And then he’d gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until he finally gave up and drove into work. Where he’d spent the next eighteen hours.
When the shipping crew arrived, he’d supervised the packing of Megan’s belongings. Figuring once they were out of the house—the constant in-his-face reminder of what he’d wanted and what he’d lost removed—he’d be able to relax. The vise around his lungs would ease up. The persistent knot in his gut would finally loosen. But as the last box left the house, he’d found himself following behind. Checking the truck, grilling the guy in charge about how long it would take to arrive. What precautions were in place to ensure her belongings would be in the same shape when they’d arrived as when they left. If the men who’d done the loading were the same ones who would be unloading. How long he’d been working with them.
When he realized no amount of reassurance would be enough, he decided to fly out and meet the truck in Denver.
Make sure the movers delivered her things and got out of her apartment without a hitch.
Simple. No ulterior motives involved.
Yeah, sure, fantasies about getting her beneath him, on top of him, wrapped so sweet and tight and hot around him had been running through his head on a thirty-second loop. But did he have plans to act on those fantasies?
No.
At least, he hadn’t until she’d peered up at him from so temptingly close. Those eyes that had been filled with ire when she saw him waiting at her door going soft and warm as he’d gotten her out of the way of the mover.
Fine. He still wouldn’t act. Her looking up at him the way she did, when he knew for damn sure she didn’t want anything, spoke volumes about the sway he held with her. Too much.
And the emotion in her eyes? Yeah, no stroke to his ego had ever compared...but he still didn’t want a relationship with that kind of emotion. That kind of responsibility. What he wanted was Megan wanting him...but not needing him. Not vulnerable to him. Sure as hell not trying to leave him over and over again...and simply failing.
Screw that.
No. He’d make sure she was okay and then he’d be able to take off without looking back.
With the last box delivered, Connor signed the paperwork, tipped the guys and then closed Megan’s door.
Her apartment felt smaller than he remembered it. But then, there were boxes stacked in the center of each of the four rooms, eating up space. She hadn’t brought everything to San Diego. Not the furniture. But her keepsakes. Books. Knickknacks.
Things he’d laughed about seeing as she unpacked them, but now wondered if he’d miss having them gone.
Opening one odd-shaped box, Megan withdrew a lamp with a beaded shade, and he found himself watching intently as she returned it to the place it had previously occupied, curious about how her life fit together without him in it.
Setting the lamp on the small table beside a reading chair, she plugged the cord into the outlet and stepped back, an unreadable expression on her face.
He couldn’t tell whether she was happy to see it returned or not.
She turned to him, and he knew what was coming next. Wasn’t ready for it and so cut her off before she could say goodbye.
“Which room do you want to start with?” he asked, jamming his hands deep into his jeans pockets so she wouldn’t see his fists, and plastering an easy smile on his face.
“Connor, thank you for getting my things returned so quickly, but I can handle the rest.”
“I’m here,” he said, aware his voice had lowered. Taken a stern tone. “I’ll help. Let the office know I’ll be out a day or two—”
“What?” she gasped.
“We’ll order some pizza, pick up a bottle of wine for tonight. Throw in a movie.” He’d make it casual. Not intimidating. No demands. No pressure. Not really.
“A pizza? Are you out of your mind or are you intentionally being cruel?” She was vibrating with tension now, and suddenly Connor was right there with her.