Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
CONNOR
After Nude Foods, Whitney promised me the full tour of Coral Cove.
We only made it down the boardwalk at Emerald Beach before she remembered the ice cream sandwiches were probably melting in her back seat.
Normally I’d be aware of something like buying ice cream then leaving it to melt in the late May heat, but from the moment I climbed in Whitney’s passenger seat, then proceeded to get a whirlwind tour of Nude Foods and eat the best hot dog I’ve ever had, I haven’t been able to think about anything but the sunshine, chaotic swimmer girl in front of me.
Like now, when I should’ve gone back to my pastel rental, and done something responsible like stretch, but instead my hands are loaded down with grocery totes as I’m climbing the stairs to a charming bungalow near the center of town.
She’s got a way of capturing my attention and keeping me wondering what is coming next. She’s FOMO incarnate.
My desire to spend more time with Whitney is going to be a problem. It finally crosses my mind that I don’t know who she lives with.
Is this Rory’s place?
Will he be here?
I hope she has a roommate because I really shouldn’t be left alone with her.
“I should probably—” I motion toward the street.
“Relax,” she says, taking in my nervous expression. “This is Winnie’s house.”
That has my shoulders releasing a small amount of tension. But there’s still the fact that this is a small town. Someone might see me going inside with her, and word could get back to Rory.
Keep your head down. No complications. The advice from Leo that seems simple in theory, but with Whitney in my proximity, it’s far more challenging to regard.
Whitney turns to find me waiting in the doorway like I’m a vampire that has to be invited in.
“Come in.” She waves me toward the kitchen. “It’s not like Rory is going to jump out of the bushes. He left for Charleston this afternoon.”
“Right.”
Inside, the house is warm and lived-in—throws draped over the back of the couch, a bowl of keys by the door, and a colorful rug leading down the hallway.
I carry the bags into the kitchen and set them on the counter, then start lining the groceries up by category without thinking—cold, dry, snacks—because my hands need something to do.
Whitney stares at my progress, amused. “Winnie is a stickler for food organization. You two would get along.”
She motions to a cabinet, and I peer inside to find labels on the shelves indicating the places for cereal, oatmeal, and granola bars.
“This is impressive.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t last long. I have a tendency to bring disorder to systems.”
Captain Chaos. That’s what she’s called online.
She tears open the box of ice cream sandwiches.
“You know you could wait until that refreezes.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Says the man who wanted me to throw away my Hummingbird cake.”
“It was on the floor. Of a highly trafficked area.”
“Are we really going to debate this again?” Her brows lift before she slides her tongue against the edge of the ice cream sandwich, the soft, melting ice cream easily giving way.
“The cake. The Nude dog. Now an ice cream sandwich,” I say, watching her take another bite like she’s daring the laws of physics to stop her. “I’m noticing a pattern.”
Whitney pauses mid-chew. “What pattern?”
“You and food all over your face,” I say.
She squints at me like I’m being dramatic, then takes another bite anyway—cookie nudging into the corner of her mouth and leaving a scatter of crumbs behind like evidence.
I should let her handle it, but I don’t.
Before I can talk myself out of it, my thumb goes to the corner of her mouth and sweeps the crumbs away in one clean motion.
Whitney stills.
So do I.
Because now I’m standing in Winnie’s kitchen touching Whitney’s lips like this is normal, like my self-control didn’t just slip on melted ice cream.
Her eyes flick to my hand, then back up to my face, mouth twitching.
“So, if I’m messy…” she says, voice sweet in a way that makes my pulse misbehave. She takes another slow bite, like she’s testing a theory. “…you’ll clean me up?”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I quickly drop my hand.
“That’s not—” I start, then stop, because my brain is busy imagining things it shouldn’t.
My mouth on Whitney’s. The taste of her tongue. Then, the sound of her breathy moans as I slip between her thighs and lick up her center.
Fuck.
I should run for the front door. Instead, I grab the box of ice cream sandwiches and toss them in the freezer. Like putting distance between messy food and Whitney will solve all my problems.
When I shut the door, I’m startled by the creature that’s just wandered into the kitchen.
Huge eyes and tongue falling out the side of its mouth, in waddles an adorable pug.
“Who’s this little guy?” I ask, grateful for a distraction from thinking about Whitney’s mouth.
Whitney’s face brightens like she’s been waiting to introduce him. “That’s Edgar. He’s Summer’s pug. Winnie and I are watching him for a few days.”
I crouch and offer Edgar my hand. He sniffs once, solemn as a judge, then nudges my knuckles and licks me like he’s deemed me worthy.
“Rory and Summer are in Charleston for his Hydra-Fuel campaign shoot,” she adds, casual, like she isn’t also handing me some stress-relieving news.
Whitney drops down beside me to give Edgar a rub but has to withdraw quickly when he gains interest in her ice cream.
“You’re really good with animals,” she says, and there’s a flicker of surprise in it, like she expected me to be all tattoos and attitude with no soft edges.
“My mom had a pug,” I tell her. The truth slides out easier than it should. “She got her when I was away at swim camp one summer. To keep her company.”
Edgar leans into my hand as I scratch behind his ears, melting into the floor in the most relatable way I’ve seen all day.
“Her name was Mabel,” I add.
“That’s so cute,” Whitney says, softer now. “Is she still around?”
I shake my head. “She died a few years after my mom.”
“I’m sorry.” Whitney slows the licking on her ice cream sandwich. “About your mom. And Mabel.”
“Thanks.”
Her words are sincere, and she doesn’t do that sympathetic face people put on like grief is a contagious illness. She just nods once, like she’s storing the information carefully and refusing to make it bigger than I did.
It still hits wrong, though—right in the center of my chest, in a place I’d rather not acknowledge.
I clear my throat and stand, because if I stay crouched any longer, I’m going to start saying things I can’t take back.
Whitney bends to pick up a receipt near my feet, and when she straightens, she’s too close—the scent of oranges and sunscreen and ocean breeze that makes my heart punch against my ribs.
“I should probably go,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between responsible and cowardly.
Whitney lifts a brow. “Scared?”
“Of you?” I say honestly. “Absolutely.”
Her smile goes bright and pleased, like she enjoys being the reason someone loses composure.
Then her eyes drift past me toward the living room. I follow her gaze to the gaming setup and my stomach drops.
Seeing her setup and knowing that’s what she played on while I was on the other end of the headset has my skin tingling with nerves.
“You play?” she asks.
“I have,” I say hesitantly. “It’s been a while.”
“Sea of Thieves is my favorite,” she says, and the words hit like a ton of bricks.
Of course it is.
“I remember that one,” I manage, because my mouth is still pretending the rest of my body isn’t in panic mode.
Whitney’s eyes light up. “We should play.”
“I don’t think—"
“Come on. You’ll pick it back up fast.” She rushes over to the couch, then pats the spot beside her like she’s casually inviting a friend and not pushing me toward a cliff. “It’ll be fun.”
This is where I should say no.
This is where I should remember Vivi’s voice—be boring—and Leo’s—no variables—and my own plan to stay the hell away from her.
But she’s looking at me with those big blue eyes that were clearly designed to dismantle my internal alarm system.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Uh...I forgot my login.”
Whitney waves it off immediately. “Use mine. Or use Winnie’s profile. She only has one because I forced her to try it once. She won’t mind if you suck.”
I sit down, stiff and on edge, like a man who wants to keep his secrets.
Whitney signs in, fingers flying, and there it is on the screen.
SailorGirl.
My chest goes tight—sharp, instant, unmistakable. I attempt to keep my face blank and my breathing steady and my hands loose, but I know for a fact I’m white-knuckling the edge of the couch.
“SailorGirl.” I can’t help saying it out loud. I hope she doesn’t hear the longing and reverence in my voice.
She glances at me. “Yeah, that’s my gamertag.”
My throat bobs.
“That fits,” I force out.
She smiles, proud, then tilts her head. “What’s yours?”
I could tell her now. Say my gamertag and blow everything up. Turn Whitney’s hopeful gaze into an accusing glare.
I know I’m being selfish. Letting her think I’m just a new teammate looking for a fresh start, when the reality is I started digging the hole I’m in the moment I left that coffee shop and ghosted her.
But maybe one game is harmless. A way to pass an otherwise lonely afternoon.
Just one game.
“Don’t recall.”
Whitney’s eyes narrow like she can sense my lie. “Sure you don’t.”
Then, she leans back, a wicked grin on her face. “Let me guess. Is it ‘BigFishEnergy?’”
“No.”
“‘CockedAndDocked?’”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
“How about ‘StrokeRateDaddy?’” She grins enthusiastically.
I press my lips together and look up at the ceiling.
On second thought, maybe I should just tell her.
The thought barely forms before Whitney tosses out another guess with that wicked little grin, and my brain short-circuits in self-defense.
“Why are you like this?” I ask.