“That is not what it means,” I laugh.
“Well, what does it mean?” she sasses.
I toss my brush on the dresser and start rummaging through my purse in search of gum. “It means he murdered someone and most likely got a lesser charge because the prosecutor mishandled evidence or something.”
“You don’t know that, Demi,” she murmurs. “Maybe it was justified.”
“And you don’t know that it was.”
“I can’t believe Blake never told you what happened.”
Blake didn’t want to touch the subject of Connor’s conviction—at least not with me anyway. He said it was complicated, whatever that meant. Complicated does not mean justified.
“Are you so desperate to see me with someone you think I should not only hook up with my late husband’s cousin, but that I should overlook said cousin is a violent felon as well?”
“I don’t know,” she whines. “I just want to see you happy.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Can we drop this for now, please?” The day has been long, and I’m tired and hungry. I have no desire for a lecture from Wendy about how it’s okay for me to move on and live my life.
“Yes,” she sighs with an air of defeat. “Thanks for the story.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I gotta go. Grayson must’ve gotten in our bathroom closet again, and he’s wearing my diaphragm like a bowler hat,” Wendy groans in frustration.
“That’s . . . so gross.” I’m glad we’re on the phone so she can’t see me cringe.
“I never use it . . . hence why I have an army of children over here,” she defends.
“I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”
“Fine. Enjoy dinner with Connor.”
“Yeah, yeah. Night.” I hang up and laugh to myself. My best friend is a nut.
Pulling my duffel bag out and tossing it on the bed, I unzip it and realize I forgot to give Connor the clothes I brought him. This was all part of Blake’s plan, too.
Taking the jeans, boxer shorts, and shirts—all still with tags and wrapped in their packaging—I rush over to Connor’s room hoping to catch him before he gets in the shower. I knock softly and wait. Without warning or hearing any movement from inside, the door flies open scaring me to death.
“Sorry,” he laughs when he sees me jump.
“I . . . uh . . .”
Skin covered in tattoos and a towel.
That’s all I see.
He’s only wearing a towel.
He looks really good in a towel.
Why is the towel so small?
Or is he really that big?
My eyes dart to the floor even though they’re begging to stare at him, but not before I let them drag slowly over the tattoos that cover his hard chest and midsection. His build is that of a matured man, not the cut and chiseled look of a man in his twenties. No, Connor is that special breed of male that has filled out yet remained hard; there’s not an ounce of fat on him. The corners of his eyes have a slight crease when he smiles and there’s the faintest of laugh lines next to his dimples. For a man in his mid-thirties who has been in prison for many years, he looks incredible. I cringe at that thought. I’m checking him out. But how could I? This is my deceased husband’s cousin. I cannot check him out. That’s just wrong on so many levels.
“I brought these for you. I think they’ll fit.” I thrust the items in my hands toward him, still staring at his bare feet.
God, he has big feet.
Shit.
They’re really big.
Get your mind out of the gutter, Demi.
“Oh. Thanks.” He takes them, and I turn to go, my eyes still glued to the floor.
“Demi,” he calls my name, and I turn, and let my gaze move up, running over him against my will. The side of his mouth quirks ever so slightly, almost as if he noticed my perusal before it disappears.
I can feel the heat in my face and know my cheeks must be red.