“Given how many crappy parents exist, they should. I’m sorry you have to deal with that, and I’m glad I see nothing of him in you.”
He takes a gulp of his bubbly. “That was what I saw. With the Eldest Daughter painting. Me, as my father. I had children, and I was treating them the way he treated us. I was treating y—” He stops with a quick cough. “I was treating my wife the way he treats her. That is what I fear most. What if he was like me when he was young? What if he turned into that? What if I will?”
“You won’t,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze. “Trust me, he was never like you, and you will never be like him.”
Connolly slams down the rest of the glass and gives his head a sharp shake. “Enough of that. So apparently, Kennedy Bennett, according to my father, you are a bad, bad influence.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be granting people paid sick leave.”
He wags a finger. “My employees already have full health benefits, including paid sick leave . . . partly because from an actuarial standpoint, it makes sense to encourage sick employees to stay home rather than infect others. And, yes, also, it’s the right thing to do and I’m not a complete monster. It’s just . . .”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Meeting you made me take a closer look at my choices. I can focus too hard on the end goal and blinker myself to the rest. It’s not as if I had a sudden epiphany that I come from privilege and should share. I always tried to be a good and equitable employer. My employees know they can come to me for anything.”
“Like keys to a bathroom that isn’t locked?”
He lifts his brows.
I grin. “When I snuck into your office to uncurse that mirror, I talked to one of your staff. He’d been there for two years and was too intimidated by you to ask for a key to the staff washroom . . . which isn’t even locked.”
He stares at me. Then he snorts a laugh that turns into a full-on fit of laughter, edging dangerously close to giggles.
“You’re drunk, Connolly.”
He shakes his head. “Just tipsy. The thought that anyone actually finds me intimidating . . .”
He chokes on a laugh, sinking deeper into the bubbles.
“Drunk,” I say.
“Tipsy.” He lifts his empty glass. “Were I drunk, I would tell you exactly how I feel about you, Kennedy Bennett. I’d make my confession in all it’s embarrassing glory.”
My heart thuds, and I force my tone light. “You kinda just did, Connolly.”
“No, I said I would, and I said it would be embarrassing.”
His eyes glitter, and he reaches for the bottle. My heart trips so fast I can barely breathe.
He waggles the bottle, in case I don’t understand that he’s asking for permission to tell me how he feels. To take another swig of bubbly, a little liquid courage yes, but mostly it’s that question.
Do you want to know, Kennedy? Am I taking this conversation somewhere you don’t want it to go? If so, just make a joke and snatch the bottle from me, and we’ll step back onto safe ground.
Do I want to know? Oh, hell, yes.
Do I want to take this conversation there? Absolutely.
Yet “want” and “dare” are two very different things.
Am I ready for this? That’s the big question. Not whether I want it at some point, which is an enthusiastic yes. Am I ready now?
Earlier today, I’d have been uncertain. A few days ago, after he ghosted me, I’d have said hell, no. But I look at him now, watching me, and I do not want to lose this chance. I do not want to lose him. To risk him taking any subtle rejection as a permanent “not interested.”
I can’t urge him to confess his feelings just to avoid missing my chance. I need to be ready to hear whatever he has to say.
Listen to him. Talk to him. Admit that I want more from this relationship.
Am I ready for that?
I take the bottle away, and his smile freezes as he tries to find another expression, one that doesn’t showcase his disappointment. I tip the bottle over his glass, stopping when it’s halfway full.
“There,” I say. “Then I’m cutting you off. Tell me what you really think of me, Connolly.”
He takes a sip of the wine. “I think . . .”
He freezes. Then another quick sip, and he blurts. “I think you’re awesome.”
He sputters a laugh and shakes his head. “Did I really just say that? Apparently, cheap bubbly resurrects my twelve-year-old self.”
“Hey, I’ll take awesome.”
“Good. But I have more.” Another sip, and he meets my eyes. “You joked once about being special. How you’ve always wanted to be special. Well, you are. You’re incredible, Kennedy. You’re smart and funny and fun, and you don’t put up with my bullshit. When I hired you, it was purely business. When you walked away from my offer, I was secretly impressed, but mostly just annoyed because it was terribly inconvenient. Then you pulled a gun on me.”
“Fake gun.”
“A real one would have spun this in an entirely different direction, and if you were that person, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. The fake gun. The exploding pen. Calling me out on being an asshole when I was most certainly being an asshole. That’s when I started coming up with excuses to get to know you better. Help rescue your sister. Take you to meet Vanessa. Oh yes, we could go our separate ways, but that would be most unwise. We really should stick together. Because I wanted to stick together.”
Another sip of wine. “I kept finding more excuses. You needed help with the insurance claim. Help with opening your new shop. Then I didn’t need reasons. We were becoming friends, and I could just say I wanted to see you. Hang out together. So very normal . . . and not normal for me at all. I was leaving work on time to see you that evening. Extending my lunch hour to bring you a picnic. Take a weekend off to go antiquing. That’s when I got cold feet.”
“Ah.”
“In my defense, I was also worried about what my parents might do, with good reason as you see. I wanted to remove that target from your back, and stepping away seemed the most expedient way to do so. But yes, it was also ego.”
“Ego?”
“I am accustomed to . . .” He seems to search for wording. “To setting the parameters for relationships.”
“You mean you’re usually the pursued, not the pursuer.”
“I was going to say that, but it made me sound even more egotistical. I tell myself I am just very, very busy, which I am, but apparently, if I want to be with someone, I can make the time. That was new ground, and it was uncomfortable. You know me. I don’t take chances. Ever.”
I remember Rian saying that shortly after we met. He’d said I had to make the first move, because his brother never would.
Connolly continues, “I don’t take chances because chances are risk, and what is at risk here is my pride. I’ve realized I want to spend time with you. As much time as possible. I wake up in the morning, and I’m looking for your texts. I bought that new watch so I don’t miss one. In short, I was acting like a boy with a crush, and because I’m not accustomed to that, it started to feel dangerous, even obsessive. So I backed off, and I hurt you, which is the opposite of what I intended.”