He pulls at his collar and then stops fussing. “I’ll be blunt, as embarrassing as it is. There is a reason why my parents decided it was time to suddenly start foisting—” He pauses. Pulls a face. “—introducing potential partners to me.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “It’s you.”
Chapter Six
Six
Connolly clears his throat. “No, that’s not quite the wording. That sounds as if you’ve done something to cause this, which you have not, unless you can take the blame for existing.”
“Ah, let me guess. You’ve been hanging out with an unattached young woman, and that has them worried.”
“Yes.”
No surprise here. I’d once accidentally—okay, not so accidentally—overheard a video chat between Connolly and his mother. What did she call me? Right. A manic pixie girl. Which insulted her son as much as it did me, with Marion Connolly making it obvious that she thought Connolly also fit the usual romantic foil for such girls. A respectable and responsible guy wrapped up in his work, thrown for a loop by a reckless and flighty young woman. Okay, that’s fifty percent Connolly. Also fifty percent me. But it reduces us to stereotypes we don’t fit. Connolly is hardly the boring guy who doesn’t lift his head from his studies, and I am—I hope—a little more grounded and responsible.
Still, this is what his mother sees. Poor Connolly, the hard-working, uber-successful guy, fallen prey to the flibbertigibbet who wants to take him on a wild ride . . . and win herself a passport to their high-society world.
“Have you told them we’re just friends?” I ask.
He gives me such a look that I sputter a laugh.
“Fair enough,” I say. “Maybe you should have gone on that weekend trip with me, left them an itinerary of our plans and let them send one of their people to follow us, see nothing was going on.”
“They’d know it was a setup.”
“Right. Or they’d think I’m just holding out for a fifty-carat engagement ring.”
His lips twitch. “You wouldn’t be able to lift a fifty-carat ring.”
I bat my eyelashes at him. “Give me one, and let me try.”
He laughs under his breath, and then sobers and shakes his head. “I am sorry, Kennedy. This is very embarrassing.”
“Stop saying that. Practicing arranged marriage is not embarrassing. Signing that contract is not embarrassing. You were a kid, and someone took advantage. Your parents worrying about me isn’t embarrassing, either. I’m flattered that they see me as a legitimate threat to their family dynasty. So much better than having them write me off.”
“Well, thank you for being kind about it, and I’ll stop moaning about the humiliation.”
“Good. So, now that you’re done that . . .”
I pull a chocolate macaroon from my takeout bag and divide it with my plastic knife. He puts out his napkin, ready for the treat. Instead, I take a bite and say, “You were an ass, Connolly.”
I take another nibble, savoring it as he watches. “You stood me up with no notice and no explanation. Left me to spent the weekend wondering what the hell I’d done wrong.”
“I—”
“You said it wasn’t about me. I get that. You were wrapped up in this marriage problem, and the last thing you wanted was a weekend of antiquing.”
“I did want that.”
“Fair enough. You could have used the distraction. The real reason you canceled was so your parents wouldn’t find out and make things worse.”
He exhales. “Yes.”
“That’s a shittier excuse than just being busy. I understand you wanting to dispel their concerns. But the fact that it involves me means, well, it involves me. You should have said something. Instead, you blew me off and dodged my messages, then snuck over—”
“I didn’t sneak.”
“When you were recognized in my showroom, you retreated and lied about forgetting your phone. Then you show up tonight in a different car and lie about yours being in for service. You’re trying to convince your parents that you aren’t having a secret fling with me . . . by sneaking around to see me. One, if you aren’t supposed to be with me, tell me that. Two, if you aren’t supposed to be with me . . .” I look him in the eye. “Maybe don’t be with me.”
His lips tighten. “I am not allowing my parents interfere in my relationships.”
“Then tell them that. About me and about this arranged-marriage business. Unless you think that by playing their game, you can buy some wiggle room—an extension or a reduction.”
“I will not get any concessions. Either I marry or I owe them the money. I will repay the money. As for telling them to leave me alone about you, I can’t. Not without putting you in danger.”
“Danger?”
“Not physical danger. My parents don’t do that. But there are other ways to hurt people. Financial ways. You are vulnerable to that.”
“How? I rent my shop. My car is paid for. I live in my family home, which is also paid for. If there’s one good thing about not having a lot, it’s that someone can wipe out my savings, and it’s hardly a catastrophe. I’ll just keep going.”
“Unless your professional reputation is damaged beyond repair. Unless your family home is suddenly discovered to have a mysterious lien against it. Unless your trust fund suffers catastrophic investment losses. My parents can ruin you, Kennedy. If the situation reaches that stage, they will.”
“And you know this?”
“I’ve seen them do it before.”
“No, I mean you know that they could and would do this to me, and yet . . .” I wave at him. “Here we are, sneaking around together, with me having no idea that we’re sneaking or why. With me not having the option to say whether I accept the risk?”
I push up from the table and stride away, phone in hand as I tap the screen.
Connolly comes after me. “I’m sorry, Kennedy. I didn’t think it through.”
“No, you didn’t. Like you didn’t think it through before ghosting me this week.”
“I didn’t ghost—” He stops. “All right. Yes, I did, but I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You meant it to get your parents off your back and then you decided you weren’t letting them run your life, so you snuck off to see me and put me in danger without asking whether that was okay. Without allowing me to make that choice for myself.”
I peer back at the shop we just left, and then I stab the name into the phone app. Connolly edges close enough to see the screen.
“Yes, I’m calling for a ride share,” I say.
“You don’t need to do that.”
I hit the button to match me with a ride. The wheel spins as it looks for a driver.
“What about the painting?” he says.
I fix him with a glare, and he has the grace to color under it.
“You never gave a damn about the painting, Connolly. This was about giving you a night off. You’re tired of sitting in the parlor while your parents parade in marital prospects.”
“That’s not actually how—” He clears his throat. “Yes, I understand what you mean, but no, I didn’t need a break. I wanted to see you.”