Ella sighed. She had no time for dating anyway. Weekends were filled with endless errands and running around. The idea of putting on something more than a pair of sweats seemed painful.
Right now, her legs resembled a porcupine. If she ever had sex again, she’d need to bribe the beautician to give her a bikini wax.
She was thirty-five years old, and an official old maid. Maybe they’d make a card in her honor one day. If children even played that game anymore. Oh, Lord, now her mind was chattering about inane things again and she needed to get herself together.
Ella bet Connor didn’t have such problems. His biggest issue was probably what woman to sleep with and what type of beer to drink with dinner. Yeah, she was being judgy, but damned if she didn’t feel like she had the right just this once.
She sorted folders and her fingers closed around the glossy postcard she’d found in the Verily bakery. With purple and silvery scroll, the logo of Kinnections matchmaking agency made her pause. Tapping her finger against the edge, she rotated it in her hands and pondered.
It may be a bit pricey, but imagine someone taking the time to personally screen her matches? No bars or losers or meat markets to deal with. No dreaded Internet. Maybe there’d be a nice single father out there who was perfect for her. A man who took responsibility seriously. A man who wouldn’t dump his family for a newer, flashier model like her dickhead ex-husband.
The next group of students came straggling in, and Ella shoved the card back into the pile of papers. She’d think about it. Right now, she needed to concentrate on Edith Wharton.
Ella got back to work.
Chapter Three
“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”––Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Connor climbed the steps to his apartment, looking forward to some good TV, his meatball parm sub, and a cold Guinness with the perfect head. The conversation with Professor Blake kept replaying over and over in his head. What had he done wrong? The damn class was ruining his perfect GPA, which he’d worked hard for. Was she really going to bust his balls on essays that meant nothing?
He muttered a few choice curse words and stopped short. A voice hit his ears along with the sound of metal dragging on concrete.
“What’s a matter, new boy? You too good to hang with us? Maybe I’ll teach you a lesson. Gimme that DS!”
“No! Leave me alone!”
Connor bit back a groan and turned. The same three boys—he called them the gangsters—were tormenting some poor kid who had been shoved to the ground and pinned by his bike. An open backpack spilled a variety of contents over the sidewalk. The main bully gave a satisfied sneer and held the red Nintendo DS high over his head.
Little shits. They liked to play dirty and tended to pick out kids a few years younger. Connor knew the type well. His younger brother, Nate, had fallen victim to bullying in school and it had almost destroyed his ability to concentrate on his studies. Connor made sure no one messed with him, but he felt bad for the kids who had no one to protect them.
Connor put his purchases down and walked over to the crew. “Practicing for prison?” he drawled. He stood in front of them with his arms crossed casually, an intimidating stare on his face. Like clockwork, the three of them looked at each other, their faces reflecting wariness and a coward’s fear. Yeah, the bullies were only strong together. Break them up and they were helpless. “Here. Let me help you.”
The boy on the ground ignored his outstretched hand and dragged himself to his feet. No tears shone in his dark eyes, but his skin was mottled red, and his lower lip trembled slightly. Still, pure rebellion reflected in his face and attitude. His dark hair was cut too short, emphasizing a wicked cowlick in the front, and he was skinny and all legs. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his arm. Probably a scraped elbow. He wore a red sweatshirt with the Captain America logo, athletic pants, and some type of expensive looking sneakers. Connor respected him wanting to handle the situation himself, especially at his age. What was he, about nine? Ten?
“We weren’t doing nothing,” the lead gangster replied. “He fell off his bike.”
The boy didn’t deny it. He stared at the bullies with a fierce resentment that shimmered in the air. His hands clenched into tight fists, but he didn’t move, just shifted back and forth on his feet.
“Convenient. Give me the DS.”
“It’s mine!” lead gangster whined.
Connor looked at the kid but he didn’t claim the DS. Keeping a stubborn silence, he met the gangster’s gaze and refused to back down.
Connor shook his head. “Tough. I’m claiming the DS. I’ve been dying to try out some games so it’s now mine.”