I certainly wasn’t going to do the kisses part—we had a platonic friendship. But I could be brave enough to hug him. Connor was open to invading my space so he wouldn’t mind. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t come off as touchy-feely as Considine/Ruin.
“Do you need a bear hug?” I asked.
Connor blinked and looked up at me. “A what?”
“A bear hug—a big squeezing hug.” I slowly stepped towards him, giving him lots of opportunities to back up, then flung my arms around his shoulders and gave him my best imitation of the bear hugs my dad gave—the ones that never failed to make me feel loved and safe.
Connor froze for a moment—which wasn’t the expected reaction, since he had no problem touching me.
His shoulders heaved in a sigh and then he slipped his arms around me, returning the hug.
I was surprised by how nice the hug felt—his arms wrapped tight around my shoulders while I wound my arms around his waist. There was something… secure about it. It was dangerously tempting in that I felt like I could relax, like Connor could take care of it, and I could just be.
That was a very dangerous feeling for a slayer—one I needed to be careful with.
Oddly, the hug felt a little deja vu-ish, too. As if I had recently experienced a similar embrace.
“You’re a lot of trouble, do you know that?” Connor groused into my hair.
I rested my chin on his shoulder and fought off the instinct to unwind. “I didn’t burn anything this time, you didn’t even have to fan the fire alarm.”
“I wasn’t talking about your questionable cooking.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Connor slid away from me to approach the sink. “Shall we bag up your Party Mix so you can deliver it to your targets?”
“Yeah.” I glanced at the clock. “I still want to get a workout in before I leave for work, so I’ll need to hurry.”
A smile played at Connor’s lips. “Of course.”
While Connor drank his blood pack, I scooped the plain-but-edible Party Mix into individual baggies. I loaded up one of my empty backpacks and then scoured the building for the elderly neighbors that I was comfortable enough with to offer a bag and not die of embarrassment.
I started with the Weston’s apartment—Connor in tow, carrying my backpack for me.
Just as we turned into the hallway, the door to their apartment opened, and out shuffled Mr. and Mrs. Weston along with Ms. Elly—the building gossip.
Mr. and Mrs. Weston were wearing matching outfits. Mr. Weston, who had a short, squat frame, was wearing olive green pants with a navy-blue sweater, while Mrs. Weston, who was tall and willowy, was in a navy-blue, ankle length skirt with an olive green turtleneck and a vest embroidered with smiling dogs.
Ms. Elly was in a long, flowy dress that had skirts poofy enough to make her vaguely resemble a flower and a knit shrug, while tortoise shell glasses hung around her neck on a beaded necklace.
Mr. Weston frantically checked his watch as the two women laughed together, until they spotted me.
“Jade, darling!” Ms. Elly called. “What a marvelous surprise.”
“And a short surprise,” Mr. Weston said. “We need to keep moving—we’re already two minutes late to our bridge club.”
Mrs. Weston patted her husband on the shoulder. “Oh, pish-posh. We can stop and say hello!”
“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” Ms. Elly said. “I see you have your friend with you.” She winked and shook her dog-sized handbag at me for emphasis.
“You mean Connor?” I glanced over at Connor, who was politely smiling as he stood next to me holding my backpack.
“Ahh yes, Connor.” Mrs. Weston gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I think it’s quite cute how we only ever see Connor when he’s accompanying you. Such a loyal boyfriend, aren’t you?”
I stared at Mrs. Weston for a moment, completely lost. What was Connor loyal to?
It wasn’t until I noticed Ms. Elly squirming with delight that I realized Mrs. Weston was implying Connor was loyal to me.
“Um, that—he’s a great, great friend,” I stammered.
I could have happily kicked myself—of course, now my social anxiety chose to kick up, at the most awkwardness-inducing moment.
I steeled myself as I glanced up at Connor, hoping for help.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Jade
No rescue was incoming—he didn’t say a word. Instead, he had a measured smile with no emotion behind it. This was a very different reaction from the time he’d laughed himself sick at The Book Nookery when Ms. Booker had asked if we were dating, which mildly concerned me until I recalled that this seemed to be his default mode whenever interacting with other apartment residents.
Mrs. Weston does have a point. Connor is faultlessly cordial, but he hasn’t been friendly with anyone in the building besides me. I wonder why he made the exception for me? Is it because I work at the Cloisters?
“No denials from the man himself? That’s unexpectedly forthright!” Ms. Elly briefly held her tortoise shell glasses up so she could look first at Connor, then me before she dropped them, and they once again dangled from her neck.
Connor’s smile didn’t waver, but he slipped the backpack off his shoulders. There was something about his conduct that tugged at me.
I wasn’t terrifically versed in social exchanges and despite his polite mask, it felt like he didn’t care about anything the older women were saying or what they thought of him.
He must have been genuinely amused when Ms. Booker asked last month. Does he no longer find the idea funny or is it that he’s heard it before so it didn’t catch him by surprise? But why wouldn’t he find it funny—nothing’s changed between us.
“They’re good together,” Mr. Weston said to his watch. “How lucky we are to have a romance unfolding in our apartment building for everyone to watch. Now, we must leave for our bridge club!”
“No, I’m sure they came down here for a reason,” Mrs. Weston said. “Did you need something, dears?”
“Yes, I was going to ask if you’d like some Party Mix.” I unzipped the backpack Connor offered me and pulled out a stuffed bag.
“Party mix—oh! That’s Chex Mix!” Mrs. Weston declared.
Ms. Elly picked up her glasses again so she could peer at the food offering. “Oh my, that actually looks good! Your culinary skills are improving, Jade.”
“Yeah, it came out okay but it’s a little plain because the seasonings didn’t coat the pieces very well.” I put on a smile and held my breath in hope.
“I haven’t had Chex Mix in years!” Mrs. Weston exclaimed.
Mr. Weston, looking very stressed, gave me a strained smile. “It’s very kind of you, Jade. We’ll take two bags and share them with our bridge club for a snack, if you don’t mind. Sound good, Martha?”
Mrs. Weston ignored her husband’s question. “I think I last had Chex Mix in the fall of 1998—at Matilda’s place.”
Ms. Elly dropped her glasses and straightened up. “Matilda Cramer—who lives over on Lake Lane?”
“No, Matilda Dorris—over in Franklin.”
I grinned as I passed two bags of my party mix over to Mr. Weston—who made a pained noise.