CHAPTER 11. Noah #3
Connor’s expression shifts slightly, something flickering behind his eyes that I can’t quite read. “She was fine,” he says quickly. “We had a good talk, actually.”
“A good talk?” I repeat, quirking an eyebrow at him. “About what?”
Connor gives me a long look, like he’s deciding whether to tell me what he’s thinking.
“Uh,” he says, stalling, then smiles. “Nothing much.”
There’s definitely something he’s not telling me, but I don’t push. I’m not sure I’m ready to know, and I’m too busy trying not to dissolve into a puddle every time he looks at me.
“I should get dressed,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my towel situation.
Connor doesn’t move. He just watches me, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Don’t let me stop you.”
I pause, catching up.
Is he flirting with me?
The air between us feels hot enough to make me consider dropping the towel right there, but daylight and the complete lack of alcohol in my bloodstream keep me decent. Barely.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask, trying to sound casual as I inch toward my bag, already working out how to get dressed without giving Connor a show. Although after last night, that ship has pretty thoroughly sailed.
Connor walks to his side of the bed, where I notice a large shopping bag sitting on the bedside table. “I was thinking we could go for that picnic, if you’re still up for it.” He nods at the bag. “I packed some sandwiches, and your mom gave us wine and snacks.”
Relief washes through me, followed quickly by something warmer. He remembered our plan to escape for the day. He made sure we had food. After everything that happened last night, after everything that happened this morning, he still wants to spend time alone with me.
Sort of.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I hear how embarrassingly happy I sound. I clear my throat, trying to rein it in. “I mean, yeah. I’m starving, so a picnic sounds great.”
Connor’s smile widens, and he gives me a small nod. “Your mom wanted me to tell you they’re doing a bonfire by the lake later for s’mores, but we’re free until then.”
“Great,” I repeat, suddenly really happy.
For a moment, we just look at each other, like we’ve both forgotten what we’re supposed to do next. Then Connor says, “I’ll let you get dressed. Meet you downstairs?”
I nod, even though what I really want to say is, Or you could stay.
I don’t say it, though, because without alcohol in my bloodstream, I’m apparently not that brave.
***
We leave the cottage together ten minutes later, Connor carrying the shopping bag with our picnic supplies while I carry a blanket tucked under my arm.
The afternoon sun is warm on my skin, and the air smells like pine and lake water.
When Connor’s free hand slips into mine and our fingers lace together, my heart does a complicated flip in my chest.
He shoots me a quick look, like he’s checking if I’m okay with it, and when I smile at him, he smiles back.
It feels so right. Like we’re actually a couple on a weekend getaway, heading off for a romantic picnic. Not neighbors playing an elaborate charade that somehow morphed into…whatever this is now.
We follow the shoreline away from the cottages, his thumb occasionally brushing over my skin and sending a shiver up my arm.
I’m painfully aware of every inch of him beside me, because my brain is helpfully filling in the rest from last night—the mouth that made me come completely undone, the hands that gripped my thighs, the hips that pinned me to the mattress.
My body responds to the memory with a hum of arousal that I try very hard to ignore. Every time our shoulders brush, the contact feels magnified, my skin buzzing everywhere he touches me.
“So,” I say when the silence starts to feel too loaded, “I wanted to say sorry. About last night.”
Connor slows so suddenly that I have to slow with him, his hand tightening around mine. His face goes carefully blank in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“About last night?” he repeats, his voice flat.
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize why he’s reacting like that. Does he think I mean the sex? Jesus.
“No! No—” I rush to clarify. “Not about…that. I meant for not talking to you. At dinner. I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just really annoyed about my parents being so extra and then Maya finding out… But that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” Connor says, relief crossing his face as his shoulders ease. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say. I feel like a complete idiot for acting like a pissed-off teenager. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“It’s fine.” Connor squeezes my hand. “I’m the one who should apologize,” he says. “I shouldn’t have promised all those things to your mom and dad. It wasn’t my place to create expectations like that.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For saying that.”
We walk in silence for a few more moments, the gravel path crunching beneath our feet before giving way to grass. The far side of the lake stretches out ahead of us, less manicured than the area around the cottages, with trees growing right up to the water’s edge.
“It sounded nice, though,” I admit quietly, not looking at him. “All of it. The apartment with better insulation. The yard for a dog.” I pause, heat creeping up my neck. “It sounded too good to be true, actually. Maybe that’s why I got so upset.”
Okay, did I just admit I want a future with him out loud? I think I did. Oh God.
Connor is silent for a long moment, and when I risk a glance at him, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “It did sound nice. Maybe because it didn’t feel completely fake when I said it.”
I stare at him, not sure I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing.
Does he want that too?
No. Absolutely not. That’s insane. I’m probably overthinking this, and he’s just being nice. We barely know each other, and Connor has already implied relationships are more hassle than they’re worth, so there are really only two other deeply unappealing explanations here.
Either he can tell I’ve basically imprinted on him after one amazing weekend and two orgasms and feels bad for me, or he doesn’t mean any of it, which would make him the kind of guy who says romantic things for sport.
A player, basically. Or a narcissist.
And he’s neither of those, unless my judgment has fully left the building—which, to be fair, given the last twenty-four hours, is not completely impossible.
He squeezes my hand again, and I bite back my own smile, because there’s no safe way to respond to that. Not without admitting how badly I want us to be real.
We keep walking until the cottages disappear behind us. The path curves around the lake, partly shaded by the trees, and eventually we find a small clearing near the water, sheltered from the cottages but still open enough to catch the sunlight.
“This looks good,” Connor says, nodding at the clearing.
“Perfect,” I say, my stomach doing an embarrassing little swoop.
Okay. Why do I feel so awkward? It’s like I’m sneaking off with my first boyfriend to make out under the bleachers.
Connor takes the blanket from me and spreads it out.
We sit facing the lake, and I pull the shopping bag between us, unpacking the food he and Mom packed for our picnic: sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a container of fruit, two bags of chips, and a bottle of wine that looks far too expensive for a casual picnic.
I’m sure that was Mom’s idea.
Then I find two actual wine glasses—not plastic cups or tumblers, but real glass stemware—and set them carefully on the blanket.
“Mom did not mess around with the supplies,” I say, and Connor snorts.
“She insisted I take those.”
I watch as he uncorks the wine bottle, the muscles in his forearm flexing just enough that I have to force myself not to stare. He pours wine into both glasses, then hands one to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
“So,” Connor says, settling more comfortably on the blanket beside me, “hypothetically speaking, if we were to get a dog, what kind would you want?”
The casual way he asks the question, as if we’re actually planning a future together, makes my heart stutter. I take a sip of wine to hide my reaction and get my thoughts together.
“Well,” I say after a moment, setting my glass down carefully, “there’s this one dog at the shelter where I work. She’s been there for over a year now. Nobody wants her because she’s already seven, even though she’s amazing and completely healthy. She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Connor’s expression softens. “What kind of dog is she?”
“Nobody knows exactly,” I say with a small laugh. “She’s not too big, maybe twenty-five pounds? The vet thinks she’s part corgi, part shiba inu, and part…who knows. Maybe fox? She kind of looks like a fox, actually, with these big pointy ears and this fluffy curled tail.”
“She sounds cute.” Connor smiles, leaning forward a little. “What’s her name?”
“Pumpkin,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “Wait, I’ll show you.”
I scroll through my photos until I find the folder dedicated entirely to Pumpkin—because yes, I’m that person—and hand my phone to Connor. “That’s her.”
Connor’s face changes as he swipes through the photos, his eyes crinkling at the corners, an even bigger smile spreading across his face. “She’s adorable,” he says softly, lingering on a video of Pumpkin chasing a ball, her little legs a blur of motion. “Look at those ears.”
“Right?” I watch him, warmth blooming in my chest at his reaction.
“She’s perfect,” Connor says, swiping through my embarrassingly extensive Pumpkin photo collection. “Look at how she tilts her head in this one.”
“That’s her ‘give me a treat’ pose,” I explain, leaning closer to see the screen. “She’s manipulative as hell. Works every time, though.”
Connor chuckles. “Smart girl.”
He pauses on a video I took one morning when I arrived at the shelter and Pumpkin did her little happy dance. Her whole body wiggles with such joy it’s almost painful to watch.