in the lines. I can fix that when we get back to town,” he promised after it went out again.
So we sweated our asses off until we hit Colorado, and the temperature dropped a bit. Pulling in the driveway of the two-story Victorian I own—well, Blake and I owned it together before he passed—I park the car, and we get out.
“The garage apartment is furnished and ready for you,” I tell Connor as he stretches, and my eyes watch him in the dimming daylight. Connor shoves his hands in his pockets as he takes in the garage and the house.
“This is a nice place,” he notes.
I can’t help but think about Blake. Once upon a time, this house was meant to be the home where we’d start a family together. But I guess some things just aren’t meant to be. He loved this house. He loved it because it had a neighborhood feel but sits on two acres with an amazing mountain backdrop. Most of the land is laid out behind the footprint of the structure and leads into the mountains. The neighborhood is small, one main street with houses on each side giving us privacy on the back of the property. I may not ever have a desire to sit on my back porch in my underwear or run around in my backyard naked, but if I want to, I can. No one would ever know. Or I could before Connor took residence in the garage apartment behind my house.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’ll give you a tour. But Blake said you needed to see something first.”
“He did?”
“Yeah,” I laugh softly remembering my late husband staring starry-eyed, imagining the day he’d present this to Connor. “He’s had this planned for a while.”
Reaching in the car through the driver’s window, I press the garage door opener that’s clipped to my visor. The garage door starts to rise and when it’s fully open, I enter and flip a switch to turn on the above head lighting. The light illuminates the walls that are lined with shelving where tools and instruments are kept in bins or are hung on pegs, and there’s a lift in the second bay, ideal for working under vehicles or changing the oil.
“Holy shit,” Connor murmurs as he steps inside. “Blake worked on cars out here?”
I snort. “Yeah right. He was a man of many talents, but mechanics was not one of them. He did this for you. So you could start working on cars and build yourself a business.”
“Are you serious?” His brows furrow as he runs a hand across the metal tool bench.
“He wanted to help you get on your feet.” I smile softly thinking of Blake obsessing over every detail of this garage. “I think he wanted you to be close, too. He really missed you, Connor.”
Sometimes, something happens that completely blows you away. Like witnessing a freak accident, how it sucks the breath from your lungs, your body frozen, unable to even contemplate breathing for a long moment. Or when you get that tingly feeling all over as the adrenaline sets in. Well, that’s how it feels to witness Connor Stevens cry. It’s sad and dark, yet beautiful and soft all at once. His dark eyes are clenched closed as tears stream down his face. He doesn’t whimper or suck in air. He hunches over placing his elbows on the workbench and holds his head in his large hands.
Gingerly, I approach, hesitant to touch him. Mourning Blake has been hell for me, but Connor was locked away in Arizona when his cousin passed. I imagine the grief has finally hit him now that he’s home. My hand rests on his back—incredibly hard and bulging with muscles—and I begin rubbing comforting circles. I should probably leave and give him a moment alone, but grief is a fickle thing. It feeds on loneliness and Connor is pretty alone right now as he just got out of prison. I promised Blake I would help Connor and I will.
“There’s more,” I whisper after a few minutes when I see his eyes are open, staring blankly at his hands.
He stands quickly, wiping his nose with his forearm, eventually grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up to dry his face. When I saw him in his bath towel yesterday I didn’t notice he has several thick scars on his stomach. They’re about an inch in length. Tugging his shirt back down he clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. Again.
I quickly speak, and hope he didn’t notice. “Over here.” I lead him to the far side of the garage and pull the tarp off of the Harley.
“Are you serious?” he gasps, shock laced in his tone. “He was supposed to sell it and pay my attorney with that money.”
“He kept it.”
“Who paid my attorney?”
“He did. He kept the bike for you.”
The tears begin again and this time he doesn’t hide his face from me. His lip trembles as he battles his emotion. Every feature on his face reflects his pain, and it looks like he’s almost pleading silently with Blake in a way. I can read it like an open book. Why, Blake? Why did you do this for me? There are other feelings that are coming across such as, I’m such a piece of shit. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve a cousin like you. I imagine it’s not easy to be a man and cry. After all, society doesn’t exactly list it as a sign of masculinity. Connor’s eyes hold such anguish, I can’t help it. His sorrow is so prevalent, it seeps inside of me and I start crying too. Unexpectedly, he pulls me to him and wraps me in his massive arms. He’s warm and hard, and I bury my face in his chest and sob. We spend several minutes wrapped in each other’s arms before I finally pull away, and we both wipe the tears from our faces. Connor lifts his shirt again, but instead of wiping his own face, he wipes mine.