“Um . . . I think we need to throw it in the wash,” I manage as I step away. “Better do it now.”
Connor tugs his shirt over his head and hands it to me. I can’t keep my eyes from looking at his chest and stomach. Before I know it, my fingers are brushing against one of the scars on his left side. “What happened to you?” I ask quietly. I’ve played out quite a few scenarios, but all of them are similar to scenes I’ve seen on television. Inmates shanking other inmates.
“That one . . . I got shanked by a guy inside because I broke up . . . something he was doing.”
Okay, so I was right. “And this one?” I ask, as my fingers move down and run along the next scar.
“Shanked again,” he chuckles, but his expression doesn’t look humored. It’s more a look of embarrassment or disbelief.
When my fingers touch the third scar on his right side, he grabs my hand and holds it still. “That one was Blake.”
“What?” I smile slightly.
“We were wrestling in the bed of our grandfather’s truck while he was inside the hardware store. The tailgate was down. Blake tackled me, and I fell sideways on the springs. Cut me good.”
When my gaze meets his again, he’s still holding my hand, pressed against his abdomen. My mouth is suddenly dry, but I can’t help darting my tongue out and licking my lips. His mouth parts slightly and his shoulders rise as he breathes in deeply as his eyes move from my eyes to my mouth.
I’m transfixed as I watch him, but the moment is broken when the pot boils over on the stove and makes sizzling sounds as the water meets the hot burner.
“Shit,” Connor grunts as he spins around and turns the burner down.
“I’m going to throw this in the wash,” I blurt, as he fights the chaos on the stove. I rush away and into the utility room where I close the door behind me.
“What the hell, Demi?” I whisper to myself. I just touched him . . . like touched-touched him. “You really need to get laid,” I tell myself.
After I start the wash, I return to the kitchen where Connor is dumping the pasta into the strainer over the sink. He’s still shirtless, and I curse myself for making him remove his shirt. How am I not supposed to stare at him in all his tattooed glory?
“I should grab a shirt, but dinner is ready,” he informs me. He must think I’m uncomfortable. And I am. But I’m not going to make him run out in the middle of cooking for a shirt. We’re adults here. I can handle it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
“Have a seat,” he orders as he swipes at the steam rising from the pasta. “I’ll make us a plate.”
Moments later, he places two heaping plates of spaghetti on the table and sits beside me. There’s enough spaghetti on my plate to feed three grown men, and I can’t help chuckling.
“What?” he asks as he smiles at me, his dark eyes filled with curious humor.
“Nothing. It looks great,” I assure him. “It’s just . . . a lot.”
“Oh, sorry,” he laughs. “Don’t feel like you have to eat it all . . . or any of it for that matter.”
“Oh, I’m eating it,” I confirm enthusiastically. I love spaghetti. It’s my favorite food. There’s no way I’m not eating it.
“Well, bon appetite,” he smirks.
“Thank you.” Picking up my fork, I start twirling the pasta on it as Connor begins shoveling food in his mouth, like a starved man. I imagine it’s been a while since he’s had to use table manners. I’m sure etiquette in prison is of low priority.
“When do you go back to work?” he manages between bites.
“Next week. It’s only summer school right now, so my days are short anyway. I’ll have the month of August off before the new school year starts.”
“Any plans for August?” he asks before wiping his mouth with his napkin.