Chapter 11 #2
Connor steps closer. “Come on. We’ve got this.”
Before I can argue, he crouches slightly, hands firm at my waist.
“Up,” he says.
My brain fully reboots.
“What do you mean—”
“Trust me.”
Those two words lock something into place. And also, my rainbow Goldfish crackers are at stake.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and settles me onto his shoulders with ridiculous ease. My hands fly to his hair instinctively, and he’s warm and steady and too solid.
“Oh my god,” I hiss, half laughing, half panicking. “Connor.”
“Grab the fish,” he says calmly.
I reach up and snag one carton, then another, then a third because I refuse to be deprived.
“Extra,” I announce, dropping them into the cart below.
“Of course,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s fighting a smile.
“Down,” I say quickly.
He turns slightly, then lowers me, slow and careful, and his hands slide from my thighs to my waist as he sets me down. My shirt rides up; his palms land on bare skin for one hot second; my body reacts like a starting beep.
I end up backed against the shelves, Connor right there—close enough to make my mouth go dry. His hands are still at my waist, and for one beat neither of us moves.
Then a cart squeaks nearby and a woman’s voice cuts in. “Sorry! Coming through!”
Reality slams back.
Connor’s hands drop instantly, and I shove the Goldfish into the cart like I didn’t almost combust in aisle six.
He clears his throat, looking anywhere but my face. “Got them.”
“Yep,” I manage, gripping the cart handle like it’s an anchor. “We did.”
We cut past a pet endcap, and I spot a feather wand.
Perfect—because I need a distraction before my brain starts replaying the waist-touch moment in high definition.
I snag it without slowing down. “A tickler for Pussy.”
Connor’s head snaps toward me, eyes wide.
“Come on,” I say, waving it once. “She deserves toys. She’s been through a lot.”
Connor drags a hand down his face. “I’m begging you to stop saying her name like that in public.”
I toss it into the cart anyway. “Absolutely not.”
We round into the chip aisle and there it is—one strip of neon chaos in an otherwise curated section.
Takis.
At the exact same time, Connor and I reach for the fiery ones.
We freeze, hands hovering over the same bag.
I look up.
He’s already looking at me—caught.
He clears his throat, grabs a second fiery bag like this was always the plan, and drops it into the cart.
I toss mine in, too, grinning.
As we roll toward checkout, I glance at him. “So. How do you like Coral Cove?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen much of it.”
“That’s because you’ve been living in the pool,” I say.
He doesn’t argue.
“Okay,” I decide. “Then I’m giving you the full tour.”
His brow lifts. “How long is that going to take?”
I smile. “You have somewhere else to be?”
Emerald Beach is a straight shot from Nude Foods, which is part of why I love Coral Cove. You can go from grocery store chaos to ocean therapy in under five minutes.
We park near the boardwalk and step out into that late-day glow that makes everything look like a tourism brochure.
The planks are sun-bleached and familiar under my bare feet, string lights overhead just waking up, little shops spilling color and music onto the walkway.
People wander past with cones and beach towels and that unhurried coastal pace like nobody’s ever had to hit a split in their life.
Connor walks beside me like he’s trying to act normal and failing in the most attractive way possible. He’s quiet but not shut down. His eyes track the town like he’s absorbing it—storefronts, signs, people—like he’s trying to learn a place instead of just passing through it.
“Okay,” I say, because I can’t help myself. “Tour.”
Connor glances over. “Do I get a map?”
“No,” I say. “You get vibes.”
“That sounds unsafe.”
“It is,” I confirm, and steer us toward the far end where the boardwalk thins out and the sand starts showing through.
We pass the saltwater taffy place, the surf shop with the neon wave, the little stand that sells shell bracelets that are objectively a scam and somehow still worth it.
Then I slow as we reach a weathered little café tucked off the main stretch. THE SALTY PIRATE CAFé sign swings in the breeze.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with training.
“That,” I say, pointing, “is The Salty Pirate.”
Connor’s eyes follow. “A seafood restaurant?”
“Yes,” I say, proud. “Coral Cove’s best food.”
“Besides the Nude dog, of course.” He smiles.
“Exactly. And Rory’s wife, Summer, works there.”
Connor’s attention sharpens for half a second at the mention of my brother.
I keep going like it’s no big deal, because I’m not trying to make this a thing. “It’s kind of the unofficial Current hangout.”
Connor’s mouth tightens. “That’s probably why I haven’t been there yet.”
We keep moving toward the beach access, the crowd thinning until it’s mostly locals and tourists with sunburns and people who look like they’re chasing a last golden-hour photo.
Connor’s hand swings at his side, close to mine.
Once—just once—our fingers almost brush.
It’s not a handhold or a moment anyone else would notice. There’s still a millimeter of air between us.
It’s ridiculous that my body reacts at all.
This is mild. This is nothing compared to being on his shoulders in the cracker aisle while he held my waist like I was something precious and not a menace who buys rainbow crackers on principle.
And yet my nervous system flares like that almost-touch is a stroke between my thighs.
I swallow and stare straight ahead like the ocean is a math problem I need to solve.
We step onto the sand and the world shifts immediately—softer sounds, bigger sky, the hush of waves rolling in like a steady breath.
Connor slows without thinking, like the water has gravity.
“Okay,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. “This is the best part.”
He looks out at the ocean, and for the first time all day, his shoulders drop a fraction. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get why.”
We walk along the shoreline, shoes in my hand, wet sand cool under my feet. The breeze lifts my hair; the tide chases our footprints.
Connor keeps his gaze mostly forward, but every once in a while he glances at me like he’s checking whether I’m real.
It makes my stomach do that annoying flip again.
“So,” I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere near curious, “what’s it like being somewhere new and having nothing to do but train?”
Connor exhales, almost a laugh. “You make it sound peaceful.”
“It sounds peaceful,” I argue.
“It’s quiet,” he admits. “But not the good kind. The kind where your brain starts filling the space.”
I nod like I understand, because I do. The water is my quiet. Land is where my thoughts get loud.
Connor nudges a shell with his toe. “Out here,” he adds, “it’s harder to pretend you’re only one thing.”
The sentence hits like it’s aimed at both of us.
I glance at him, but his face is neutral—careful. Like he didn’t mean to say something so true.
The wind pulls at his hair. The sun lights the ink on his arms. And I see him better now. How he looks like someone who’s always braced for impact.
I want to ask what he means.
Instead, I bump my shoulder lightly into his, pretending it’s nothing. “Well,” I say, brightening on purpose, “congratulations. You just did something besides stare at lane lines.”
Connor huffs a laugh. “Huge achievement.”
“Next,” I say, pointing down the beach, “I’ll show you where tourists try to take engagement photos and get attacked by seagulls.”
He glances at me. “Is that a real thing?”
“It’s Coral Cove,” I say solemnly. “Everything is a real thing.”
We keep walking, the light dropping softer, the boardwalk lights blinking on behind us.
Then, I stop so suddenly Connor almost bumps into me.
“Oh my god.”
He’s instantly alert. “What?”
I spin toward the parking lot, horror blooming. “The ice cream sandwiches.”
Connor blinks. “The—”
“They’re in my car,” I say, already walking faster. “In a bag. Melting.”
His mouth opens, incredulous. “You forgot about them?”
I shoot him a grin over my shoulder as I pick up speed. “Come on, Fisk. Run.”
And as we jog back up the sand—boardwalk lights glowing, ocean at our backs—I realize I’m enjoying this way more than someone who is just showing a new teammate around Coral Cove.
Which is fine.
Everything is fine.
Except the ice cream sandwiches.