Extra Bonus: Connor and Rose's First Date (Patreon)

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this bonus scene to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!! xoxo Krista & Becca

TIMELINE: This is an Addicted/Calloway Sisters bonus scene. It takes place during Addicted to You - November 2011. It's also in the print edition of Addicted for Now.

This was a complete and utter mistake. What was I thinking agreeing to go on a date with him? He’s a pompous arrogant ass who changes around everyone he meets. The worst kind of chameleon. Though . . . his blue eyes aren’t that revolting. They are a nice shade. Ugh. No, I am not complimenting him before he even arrives.

I must remember why I agreed to this date.

Front row seats.

The Tempest.

I’m sure he’s using me for his personal gain. Maybe it’s to worm his way into my family’s good graces for Fizzle. He already charmed my sister Lily, who practically waved pompoms when he asked me out. She’s supposed to be loyal to me, not to that conceited asshole, and Connor better realize she’d never betray me. Lily might be . . . unreliable . . . distant, at times, but she’s still my greatest ally.

He won’t win her over and steal her from me. Just like Loren did. I huff out the tension that keeps straining my collarbone and shoulders. I am better than these ugly nerves.

And I’ve been around Connor too much at Academic Bowl Championship and Model UN to be fooled by the smile and charisma. There’s always a motive—and I doubt, very much, that this date has pure intentions.

It doesn’t matter though.

Tonight, I am using him as much as he’s using me.

I want to see the play, and he has amazing seats. I’ll endure him for Shakespeare.

It’s settled.

I strut out the door and down the front porch steps in my four-inch heels and a black Chanel dress. My hair is half-down, half-up with a silver clip, and I made sure to wear my fuck you lipstick. The dark shade of burgundy looks like it’d stain, if you kissed me.

And if Connor thinks there will be any kissing tonight, he can take those dreams and ignite them in an incinerator—where they’ll remain for eternity.

I check my phone as my heels hit pavement, my parents' Villanova mansion looming behind me. 6:58 p.m. The driveway is grand and imposing like it could greet royals in the 18th century, and yet, it’s empty. Desolate.

He’s supposed to be here at seven.

I wasn’t about to let him inside my parents' place. Watching him schmooze my mother and father would make me fucking vomit. And they’d hang on every word like he’s spitting gold.

No, thank you.

It’s hard enough knowing he’s seemingly perfect for me on paper. I can already see my mother frothing at the mouth at the idea of Calloway and Cobalt babies. Just kissing him is completely off the table. I’d rather chop his cock off than let him be so victorious as to enter me that . . . intimately.

My face is on fire.

I take another tight breath.

“You’re just going to a play, Rose,” I mutter hotly to myself. There is no reason to be this unnerved.

If I were at Princeton right now, it’d be better. On my own turf. But I’m in Philadelphia, and I have to make do. I’m ready for this battle or whatever game he’ll be playing tonight.

I tap my heel, the clink, clink, clink music to his demise. I smile a little, and I check my phone again.

7 p.m.

My lips flatline. I swear to all that is unholy, if he stands me up on purpose, I will murder him. Slowly. Painfully. If he thinks Lily will ever let him tutor her again after he makes a fool out of me . . .

I’m about to go inside and call this off. I’m not letting this happen. I’ll cut him before he slices through me. Whirling on my heels towards the mansion, I brandish my phone and scroll into my most recent calls . . .

I hear tires on pavement and see the glare of bright headlights. Gradually, I spin back around. He didn’t stand me up. My lungs inflate with a strange feeling.

And he’s not late.

He’s right on time.

Am I glad he’s here? I wish I wasn’t, but I know I am. It’s better than being made a fool of. Another emotion barrels through me, one that makes each breath a little sharper. Nerves have returned, but I refuse be nervous.

The vehicle approaches, and he’s not in a car. My eyes narrow. Of course, he’s in a limo.

I snort.

I’d think he were trying to impress me if my sister didn’t blurt out how Connor Cobalt rides around in a limo like an everyday thing.

My stomach twists in a knot when the limo slows and parks in front of the mansion. The long side faces me as though my carriage has arrived.

This was a colossal mistake, Rose.

I exhale a breath through my nose. Do not be nervous. Yet, it’s still assaulting me. Nerves. Ugly things. I’ve had less anxiety facing a room full of people at the Model UN final.

“This is just a play,” I mutter under my breath.

Technically, it’s a date. I’m not an idiot, and I understand there are assumptions that first dates lead to handholding, kissing, and sometimes even sex. Connor might be assuming those things. That he’ll climb out of his limo and be able to seduce me into his bed.

He can fuck right off with that.

I’m a virgin.

At twenty-two. I plan to be one until I’m ready to have sex, and that won’t be tonight. I’m barely ready for his lips to touch mine.

I can count on my hand the number of times I’ve been kissed. Hugging feels like being smothered with bees and holding someone’s hand makes my skin crawl. I haven’t found someone to prove me otherwise.

I’m not ashamed by my inexperience, but it makes dating more difficult. The older I get, the more the assumptions pile sky-high. Guys already think that I’ve swept the bases. Dry humped. Blow jobs. Fingering. Sex.

Usually, I’m upfront.

“I’m a virgin,” has come from my lips so much, it might as well be tattooed to my fucking forehead. But I’ve realized, for some time, that there is one person I don’t want to know this information. One person that I’m terrified will use it against me.

That person is currently exiting the limo.

I slip my phone back in my purse and watch Connor hold the door open for me. I will begrudgingly give him credit for his style. A tailored suit in black that might be Brioni. It fits his six-four height and build to perfection. His wavy brown hair is artfully styled, as usual. But his blue eyes seem to light up and his smile curves as he sees me.

“Rose.”

“Richard.” I adjust my purse on my elbow. “I see you brought your limo. Couldn’t splurge for a horse-drawn carriage?”

His lips lift higher. “I thought you’d find that a bit obtuse, seeing as how it’d take four times longer to get where we’re going.”

“You know what they say.” I take a step forward. “Chivalry is fucking dead.” My heel breaks. “Fuck . . .” I stumble, and he catches my arm before my knees hit the pavement.

“I have you.” His words are a husky note that sends shockwaves down my skin.

“The only thing you have is my arm,” I tell him, face burning. I try not to let on that his voice is doing a number on me.

“And that’s what I meant,” he refutes. His blue eyes flit to mine in challenge. “What did you think I meant by it, Rose?”

I refuse to blush, but my traitorous face has already heated. “Just don’t drop me.” I grab onto his arm as much as he’s grabbing onto mine. With my free hand, I take off my good heel and then I remove the broken one.

Standing on the tips of my toes, my stomach roils while I’m barefoot on the disgusting pavement, and I do my best to focus anywhere else.

Him.

He’s a worse sight, isn’t he?

As soon as I’m stable on steady ground, I back away from Connor. Yes, on my tiptoes. The space puts air between us, but the tension still feels thick. I try not to look at my feet, but I can feel the dirty ground on my bare toes.

Hair stands at the back of my neck, a sudden wave of anxiety infiltrating.

His eyes flit to the house behind the gate and then to his watch. “You have time to grab another pair.”

“No,” I say without hesitation, thinking about him talking to my parents. “It seems the universe has spoken. We’re not supposed to go on this date.”

He grimaces. “The universe.” He stares at my broken heel. “You’re going to give up because of a shoe? I’ve never taken you for a quitter.”

I bristle. “I’m not quitting,” I say. “I’m merely listening to higher powers that have come to smite this date down. It’s not supposed to happen, Richard.”

“This is fixable, Rose.” His eyes flood mine. “I can fix it. If you’d give me the chance.”

I don’t accept help from others easily, and from him . . . it seems like the biggest of mountains to climb.

He steps back to the limo, hand on the top of the opened door. “Rose Calloway, the only one who’s ever made Model UN and Quiz Bowl noteworthy, worthwhile, stimulating—”

“Is that how you feel about your losses and demise?” I cut in.

He grins, as though he’s never lost before. “Would you please accompany me to The Tempest where we have front row seats?”

He’s dangling it like a carrot. Front row seats.

And God, it’s working. Ugh.

If this date goes poorly, I’m blaming my love of Shakespeare.

Quickly, I walk across the dirty pavement and slide into the limo. He follows me and shuts the door behind him. He goes to tell his driver something, and I do a horrible thing and glance at the bottom of my feet.

“Rose.”

I look up.

Connor’s holding out a water bottle and paper towels. Do I seem that big of a diva that I can’t withstand some dirt on my feet? Or does he know about my OCD?

I’m scared of the answer.

So I don’t ask.

I just take the paper towels and water from him—glad that he didn’t demand to wash my feet himself. Maybe Lily is right. Maybe he’s not that bad.

I feel myself softening and it terrifies me, so I reinforce every barrier. Every ounce of armor. I pour a little water onto the towel and then scrub my feet.

Connor doesn’t say anything, but I’m keenly aware of his gaze.

“Stop staring,” I tell him.

“What else do you want me to look at?” he asks. “You’re my date.”

My eyes, full of fire, pin to him. Barriers and armor attached; I start drawing my canons. “I’m the girl you’re taking out so that you can tell your friends you went on a date with Rose Calloway, right? Or are you just trying to add my family to your roster of connections? Is that it?”

He tips his head. “Why do you always think I have ill intent?”

“Because I don’t know you, Connor,” I tell him. “No one really does. You change around people to get what you want, and if you wanted me, you’d put on some front—”

“This isn’t a front,” he says cutting me off. “I’m as real with you as I can be.”

Those words leave me cold.

He’s said them before. I’m as real with you as I can be. When I was eighteen. He was my Student Ambassador the day I was taking a tour of Penn’s campus and interviewing for their honor’s program. Before I chose Princeton.

“Nothing has changed,” I tell him.

“Everything has changed,” he refutes.

“How?”

“You’re giving me a chance.” His blue eyes dive deeper into me, and I want to believe him and the authenticity I think I see. Or am I just hoping?

My throat swells. All fiery retorts smothered, and I return to washing off my feet. When I finish, the limo rolls to a stop at a curb. I glance out the window and see the fancy boutique store.

“Wait here,” he tells me.

“You’re not picking out a pair of shoes for me. Your style is horrendous.”

He laughs like he knows it’s a lie.

It is.

Seconds later, the door opens again, and he holds out a pair of blue flip-flops. Again, I’m not an idiot. I understand what this means. “Thank you,” I take them from him and slide them on my feet so that I can enter the store without touching the ground.

“I told you I can fix things.” We walk side-by-side to the store, and I sense his hand nearing mine. My pulse quickens.

The air between our fingers is electric, and though he does not touch me, a shockwave is still running through my veins.

Oxygen is richer and heady, and I wonder if most good dates are supposed to be this way. Intoxicating and miserably dizzying in these short, drawn-out seconds.

He holds open the glass door for me.

“You like that, don’t you?” I wonder, more curious. “Having people indebted to you?”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it like he’s rethinking. Maybe his first instinct is to lie. In the doorway, he tells me, “Yes, I like it. But not with you. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Because you don’t.”

“Good,” I say tightly. “Because we’re not fucking. And I’m definitely not kissing you tonight.” I walk past him, muscles tight, posture strict. A store attendant is already waiting for me with a literal silver tray of heels. He must have told them what I needed.

“Hello, Miss Calloway,” she says brightly. “Hartford Loft is pleased to help you with any of your needs. Mr. Cobalt said you’d like a pair of heels.”

“Did he pick them out?” I ask.

“No, I pulled these just for you.”

I smile, trying to make it less icy. Fail. Surely. “I’ll take these. Thank you.” I point to the last pair that have simple black bows on the back. I tell her my size, and she rushes to grab them.

Maybe he also told her we’re on a time crunch.

Connor leans against a pillar, near a mannequin.

“Oh look,” I say. “You found your twin.”

He doesn’t even glance towards it. “I didn’t expect a kiss tonight,” he says, bringing up what I thought was a conversation I walked away from. “I want you to know that. I’m just glad to enjoy your company.”

I stiffen. “Now I know you’re lying.”

He tries not to smile. “Why can’t you believe that I actually like spending time with you, Rose?”

I stare unblinking at him. “You once told me that I leave a trail of bodies with my glares. That people are afraid to approach me. I didn’t deny it. I know it’s true. But why would you want to spend time with a person like that?”

“Because I’m interested in you,” he says. “Because I like you.”

The store attendant returns with the boxed shoes and pales. “Um . . . sorry to interrupt.”

Perfect timing. I grab the box, about to head to the register.

“Oh, no, they’ve been paid for, Miss Calloway.”

I frown and look to Connor. I didn’t see him give her his card. “I have an account here,” he says. “They have a tailor.”

Oh.

“I have money,” I tell him coldly. “I can buy my own shoes.” I glance at the box, realizing that the gesture is . . . sweet. That maybe . . . maybe I liked it. “Thank you,” I mutter under my breath.

He smiles a softer smile that doesn’t make me want to claw his face.

And then we return to the limo. I slip my cleanish feet into the new heels, and we head to the theatre. True to his word, they are amazing seats. I place my hands in my lap, avoiding the armrest.

What if he isn’t using you?

That thought pricks my head the longer the play goes on. It’s hard to concentrate on Prospero and Ariel when I’m sitting next to Connor. But I try my best as if I’ll be quizzed at the end of the play. I don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing over, but it’s difficult when his presence commands the air around him.

“‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here,’” Ariel says.

I cave.

I look at Connor.

He’s staring ahead, transfixed by the play. And then he glances to me and his lips go to my ear to whisper, “‘What’s past is prologue.’” It’s another line from the play that doesn’t come until Act II.

His eyes flit to mine, a headiness drawing around us. Swirling. I’m swept up in him, and maybe he’s using me. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s being real.

I want to believe he is.

Belief is the first step, I realize. Belief that he might like me. Belief that I might even like him. Belief that if he touches me, the world won’t implode, and that I also might like it.

I relax my arm on the armrest between us and look back to the play. Gently, I feel his fingers slide against mine. I don’t recoil.

I smile. These new dizzying feelings well up inside me.

Connor holds my hand.

And I let him.

When the curtains close at the end, we stay in our seats for longer than we should, discussing The Tempest and Shakespeare’s greatest works. The rabbit hole of literature finds us in an argument over Faulkner of all fucking things, but I find myself smiling more than I have in weeks.

An usher tells us politely that we need to leave.

I hadn’t realized we were the last ones in the theatre. By the surprise on Connor’s face, neither had he. Time must’ve slipped past us. They’re already sweeping popcorn off the aisles.

Earlier tonight, I’d been dreading this part of the date—the part where the play is over—but now I just wish it could’ve lasted a little longer.

Connor gives the usher a courteous smile. It looks fake to me, and I think he’s about to pay the usher off to leave us alone here. I don’t wait to see.

“Let’s go.” I stand up fast and collect my purse.

“Thank you,” Connor says graciously to the usher, and my date leads us outside where the limo is already waiting. He holds the door open for me again. His burgeoning grin is back to being a heinous sight, and I hate that I don’t want to leave it.

Once we’re seated side-by-side in the limo, Connor asks me, “Where to?”

I could extend the date, but I’m afraid to give him that much. I’ve already given him more than I ever thought I would. “Home. My home, or rather, where my parents live—and no, you are not invited inside.”

Most men would balk at my bluntness.

Connor just grins. “To the Calloways’ residence.” He tells the driver our destination.

“Right away, sir.”

Once we’re on the road, Connor pops open a champagne bottle. We drink a little and continue discussing literature. Though, the air feels different. The dizziness is wearing off.

It’s coming to an end.

His hand lies on mine on the seat, and my pulse hitches when he threads our fingers. I won’t admit aloud that it feels good. His hand. The warmth of his skin. It’s reassuring, calming, and possibly that’s just the power of Connor Cobalt—to make people feel at ease.

I like it. I suppose because I need it.

Maybe I even want it, too.

I don’t like when it’s gone, when we’ve arrived and we’re stepping out of the limo together and he’s walking me to the front door.

I stand here. In my new heels and with these new memories and uncorked feelings. And I look up at the most confident, egotistical man I’ve ever known, and the only thing I breathe is, “You can’t kiss me.”

He only smiles. “I know.” His brows rise as he looks beyond me. Lights have turned on in the mansion.

“You can’t come inside,” I say even faster.

“I know.” His blue eyes stay on me. “But can I see you again?”

“Of course you’ll see me; you’re tutoring my sister. We’ll run into each other—”

“That’s not what I mean, Rose.” His voice is quiet, leveled, and so opposite from mine. I can’t deny the attraction tugging me towards him. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

He wants to continue dating me.

The knowledge surges a deeper feeling inside my lungs. I could say no, but I’d be lying to myself if I said I wanted this to end here.

Even though I’m afraid to take this further, to see where this could possibly go, I’d disappointment myself if I didn’t meet Connor’s challenge.

“I’m not a quitter,” I remind him with heat, and I lift my chin. “You can take me out again.”

His eyes are alight. “We’ll both enjoy it.”

I try not to smile. “Is that a promise or a bet?” Before he can reply, I sense my mother nearing the window. God, if she peeks out and spies on me like I’m a teenager and not a grown fucking woman, I will lose it. “You have to go. Now.”

He takes my hand in his, and I intake a breath that won’t release. He studies my jutted-out collarbone. “May I?” he whispers, his lips nearing my knuckles as he lifts my hand.

No.

Yes.

“Quickly,” I murmur so softly I barely hear my own voice.

If he’s quick, my mind slows the moment to infinite seconds as Connor presses his pink lips against the softness of my hand. It is gentle. Almost too gentle. But the gleam in his eyes rouses me, as though he’s imagining taking me rougher and more deeply.

I try to collect myself when I pull my hand back. “Thank you for the awful evening. I loathed every moment.”

“So much that you want to do it again,” he volleys, walking backwards down the porch steps. I hope he trips. When he doesn’t, it’s disturbingly attractive.

“It must be the champagne,” I call out an obvious lie.

“Or you like me.”

“Be careful getting into your limo, your head might not fit inside anymore.”

He laughs, already backed up against the limo. He waits to open the door and looks me over with fondness. “You look beautiful tonight.” It feels like the first moment and not the last.

The dizzying newness stays with me as I breathe, “À la prochaine, Richard.” Until next time.

“Bonne soirée, Rose.”

I suppose it is the beginning of something. Not the end of everything.

We hope you enjoyed this blast from the past! This is the first of some Addicted/Calloway Sisters bonus scenes you'll see reemerge on Patreon. A moment we are so happy exists in the earliest timeline of the Addictedverse.

Tomorrow you'll also be graced with some Coballoway beauty via character art, and you all have the first look here!

Another Extra Bonus and a Main Bonus is still coming this month! So this is an extra extra bonus for September 😉

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Connor and Rose's First Date" Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie