Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
WHITNEY
The living room looks like the aftermath of a snack-based crime spree. A sub sandwich half-eaten. A box of real Pop-Tarts torn open and already missing two. A bowl of spicy Takis that Connor is eating unflinchingly, like they aren’t radioactive against his taste buds.
Edgar is curled into a donut in his bed by the window, snoring softly, blissfully unconcerned with the sexual tension happening three feet away.
And by sexual tension I mean my ovaries contracting at the sight of Connor’s sharp jaw and the way he absentmindedly plays with his tongue ring like he doesn’t realize I’m thinking about how that metal might feel against my—
Nope. Not finishing that sentence. I’m trying to be a responsible adult athlete.
Yesterday was impulsive. Today was planned. Yet something is different between us.
Connor’s here. He’s on the couch, controller in hand, shoulders broad against Winnie’s throw pillows. And still he feels…on edge. Like his body is a fraction too tight.
It’s confusing, because he’d been full of banter over text. But in person tonight? He’s been unnervingly quiet for a man who built an entire public persona on suggestive headlines and tattoos.
For the past hour we’ve been side-by-side on my couch, controllers in hand, and he hasn’t flirted once.
No winks or sexy eyebrow lifts. Nothing. Only pure focus.
It’s like he’s here to audit my taxes.
“Hard to port,” Connor says calmly. “Ease the wheel. We’re catching crosswind.”
I blink. “I—what?”
“The sail’s catching. Trim it halfway.” He leans forward, elbow on his knee, eyes locked on the screen. “If you keep fighting it, we’ll drift into the rocks.”
I do as he says, and the ship steadies.
It’s really annoying.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“Mm.” A distracted sound. “Angle the sail another notch. Cannon range in ten.”
I glance at him. Still no grin. No teasing banter. Just quiet competence and concentration like he’s unaware I’m tracking his every move.
He fires a cannon shot. Direct hit.
“Nice,” I say.
“Reloading,” he replies, already moving. “Watch the ladders.”
Who is this man?
I deliberately ram us into a dock.
“Whitney,” he says. “That was reckless.”
“Maybe I like being reckless,” I toss back, mostly because I’m irritated he’s been so calm and competent and unbothered for an entire hour.
Connor finally looks at me with a slow, steady glance that feels like he’s taking inventory and trying not to.
“That tracks,” he says, voice low, and goes back to the screen like he didn’t just light a flare in my bloodstream.
We finish the fight and win.
When the victory music hits, I drop my controller onto the couch and stretch my arms over my head on purpose, because if he’s going to sit here pretending he’s immune to me, I’m going to make it inconvenient.
Connor reaches for the bowl of Takis again like they’re a recovery snack and not flaming little danger sticks.
“Do you have asbestos in your throat?” I ask.
He swallows. “They’re fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” I cut in, delighted. “You’re Connor Fisk. You’ve got sponsorships and tattoos and a whole ‘bad boy’ thing, and you’re losing a silent war to Takis.”
His jaw flexes. Then he grabs another one like my words offended him.
“Are you trying to impress me?” I ask.
His eyes flick to mine. Sharp. “No.”
“Interesting,” I murmur, because it is.
He sets the bowl down with a little too much care and reaches for his phone. Tap-tap. Screen angled away.
Suspicious.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s also suspicious,” I say, scooting closer. “Connor. What are you doing?”
He exhales like he’s deciding whether to indulge me or protect his dignity. The answer is obvious.
“Checking on the cat,” he admits.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You mean Pussy.”
Connor closes his eyes for a second. “Yes.”
I lean in, voice dropping like I’m about to uncover a scandal. “Do you have…a cat sitter?”
“No.”
“A roommate?”
“No.”
“A secret staff?” I whisper. “A full-time Pussy nanny?”
Connor opens one eye. “Stop.”
I grin. “I can’t. This is too good.”
He shifts, and I catch the edge of his screen—little squares, a timestamp in the corner.
My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
“No way,” I whisper. “Did you buy a pet cam?”
Connor’s ears go faintly pink.
“It’s temporary,” he says immediately, like the word has been rehearsed.
I laugh. “You bought surveillance equipment for a cat that’s temporary.”
“It was on sale,” he mutters, and it’s so painfully domestic I almost choke.
“Oh my god,” I say. “You’re me.”
His eyes flick to mine. “No.”
“Yes,” I say, triumphant. “Impulse purchase. Emotional justification. Denial.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a prayer.
“Show me,” I demand.
“No.”
“Connor,” I say, sweet and relentless. “Show me the stream.”
He hesitates, then angles the phone toward me like surrender.
I scoot closer until my shoulder presses into his arm. Heat hits me immediately—warm skin, solid muscle, that clean-salt-chlorine scent that makes my brain short-circuit.
On the screen, Pussy is sprawled on his couch like a tiny queen, one paw tucked under her chin.
“She looks smug,” I whisper.
“She is,” Connor murmurs, and there’s something soft in his voice, like it slipped out before he could lock it down.
I glance up from the screen to his face.
Connor isn’t looking at Pussy anymore.
He’s looking at me.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are too serious for Takis and Pop-Tarts and a cat cam. Like he’s been holding something back all night and it’s finally pressing against his teeth.
“Whitney,” he starts, voice low.
My stomach flips.
He’s going to say something important. I can feel it.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back up like he’s trying to behave. “I—”
I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the way he said my name. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been tense all night, like he’s braced for impact, and I want to be the opposite of impact.
Or maybe I’m just me.
I close the distance.
I kiss him.
For one beat, he goes still—like his brain registers it before his body does.
Then Connor exhales, rough, and kisses me back like he’s been starving.
His hand comes up fast, cupping my jaw, thumb sliding along the hinge like he knows exactly how to hold me. The kiss deepens immediately, no hesitation, no polite testing—just heat and pressure and the hungry drag of his mouth against mine.
My pulse trips.
His tongue ring brushes my lower lip, and my whole body lights up like I just hit a start button.
Connor makes a sound—quiet, wrecked—and it goes straight between my thighs.
I shift closer, knee brushing his, and he reacts like it’s permission. His other hand slides to my waist, fingers curling at my hip, pulling me in until my body fits against his like it was designed for it.
Oh.
So that’s what he was holding back.
The kiss goes messier—open-mouthed and intent—Connor’s grip tightening just enough to make my brain go blank in the best way. He tilts his head, kisses me deeper, and then he moves.
In one smooth motion he shifts, pulling me with him so I end up straddling his lap, my thighs settling on either side of him like my body made the decision before my brain could vote.
Connor’s hands spread over my hips, steady and strong, anchoring me there.
He breaks the kiss for half a second—just long enough to look at me. His pupils are blown, his breathing uneven, his mouth slightly swollen like he’s been kissed properly for the first time in his life.
Then he kisses me again.
Harder.
Like he’s done pretending.
I brace my hands on his shoulders. He’s solid under my palms, warm and unyielding, and when I roll my hips by accident—because I’m human and he’s Connor—he groans into my mouth like it hurts.
His hands slide, thumbs pressing into the curve of my waist, tugging my shirt up just a fraction. His fingertips hit bare skin.
And I swear my whole body sparks.
Connor’s mouth trails to the corner of mine, then back, then down—just enough that I can feel him breathing me in, like he wants to memorize me.
I’m dizzy.
My brain is basically confetti.
Connor pulls back again, forehead nearly touching mine, and I think, This is it. We’re doing this.
His hands hold me in place like he doesn’t trust himself not to.
His voice is rough when he speaks. “Whitney…”
The way he says it isn’t playful. It’s not teasing. It’s a warning. Or a surrender. Or both.
And then his phone buzzes.
Loud. Insistent. A vibration that cuts through the moment like a blade.
Connor freezes and his spine locks, like something inside him has snapped back into place. Then, he breaks the kiss.
For a second, we just breathe, foreheads almost touching, my mouth swollen, my heart sprinting.
Connor glances at his phone, turning it so I can’t see the screen.
Whatever he reads there drains the warmth from his face.
His thumb hovers. His jaw locks. His fingers grip the edge of the phone so hard they turn white.
Then, he’s pushing to his feet, one hand on my hip to steady me as momentum hauls me up with him.
“Connor?” I say, still catching up. “What—”
“I need to go,” he says.
I blink. “What? Why?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s trying to reset his whole nervous system. “I can’t—” He stops, drags in a breath. “I can’t do this.”
My stomach drops.
I can feel my brain scrambling for an explanation it can live with, and unfortunately the first one it grabs is the oldest one: Too much. Too Whitney.
I force my voice to stay steady. “You were the one who came over.”
“I know,” he says, and the way he says it is the worst part—like he hates himself for it. Like he wants to stay and doesn’t trust himself if he does.
His eyes flick to mine—hot and torn and guarded all at once.
For a second I think he’s going to say it. Whatever he almost said before I kissed him, but instead he looks away.
“I’ll see you at practice,” he says, voice tight.
He heads for the door and I follow him, pulse still racing, mouth still tingling.
“Connor,” I say again, softer this time, because I don’t know what else to do.
He pauses with his hand on the knob.
Doesn’t turn around.
“Goodnight, Whitney,” he says, and it sounds like restraint.
Then he’s gone and the living room is suddenly too quiet.
I touch my mouth, my lips still buzzing from our kiss.
My watch buzzes with a text coming through.
Rory
Checking in to see how your week is going.
My brother has impeccable timing.
And maybe all it takes is one kiss from Connor and one text from Rory to start clearing the fog in my head. I may be a chaotic twenty-two-year-old, but I know this feeling isn’t going away just because Connor walked out the door.