them with my hands for good measure, I ask. “Did I just tell you that Conner wants to get in my pants? I did, didn’t I?”
Jonathan laughs uneasily. “Yup, you definitely did. We’ll get back to that momentarily.”
“Can we pretend I didn’t? Because I’d really rather not get into that right now again. It’s bad enough that I have Mimi telling me almost every day for the past few years that Dylan wants to get into my pants and now Conner? It’s driving me crazy all on its own.”
“Dylan? How did he get into this mess?”
With a sigh, I rub my face with my hands and then run them through my hair in frustration. “Never mind. Forget I brought him and the whole pants thing up.”
“Do you want my advice or not?”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
He chuckles like he’s enjoying my misery. “Look, it’s easy. Conner always seemed like a good guy to me—”
“He still is, Jonathan. That’s what makes me more confused.”
“Confused how, though? It should be nothing but easy. Guys aren’t very hard to figure out.”
I raise an eyebrow at that comment. “Oh really? I beg to differ.”
“Katy, let me break it down for you so you can understand.”
I reach out to smack him on his arm, but he catches my hand in midair while laughing. “Seriously, it’s not that hard. Guys are either into you or they’re not. They either are attracted to you in that . . . way . Or they’re not.”
“No? Really? Gosh, thanks for that explanation. You magically solved my dilemma.”
He ignores my sarcasm. “Let me ask you this, which is probably more important and probably what has you in such a tizzy—”
“Do grown men really use the word ‘tizzy’?”
“Would you be interested in Conner if it turned out he was interested in you?”
My knee-jerk reaction is already at the tip of my tongue with a big fat sign that says YES . But is that what I would truly want? If you asked the sixteen-year-old version of me, she’d bow down to the gods and not even question herself. But now, it’s not that cut-and-dried. Because if I jumped into bed with him at the first opportunity, no matter how many years have gone by and no matter how much I tell myself that it’s not a big deal, my heart will be involved. How could it not be where Conner’s concerned?
“I don’t know.” Tugging some hair behind my ears, I say, “What do you think?”
“Katy, don’t ask me a stupid question, because you’re only going to get a stupid answer.”
“I know, I know, I’m deflecting.”
“Look,” he says. “If it’s right, you’ll know. If not, then move on. But no matter what, don’t let anyone or anything pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
My smile is faint, but it’s genuine, because as vague as his advice is, it makes me feel better. “Thanks, Jonathan.”
“Now what about Dylan?”
That’s my cue to stand up and throw aside the blanket. “Nothing, forget I ever mentioned him.”
“Katy, he may be your friend, but don’t forget, he’s also your boss.”
He says this as I’m walking through the sliding doors to leave. “I know. I’m not stupid. Plus, he’s too good of a friend to me to consider that. I swear, if I lost my friendship with Dylan, I’d be a lot worse than what you just witnessed.”
And with that sound, personal advice, I say good-bye and go home to bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
M onday, and I’m in full swing already at six o’clock in the morning, driving to the newsroom.
I spent my Sunday on the couch with the NFL’s opening week games on in the background while I did some research on the Barracudas’ next opponent. I always do a smaller piece on the upcoming week’s game and publish it on the newspaper’s website on Wednesday afternoons. A rough first draft is completed by Monday. Then Tuesday I’ll follow up on stats and numbers and confirm my sources. Then, on Wednesday morning, everything is crosschecked one more time . . . and then again for
Jonathan laughs uneasily. “Yup, you definitely did. We’ll get back to that momentarily.”
“Can we pretend I didn’t? Because I’d really rather not get into that right now again. It’s bad enough that I have Mimi telling me almost every day for the past few years that Dylan wants to get into my pants and now Conner? It’s driving me crazy all on its own.”
“Dylan? How did he get into this mess?”
With a sigh, I rub my face with my hands and then run them through my hair in frustration. “Never mind. Forget I brought him and the whole pants thing up.”
“Do you want my advice or not?”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
He chuckles like he’s enjoying my misery. “Look, it’s easy. Conner always seemed like a good guy to me—”
“He still is, Jonathan. That’s what makes me more confused.”
“Confused how, though? It should be nothing but easy. Guys aren’t very hard to figure out.”
I raise an eyebrow at that comment. “Oh really? I beg to differ.”
“Katy, let me break it down for you so you can understand.”
I reach out to smack him on his arm, but he catches my hand in midair while laughing. “Seriously, it’s not that hard. Guys are either into you or they’re not. They either are attracted to you in that . . . way . Or they’re not.”
“No? Really? Gosh, thanks for that explanation. You magically solved my dilemma.”
He ignores my sarcasm. “Let me ask you this, which is probably more important and probably what has you in such a tizzy—”
“Do grown men really use the word ‘tizzy’?”
“Would you be interested in Conner if it turned out he was interested in you?”
My knee-jerk reaction is already at the tip of my tongue with a big fat sign that says YES . But is that what I would truly want? If you asked the sixteen-year-old version of me, she’d bow down to the gods and not even question herself. But now, it’s not that cut-and-dried. Because if I jumped into bed with him at the first opportunity, no matter how many years have gone by and no matter how much I tell myself that it’s not a big deal, my heart will be involved. How could it not be where Conner’s concerned?
“I don’t know.” Tugging some hair behind my ears, I say, “What do you think?”
“Katy, don’t ask me a stupid question, because you’re only going to get a stupid answer.”
“I know, I know, I’m deflecting.”
“Look,” he says. “If it’s right, you’ll know. If not, then move on. But no matter what, don’t let anyone or anything pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
My smile is faint, but it’s genuine, because as vague as his advice is, it makes me feel better. “Thanks, Jonathan.”
“Now what about Dylan?”
That’s my cue to stand up and throw aside the blanket. “Nothing, forget I ever mentioned him.”
“Katy, he may be your friend, but don’t forget, he’s also your boss.”
He says this as I’m walking through the sliding doors to leave. “I know. I’m not stupid. Plus, he’s too good of a friend to me to consider that. I swear, if I lost my friendship with Dylan, I’d be a lot worse than what you just witnessed.”
And with that sound, personal advice, I say good-bye and go home to bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
M onday, and I’m in full swing already at six o’clock in the morning, driving to the newsroom.
I spent my Sunday on the couch with the NFL’s opening week games on in the background while I did some research on the Barracudas’ next opponent. I always do a smaller piece on the upcoming week’s game and publish it on the newspaper’s website on Wednesday afternoons. A rough first draft is completed by Monday. Then Tuesday I’ll follow up on stats and numbers and confirm my sources. Then, on Wednesday morning, everything is crosschecked one more time . . . and then again for
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