Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

had been perfunctory and controlled. She’d made sure of it. She wouldn’t allow them to touch her in any way that might cause her to lose the strict control she maintained.

In the end, they all had the same complaint and she really couldn’t blame them. It probably wasn’t very fun when a woman wouldn’t allow you to do much more than stick it in and pump. They’d all called her frigid. Ice queen. Or, more colloquially, bitch.

She shook her head to clear it. No good came in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

Shaking off the shame that wanted to surge from dredging up the past, Bridget took a deep breath, mentally pulled up her big girl panties, and smiled in greeting.

Chapter Four

‘Hi there.’ Bridget held out her hand to Connor and had to school her expression when her heart went berserk as his much larger hand engulfed hers. ‘You been waitin’ long?’

‘Nope, just a few minutes. But I was people-watching, which is always fun.’

He bent to gather up his backpack and Bridget took the opportunity to look her fill. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. The late spring weather was just hot enough that a jacket wasn’t necessary in the midday sun. She’d left her own in the car. His sleekly muscled arms were set off nicely against the deep, midnight blue of his T-shirt. His dark brown hair was slightly wind-blown.

Her hand itched to touch him. Would his hair feel as soft as it looked? The trail of her thoughts caused her a moment’s pause since she didn’t usually spend time thinking about touching men, or wondering what they smell like or if his skin would be warm or cool to touch.

He caught her mid-stare when he straightened and the smile he sent her way was smug with a hint of heat. She flushed but refused to look away. Bridget was no coward … well, at least with most things. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze directly and saw his ice-grey eyes warm to charcoal as his grin widened.

With a nod in the direction of the door, he said, ‘Shall we?’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, tearing her gaze away from his and entering the shop.

Familiar smells of coffee and pastry, along with the sounds of conversation, set her at ease. Her friend Mona’s voice rang out as she made the rounds of the regulars, stopping by their tables and chatting with them about the weather, their families and such. With a deep breath, she put her awkwardness aside. This wasn’t a date. It was an apology. Nothing more.

They took their place at the end of the line and she studied the menu. She’d basically memorised it, given how much time she spent there, but it gave her some time to compose herself. Tasha, one of Mona’s baristas, was running the counter and the line was moving swiftly.

‘What’ll you have?’ she asked Connor when they reached the register.

He was standing a bit too close due to the line behind them and she was doing her best to ignore the heat of his body. Her mind was on board with that game plan. Her body, however, was not listening. Her womb clenched and she felt an uncomfortable rush of moisture between her legs. This was so not happening.

‘Hmmm.’ He rubbed his chin and she followed the movement of his fingers, imagining it was her he was rubbing. Her nipples tightened and she ripped her gaze away, beginning to dig into her handbag for her wallet. ‘I’ll just have the daily brew, black.’

‘That was an awful lot of thinking for “the daily brew, black”.’ She raised an eyebrow at him.

‘That was an awful lot of letting you get an eyeful, gorgeous.’

Those grey eyes laughed down at her and she felt the heat suffuse her body.

Crap!

She was in trouble. Every moment he spent with her intrigued him more. From her resistance to the obvious attraction between them to the cool way her mind worked, he wanted to know more. They shared a lot of interests. Their passion for running and physical activity, they both were rabid readers, loved movies and good food. Though the latter was something he didn’t get to enjoy very much. Meals for him were usually what he could microwave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook, he could hold his own. His grandmother had seen to that. His salary simply didn’t support gourmet meals in trendy restaurants, but he knew all the best diners and hole-in-the-wall joints in town.

‘I’m telling you, absinthe was a big part of the picture – pardon the pun – when it comes to the French impressionists,’ she said as she took a sip of her macchiato.

She drank froufrou coffee, but she looked damn good doing it. Her full lips were tinted a shade of copper that almost matched her hair. Her green eyes were lively and sparkling under thick lashes. She wore make-up sparingly, which he was glad of, since she was beautiful in her own right. She didn’t need help with her looks nor with that killer body. She was tiny, but she was perfectly formed. Large, full breasts, round hips, and a tiny waist. She was the image of fertility. And, as she licked a stray drop of coffee from her lip, the sight of her tongue sweeping along her lips had his cock jumping in his jeans and he was glad the table hid his reaction from her.

‘I agree with you, but I still say, chemically enhanced or not, that period was my favourite in art.’

‘Why?’

‘Because impressionist art makes the viewer part of the piece. The details are fuzzy, and that leaves it to you, the viewer to fill in the gaps. It’s like a piece of fiction that tells you the barest details about a character and you fill in the rest for yourself. In some ways that makes the story, or in the case of art, the painting, even more personal to you, because you’re investing in the piece in your own imagination.’

That he was even having this conversation was unusual for him. He tended to be a loner. His life hadn’t been the kind that lent itself to forming lasting friendships. His one friend, Marco, was back in his home state of Maryland. They kept in touch by email and phone, but Connor was basically alone here in Vermont. So, hanging out in coffee bars debating the merits of the French Impressionists over the surrealist art of which Bridget was a fan was not a part of his usual repertoire.

She put down her coffee mug and tilted her head in the most adorable way as she considered him. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t used to being under scrutiny. He preferred being the observer and, right now, he felt naked under her gaze. Like she was seeing something beyond the surface and he wasn’t sure if it was meeting with her approval or not. Most surprisingly, he found that it mattered if she approved.

‘You’re very passionate about this.’

A smartass rejoinder of “You haven’t seen what I’m passionate about” jumped to his lips, but he held back. This wasn’t the time for corny pick-up lines. Frankly, she was too classy a woman for pick-up lines in general.

‘I am.’ He cupped his own mug and stared down into the black brew as if it would grant him the anchor he needed when he suddenly felt so off kilter under her regard. ‘Art is the one area of my life that I’m completely at peace with. Watching an image come to life under my hands is like seeing a piece of my soul take form.’ He avoided her eyes as he took a sip of the now cold coffee. He snorted. ‘Corny, huh?’

‘No.’

His eyes shot to hers. There was no humour in them; he saw interest and empathy, but not humour.

‘That’s beautiful, actually. The only time I’m ever completely at peace is when I’m running. I get lost in the music and the run and I stop worrying. So I think it’s wonderful you have that calling and that passion.’

She’d leaned forward as she spoke, the vehemence in her voice adding an urgency that drew him like a magnet. When she placed her hand over his, a ribbon of heat trailed through his body. He didn’t think she realised she’d touched him because she jerked her hand back like she’d burned herself as soon as she noticed.

Throughout their date, she’d kept herself under rigid control. His attempts at flirtation had met with a wall, but he sensed it was discomfort not disinterest. He’d seen her flush, seen her pulse jump, seen her nipples harden, but she stayed cool and remote. He wanted to get under her skin and find out what was making her pull back. She was a woman in her prime and the riddle she presented was one he wanted to solve.

‘You in there?’

‘Sorry, my mind wandered.’

His pulse leaped as she smiled and said, ‘I asked if you’ve always been an artist.’