“Understood.” She separated herself by backing into her warm, safe house, alone with her son. “Have fun.”
After she shut the door, Ella couldn’t help but peeking out the window. The leggy female walked toward him, pressing a kiss to his lips, laughing at something he said. They both climbed into a low-slung red sports car like the fabulous couple they were and tore off into the night for their glamorous date.
Depression threatened but she fought it back. She absolutely refused to let herself feel bad that she wasn’t out on the town, pretending to be someone she wasn’t with a man who couldn’t care less.
She raised her voice to call her son and concentrated on cookies.
Chapter Seven
“A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there’s less of you.”—Margaret Atwood
Connor hated Valentine’s Day.
It was the only holiday structured toward the demise of men.
He muttered under his breath, pulling on his winter jacket. In the middle of the darkest month of the year, society created it for commercial reasons only. They got to jack up the price of flowers, chocolate, and dinner bills in the name of love. A complete breeding ground of discontent for women not getting what they wanted, while the poor bastards they were with scratched their head in confusion.
Another great reason not to have a relationship.
Or maybe he was just in a bad mood because he still hadn’t gotten laid.
Why hadn’t he slept with Tracey? The date had been perfect. Dinner, cocktails, flirting. Her offer to join him wasn’t wrapped up in heavy analysis or layers of meaning. Yet, as he opened his mouth to answer, “Hell, yes!” he told her it wasn’t a good night but he’d call.
His date had ended with him and his hand. Not the image he’d pictured.
Something was wrong with him. Tracey was gorgeous, and had proved to be a good lover in the past. He had a little black book that bulged with numbers and he still wasn’t using it to call anyone. Maybe his overworked mental state was affecting his drive for sex? Usually, he looked at a pair of perfect boobs and was ready to go. Lately, he got lukewarm.
Except when he was around Ella. A woman he was completely not attracted to, yet his body responded to like a switch had been flicked. A woman who barely allowed an inch of naked skin to show. That was plain scary.
He remembered what she looked like when she opened the door. A total mess. Yet, instead of focusing on the cookies in her hair or her misshapen sweater, he’d noticed her lack of glasses and hypnotic eyes. He’d noticed the scent of sugar and candy, and her pretty bare feet with pink toenails. He’d noticed the tumble of luscious dark waves that spilled over her shoulders. He’d noticed the clinging Lycra emphasizing her lean calves.
He was nuts. Around the bend. Loco. All the clichés Ella hated.
He grabbed his gloves and tried not to think of her. Since that night, she’d sent over the extra credit project, and Connor had wondered if it was worth it. It was as bad as he imagined.
Woolf. Brontë. Austen. Not separate, but all together in one big mishmash of readings and a big fat paper due at the end of the semester. She was punishing him, and he knew it. He dipped a toe in the water—another damn cliché—and began perusing A Room of One’s Own by Woolf and was stopped cold.
Yep, more feminist fiction. More whining and “poor me, we’re under men’s control and we hate it” philosophy. But damned if he wasn’t going to kick ass on this assignment and graduate. Even if it killed him.
Which it might. From boredom.
The air was brutally cold, warning of the storm about to roll in. Time to get the plow ready. He had a solid list of clients to make some extra money in the winter, but he’d be extra busy the next two months trying to handle the workload. He checked his watch. He was later than normal, especially if he wanted to stop for coffee on the way to Verily College. He headed out the door and heard a shout. Looking toward the driveway, he watched a bunch of boys scramble away from his truck and race down the street, whooping in loud, excited shouts of victory.
Connor ran to his truck, a curse blistering past his lips. Little shits had slashed one of his tires. The right passenger was totally flat, a jagged slice ripped through the rubber.
Hell, no. They weren’t getting away with this.
He took off after them. His long legs made up time from their shorter strides. He caught a flash of red up ahead, then something flew through the air and dropped on the ground. Darting around corners, they picked up the pace, and age finally triumphed. By the time Connor got a few blocks down, they’d disappeared, their voices fading in the sharp, cold air.