Connor swipes the key card and shoves the door open, holding it in place for me to squeeze past him.
I quickly take stock of the complete space I’ve become all too familiar with by viewing the resort’s accommodations pictures online. A modest kitchenette is tucked in the back left corner, a small dining table surrounded by four chairs setting on the far wall on the same side. The wall straight ahead, beyond the living area, isn’t a wall at all. It’s one enormous sliding glass door with unobstructed views of the desert landscape in the distance. To my right is a set of double doors, propped open to reveal the bedroom complete with its own patio access door, a king-sized bed and an ensuite bathroom—the only bathroom.
Connor empties his pockets on the entry table and I turn to face him. “The sofa has a pull-out bed. I’ll sleep there and you can have the bedroom.”
Connor chuckles and the knots in my chest instantly unravel at the sound. Dropping the car keys to the table, he doesn’t even look up when he says, “No.”
“No?”
“That’s not happening, Gretch. I’ll take the sofa bed, you take the bedroom.”
“Are you sure? I mean, we could alternate nights.”
He halts what he’s doing, his gaze a question as creases form between his brows. Slowly, a self-assured grin ticks up the corner of his mouth.
“Seriously, Connor. You’re like…tall. There’s no way that sofa bed is big enough for you.”
“Was Drew gonna get the ‘you’re like, tall’ speech when he insisted you take the bedroom?” A playful twinkle flickers in his eyes.
Without missing a beat, I quip back, “Of course not. He still owes me for all those times I ‘didn’t notice’ he was sneaking out after curfew.” The air quotes emphasizingdidn’t noticereally drive the point home.
The room warms with Connor’s deep, boisterous laugh and my face splits into a smile. “Is that right?”
“Damn straight. He’s indebted to me for at least another ten years.”
He closes the distance between us. “Well, that may be so, but”—he stops in front of me—“I’m still taking the sofa.” He bops his index finger on the tip of my nose and says, “Bedroom’s yours,” before sweeping past me to prop his bag against the wall.
Resigned, I head into the bedroom and toss my suitcase on the bed. When I open the closet door, I’m pleasantly surprised at the space available. “The closet’s huge,” I holler toward the living room. “You can at least unpack your stuff in here.”
This olive branch, thankfully, he accepts without protest. Twenty minutes later we’ve split the bedroom dresser drawers between us and the closet is full of our hanging items.
I offer Connor the bathroom and bedroom first to get ready for dinner. Settling in at the dining table, I wait for my laptop to boot up as I send off a text to my brother.
Me
Made it to Sedona. I hope you and Reagan are doing okay. Please update me when you can.
Love you.
When the three dots don’t immediately appear, I set the phone aside and open my email on my computer.
As promised, Monica sent me the job description for the Executive Assistant position. She included the details of my first-round interview in a couple weeks. After I add the interview to my calendar and input the appropriate reminders, I send her a quick reply with my resume attached.
I spend a few minutes reviewing the job description. It’s nearly the exact job I was doing in my internship, just in a different department. With Monica’s referral and my experience with the company, I really am perfect for this position.
My former boss and I email back and forth for the next fifteen minutes. By the end, we’ve scheduled a video chat for next week where she’s offered to prep me for my interview as well as penciled in tentative plans to grab dinner together while I’m in town.
I close my laptop as the bedroom doors swing open and Connor steps out. His attention is on buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, and I unashamedly drink him in. Gray dress pants over his long, thick legs. Solid black dress shirt that’s fitted perfectly so across his chest. The top two buttons he’s left undone seems like another personal attack from the universe, but…whatever.
Don’t. Be. Weird.
“Your turn,” he says absently, finishing up with his right cuff. Before he can catch me gawking, I jump from my seat and duck past him into the bedroom.
The weight of Connor’s stare as I dash back and forth across the room disorients me. I pretend not to notice as I collect my blush pink pencil dress from the closet and drape it across the bed. After laying out my makeup palettes on the vanity and plugging in my curling iron, I turn toward him, praying my face doesn’t betray me.
There he is: one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, right ankle crossed over the left, hands tucked in his pockets, all easy and unbothered.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
