I CAN’T IGNORE IT, THOUGH. Connor’s words hang between us and I continue to stare out of the window, looking at the bridge, biting my lip, hating that tears are running down my cheeks.
I don’t want to cry.
But this is everything I should have known to be afraid of when we started this. The muddying of the academic waters we both swim in.
Waters that I desperately need to remain clear for the rest of the term, before I graduate.
But now that Connor has brought this up, I am uncertain. He can’t change his behaviour because we’ve fucked. And I can’t ask him to.
I lift a hand and subtly wipe my cheeks, pull in a deep breath and then turn to face him. He’s staring at me hard, so that I’m almost knocked off balance when our eyes meet. I swallow.
‘I can’t ask you to change your mind. You have to do whatever you’d do regardless of the fact we’ve...been intimate.’
His lips twist at my turn of phrase. ‘It’s impossible to know what I’d do if we weren’t sleeping together, Olivia. I probably wouldn’t give much of a toss about who wrote the assignment.’ He grimaces. ‘I don’t like the idea of anyone taking advantage of the fact you’re smart and hardworking. That’s going to happen to you a lot if you’re not careful.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘I told you—I wanted to do this.’
‘Because you cared more than they did.’
‘Because I knew I could do it easily,’ I correct. ‘But we shouldn’t talk about school here. If you want to discuss this, then organise for my group to come to your office and involve the others. You can’t let what we are affect how you teach.’
His eyes narrow and he stands, stalking around the bench and into the kitchen. He lifts me easily, parking my butt on the countertop, and he stands between my legs, as I was his a moment ago. ‘This...’ he drops his mouth to mine and kisses me gently; my breath speeds up ‘...affects everything.’
I nod, knowing he’s right. Knowing we are in a perfect conundrum. We can’t act as if our relationship doesn’t make this impossible.
It’s like the reality of this is something I can’t ever get to grips with. Every time I think I have a handle on it, some new realisation detonates. ‘I’ve worked so hard since I’ve been at university. Even getting in. I’m not... I’m not as naturally academic as my sisters and brother.’ I don’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s never been...easy for me.’
He frowns. ‘You’re incredibly bright.’
‘Thinking laterally and having a clear perspective is different to being academic. I have to work hard to get the grades I do. I have studied overtime, I have read and reread every text, I have met with lecturers for additional support.’ My eyes meet his. ‘And if anyone finds out about this, people are going to assume you’re not the first. People are going to wonder if maybe I didn’t sleep with my teachers pro-forma, to get ahead. Aren’t they?’
His eyes pierce me with their intensity and then he jerks his head. ‘There is a risk of that.’
‘God.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘We have got to be so careful, Connor.’
He nods again.
‘I would never do that.’
‘I know.’ He braces my body with his strong hands on either side. ‘I know that.’
‘This is different. I didn’t want to want you...’
‘Believe me, that’s mutual.’ He strokes my hair. ‘I came to London to clear my head and you are definitely not helping.’
My heart turns over and I hear the vulnerabilities deep beneath his confession. ‘Why did you need to clear your head?’
He visibly retracts, withdrawing from me. ‘Forget the assignment,’ he says instead. ‘Forget I mentioned it. I shouldn’t be using what I know of you to colour my assessment of your work.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ I dismiss. ‘Connor? It’s Donovan, isn’t it?’
His eyes show me truths his mind isn’t willing to share. ‘It’s a milestone case.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re meant to be cooking.’
I’m frustrated by his unwillingness to open up to me, but I have learned a thing or two from Connor. The way he dips and dives through conversations, extracting little nuggets of information that he seeks without my realising that he’s excavating my brain.
I nod, as though I’m accepting he’s closed the conversation down.
‘So,’ he says, his tone noticeably brighter, ‘did you say sisters? Brother? How many Amorellis are there out there, fighting to save the world?’
I smile, relaxed by the thought of my family. ‘Only one other—my dad. He’s a superintendent with the Met police.’
‘Ah.’ Connor’s eyes narrow. Damn it. I’ve done it again, handing him crumbs about myself when I want to learn about him.
‘My two sisters are both surgeons. One vascular, one paediatric. My brother’s a pilot and Mum’s a teacher.’ My cheeks flash with colour as I imagine just what she’d say about this little debacle.
‘Your parents must be very proud,’ he says with a smile. He’s trying to put me at ease. And because I know Connor now, and I know how he is so not the kind of person to care about relaxing people, this knowledge does something funny to my stomach, my heart, my blood, my brain.
I smile back at him, the tension that coiled through me just before dissipating completely. ‘As yours must be,’ I prompt, my basket out, ready to collect crumbs of my own.
His eyes meet mine. There’s a battle on his face and he weighs his words with care.
‘My parents are dead.’ His smile is tight. Again, I feel it’s to offer reassurance, but it doesn’t work this time. Guilt rushes over me.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He reaches for my wine and sips it.
‘When...?’ My curiosity is natural and I hope he doesn’t resent me for it. He watches me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.
‘I was twelve. It was an IRA attack. They were away for their wedding anniversary, in London. A bomb went off outside a bank. They died. My mother instantly, my father in hospital a week later.’
‘Oh, God.’ I forget about the cannelloni. I forget about everything except the twelve-year-old boy Connor was. I move around to him and put my arms around his shoulders. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yeah. The shit people do,’ he says with a lift of his shoulders that would dislodge my arms if I were less determined to hold on. He clears his throat, his eyes contemplative. ‘I think about that often. The act of violence and madness. I think about the people who perpetrate these crimes, and I try to see that there is more to them than just that one act.’ He shakes his head, frustrated by words he can’t find. ‘There are bad people out there, but few people who are wholly bad.’
I nod, understanding this, agreeing with him, but needing to fix him as well.
I press a kiss to his temple, and I wonder if he was afraid. What was he like? Questions trip through me, questions that I want to ask and don’t know if he’ll welcome. So I cup his face in my hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, hoping I can convey sympathy with the feel of my mouth.
His hands wrap around my back, warm through the flimsy cotton of my dress. It is a moment of sadness and awakening—of realisation and acceptance.
It is a moment of perfection.
I reject the idea as overly sentimental, almost definitely coloured by his surprising admission, and make an effort to