I glanced at Connor, and he was stepping forward and opening his mouth to answer for me, clearly showing that he didn’t want me to feel pressured to speak.
And for some reason, it made me want to beat him to it.
To reassure him—and myself—that I could do this.
I said, “Dinner was good, no one’s launching anything, and Connor and I are officially done with our first date.”
“Is there going to be a second?” someone else asked.
“Hopefully,” Connor said at the same moment I replied, “Probably not.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave me a half smile. “Probablynot?”
“I mean, I don’t think either of us saw fireworks in the restaurant,” I teased, unable to hold back a smile. “Did you?”
“I would’ve set the damn dessert on fire if I knew you were looking for fireworks,” he said with a huge grin.
“And I would’ve setyouon fire if you’d torched my chocolate cake,” I said, grinning back.
I heard a couple laughs, which was a relief, and then Connor grabbed my hand and started leading me down the long sidewalk toward his car, which the valet had already pulled up. I tried to keep a normal pace on the steep decline, acting like walking downhill in heels was easy and not something that should be an Olympic sport.
“Shit,” I muttered when my heel got stuck in a sidewalk crack and I stumbled.
He calmly stopped and looked down at me, his fingers squeezing tightly around mine, those digits seemingly strong enough to prevent a grown woman from falling simply by flexing.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
I looked down and couldn’t believe it. “Uh-oh, indeed.”
My heel was broken. The freaking heel had literally broken off. I knew there were probably pictures being taken at that very second of the girl who couldn’t affordqualityshoes.
I leaned down to grab it—although what the hell was I going to ever do with that stupid heel—but Connor beat me to it.
He snatched up the dead heel and said, “Get on.”
“What?”
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Piggyback. Way better than having to limp all the way to the car.”
I normally would’ve argued, but suddenly I just wanted out of there—now. So when he turned his body, I hopped onto his back.
Strong hands grasped my legs and he immediately started hauling me toward his car, and I giggled despite the embarrassing nightmare because this was just so absurd.
People were photographing me being carried to Connor Cunningham’s car.
On his back.
Absurd.
It was probably easy for someone like Connor to be used to the attention, since he was confident and not socially awkward, but I couldn’t wait for it to end.
He set me down beside his car and then finally—finally—we were out of there.
As he pulled up to a red light a few blocks later, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied with a big smile.
“I know it can be a little intense, being the center of attention.”