Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
WHITNEY
My ponytail whips in the late-day breeze as I turn my Jeep onto Ocean Breeze Avenue, “Rollercoaster” blasting from the speakers.
I realize too late that this is the playlist—the one DreamBoat sent me back when my nights were spent laughing into a headset and pretending it didn’t matter that we’d never met in real life.
My fingers tap the wheel before I can stop them, muscle memory kicking in like the song lives under my skin.
Connor shifts in the passenger seat. It’s small, but I clock it anyway—jaw tightening, shoulders bracing, like the chorus is doing something to him.
Which would be easier to ignore if the last hour hadn’t been whatever that was.
I found him on the sidewalk with a cat burrito in his arms, appointed myself his vet appointment plus-one out of sheer curiosity, and got rewarded with a small-town spectacle: Doris, the receptionist, calling out “Pussy” like it was a perfectly normal name while Connor turned red and defensive and kept insisting the cat wasn’t his.
I didn’t name her. It’s on her collar.
He tried really hard not to, but he cared.
And that’s why I invited him to get food. Not because I’m bored or because I’m being nice. Because I want to know what’s under the tattoos and the attitude and the careful answers he keeps giving me.
I drag my attention back to the music before my thoughts run away with me. “Do you like this song?” I ask casually.
Connor blinks like he forgot music existed. “It’s fine.”
His response is suspiciously careful, but I let it go. I hum along anyway—partly because I like the song and partly because getting under his skin has become a hobby—and he lets out a slow exhale through his nose like he’s trying not to react.
The weird part is, listening to DreamBoat’s playlist with Connor sitting right here, real and solid and close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, doesn’t sting the way I expected.
If anything, it feels like proof I’m over it.
Over him. Like the ghost of gamers past doesn’t get to haunt everything I enjoy.
I grin to myself and pull into the Nude Foods grocery store parking lot.
“I thought we were getting dinner,” Connor says.
“Oh, we are,” I promise. “And a few snacks.”
He looks at the storefront like he’s bracing for an ambush.
“Come on, Fisk,” I say, already unbuckling. “I’ll show you the ropes.”
Inside Nude Foods, everything is white tile, blond-wood shelves, and neat little chalkboard signs in perfect handwriting. The aisles are wide and clean, the endcaps look curated, and the produce has that unfair glow like it drinks eight glasses of water a day.
The deli is the centerpiece, though, and the highlight—the entire reason people pretend they’re “just grabbing one thing”—is the nude dogs.
The second we get close, the smell hits: warm bun, grilled meat, chili simmering somewhere behind the counter, and suddenly I’m starving in a way that feels spiritual.
I snag a cart and steer us straight toward the counter like I have a mission.
“Two nude dogs, please,” I tell the guy behind it.
Connor pauses. “What’s a nude dog?”
I turn to him, offended. “Only the most delicious hot dog you’ll ever have.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s a promise.”
The deli worker slides two foil-wrapped hot dogs across the counter like he’s done this exact routine with confused people all day long.
I snatch them up and hand one to Connor, and for one quick beat his gaze sticks on the foil like it’s a portal to a memory.
It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by that controlled expression he wears like armor, but I noticed it.
I don’t press. His nervous system is still recovering from the thought of a night without a cat named Pussy curled up on his chest.
“A hot dog,” I say lightly, like I’m narrating for him. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
His mouth twitches. “I like hot dogs.”
“Good,” I say dramatically. “Because if you didn’t, I’d have to kick you out of Coral Cove.”
“Is that in the town bylaws?” he asks.
“It is when I’m in charge.”
We hit the condiment station next, and it’s not your standard ketchup-mustard situation. This one is committed. Chili. Slaw. Fancy mustard. Caramelized onions. Pickled jalapenos that look like they bite back.
“Come on,” I say, unwrapping mine. “Let’s get these dogs dressed.”
Connor stares at the spread like he’s never seen a station this confident. “People put all of this on?”
“Yes,” I say. “People with joy in their hearts.”
I start building mine, and Connor watches like he’s studying film.
“What?” I ask, glancing over.
“Nothing,” he says, unwrapping his like it’s a bomb. “I just don’t want to do it wrong.”
I blink. “Connor Fisk, scared of condiments. Noted.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Great,” I say. “Prove it.”
He piles on everything—chili, slaw, fancy mustard—and then goes for the onions.
I point immediately. “Onions?”
He pauses mid-scoop. “Are onions not okay?”
I tilt my head, very serious. “Not if we’re going to make out later.”
Connor freezes, eyes snapping to mine—wide for half a second before he catches himself—and it’s almost funny how startled he looks, like he’s used to being the one who makes people choke.
I grin. “I’m messing with you.”
His throat bobs. “Do you just say whatever comes to mind?”
“Yes,” I say, unashamed. “It’s kind of an issue.”
His mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“But most of the time it helps,” I add, because it’s true. “Cuts through the bullshit. Saves everyone a lot of pretending.”
Connor stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether that’s admirable or dangerous.
Probably both.
He clears his throat and very deliberately dumps the onions on anyway, like he’s reclaiming control of his hot dog. “Noted.”
I take a large bite, and my chewing fills the space between us.
“We’re eating them now?” he asks, glancing around like the produce might judge him.
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ve shopped hungry before and went home with twelve boxes of cereal and a kayak.”
“A kayak.”
“It was on sale,” I defend.
Connor takes a bite and his entire face betrays him.
He likes it. A lot.
I grin. “It’s good, huh?”
“Better than good,” he admits, voice low enough to make my stomach flip.
I take another smug bite and immediately realize I have chili at the corner of my mouth. I go to swipe it, except Connor’s hand is already there.
His thumb brushes my lip, quick and careful, like he meant to be helpful and then forgot there was a whole woman attached to the mouth he’s touching. He pulls back like he touched a livewire, and I just stand there, suddenly very aware of my own breathing.
He looks anywhere but at me.
Then, because the universe hates me, he licks the chili off his thumb.
My eyes widen.
His gaze snaps to mine for half a second—dark, heated, immediately regretful—and then he looks away again like he’s trying to remember where he left his self-control.
“That was interesting,” I manage.
“Chili,” he says, like that explains anything.
“Sure,” I say, and my voice does not sound like my own. “Chili.”
We steer into snacks, and Connor reaches for something aggressively healthy in a shiny package.
I squint at it. “Except that.”
He freezes mid-grab. “What?”
“That,” I say. “Put it back.”
He scoffs. “You just said no judgment.”
“I did,” I agree brightly, “and then you chose drywall-flavored sadness. I’m protecting you.”
Connor stares at me for a beat, then returns it to the shelf like he’s humoring a dangerous animal.
“Thank you,” I say, satisfied. “Bonding.”
I toss in a few things that make sense for athletes—trail mix, pretzels, something protein-adjacent—and then I grab my favorite protein bars and drop them into the cart.
Connor’s hand shoots out and stops the box mid-air. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t buy those,” he says.
“You’re vetoing my snack now?”
“I’m vetoing you paying retail,” he replies. “I can get you cases for free.”
“How?”
His mouth tightens like he regrets talking. “Sponsor deal.”
I stare at him. “You’re the face of my favorite bar and I didn’t know?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he says immediately.
“It’s already weird,” I tell him, dropping them in the cart anyway. “You’re bribing me with protein bars.”
“I’m being practical.”
“Same thing.”
He grabs electrolyte packets like he needs something responsible to hold, and I point at them because of course I do.
“Electrolytes,” I tease. “Cute.”
“They work,” he says.
“God,” I sigh. “You’re such a grown-up.”
Then, because my life is apparently a series of whiplash moments, I hear myself say, quieter, “My agent’s been on me nonstop. Brand calls. ‘Capitalize on the moment.’ It’s like I’m a person and a product.”
Connor’s gaze flicks to me—quick, sharp, almost understanding.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It gets loud.”
I swallow, because he sounds like he knows exactly what I mean.
I busy myself with the cart. “I’m just trying to pick the right ones.”
He nods once. “You’ve got Rory.”
The name lands with weight.
“He’s a good sounding board for that,” Connor adds carefully.
I glance at him, but he’s studying the shelf like it’s suddenly fascinating, and the elephant in the aisle is wearing a name tag that says Rory, but I don’t want to address it. Not here.
We turn into the cracker aisle and I spot my real weakness.
Goldfish.
Rainbow Goldfish.
But the slot is empty.
“No,” I whisper, devastated.
Connor leans in. “What?”
“They’re out of Goldfish,” I say, pointing like we’re witnessing a terrible tragedy.
He blinks at the wall of Goldfish. “There are like ten boxes.”
“Rainbow,” I clarify.
“Don’t they all taste the same?”
I gasp like he insulted my ancestors. “Absolutely not.”
“Really?”
“Trust me on this. It’s a different vibe,” I insist. “And a completely different experience.”
His eyes follow my gaze upward to the top shelf, where three rainbow cartons sit like a cruel joke.
“Dang it,” I mutter. “We’ll have to ask a clerk.”