When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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"Am I interrupting something?" Esme peeks over the top of the menu mischievously with a perfectly penciled brow.
Dammit.
I tuck my phone beside my plate and lift my own menu to study it. We're finally having our dinner date, and I'm already being rude. However, I can't help it when Connor decided to text me a picture of himself shirtless in bed with the caption, so lonely. It was such a douchebag move, but it didn't stop my stomach from erupting into butterflies.
"By all means, you can finish typing out the text to Connor. Don't let me stand in your way."
My eyes pop up to hers. "What makes you think it's Connor?"
She rolls her eyes. "Please. You've been blushing and biting on your bottom lip every time you look at that thing. I know your tells." After a heartbeat she adds, "I'm happy for you."
"There's nothing to be happy about. We're just friends." The endearment tastes sour as it leaves my tongue, mostly because I know that whatever this thing is between Connor and me is certainly more than a casual hangout. Feelings are developing, and I'm scared shitless. It doesn't help that I'm making it obvious, either.
The waiter approaches our table to take our order, his eyes never straying from Esme. I'm used to it now after the accident. Compared to Esme's six-foot slender frame with a face crafted by Michelangelo himself, I'm chopped liver. Not that I'm complaining. I'd prefer to be less noticeable. Before the scar, the attention I received from men was almost always unwanted.
Esme orders the most expensive wine on the menu, claiming it's her favorite before she sets the menu down and folds her hands in front of her. Her nails are painted blood red, almost matching her hair. "You deserve to be happy, Aria."
"I thought we were going to save the mushy talk for the end of the dinner."
Esme shrugs. "Better to get it out now so we can talk about irrelevant, stupid stuff." When our glasses of wine are delivered to the table, she takes a long sip. "I'm serious, though. Don't push him away if you like him. Despite what you think, you do deserve to have a life with someone who cares for you."
My eyes are burning as I try to hold back my tears, and now I find myself not as upset that Esme decided to dine at one of the fanciest restaurants in town. The privacy the booth is going to give my blubbering ass is worth it.
"It's...complicated," I reply, clearing my throat. "He's trying really hard to make things official between us, but I don't know if I'm ready. Maybe I never will be. I mean, you say I deserve to have someone who cares for me, but do you honestly believe that? After what I did?"
"Aria." My name is a broken plea on her lips, a glossy sheen coating her eyes. "You need to stop blaming yourself for that night. You didn't know Aaliyah was going to—"
"I should have stayed. We went to that party and I promised to check on her. I forgot to, and then she died. If I had just picked up the fucking phone instead of worrying about flirting with some—"
