Chapter 19
nineteen
. . .
WHITNEY
Connor’s rental looks like a beach house that got decorated by committee from a local retirement home.
Pastel blue exterior. White shutters. A porch swing that might collapse in a light ocean breeze. Inside, every surface is doing the most: seashell lamps, fern-print pillows, wicker furniture, and framed beach quotes in loopy script.
I pause in the entryway with the taco bag and grin.
Connor steps in behind me, suit jacket off, tie loosened, like he’s trying to convince both of us this is casual.
“This place is…” I search for the kindest word. “Eclectic.”
Connor exhales. “It came furnished.”
“That’s not an excuse. I’ve heard the figures for your brand deals.”
His mouth twitches, but the humor doesn’t fully land. There’s a tightness to him tonight—like he’s been holding his breath since the gala.
He takes the taco bag from my hands and sets it on the counter like he needs something solid to focus on. Then he turns to me, and I see it. He’s bracing for a conversation.
He takes the taco bag from my hands and sets them on the counter like he needs something solid to focus on.
“I need to tell you—”
A sharp meow slices through the moment.
My face lights up. “Oh my god. There she is.”
Pussy appears in the doorway with her tail high and her eyes narrowed. She looks between Connor and me like she’s doing a threat assessment. She must decide I’m acceptable enough because she decides to creep closer.
I hold out my hand to her. “Hi, sweet girl.”
She sniffs my fingers, then headbutts them like she’s granting permission.
Connor makes a sound under his breath and turns toward the tacos like they’re suddenly of interest. “Great. Now she’ll never leave.”
“She already lives here,” I say, scooping her up.
Pussy purrs immediately and tucks her face against my collarbone like we’ve been friends for years. My whole body melts at the feel of her soft snuggles.
Connor unwraps a taco. The foil crinkles, the tortilla steams, and then the smell hits. Warm, spicy, perfect.
He holds it for a second, staring at it like he forgot what to do next, then he glances at me again, and there’s that same braced look.
“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.
“Sure,” I say easily, because I mean it. I also mean later, when I’m done snuggling a purring cat and the fact that Connor Fisk is standing in a kitchen looking like he wants to say something important and hates that he has to.
His gaze flicks to Pussy. “Maybe you should set her down.”
I tighten my hold on her instinctively. “Why? Pussy isn’t a distraction.”
Connor’s eyes narrow. “Whitney.”
I grin. “Connor.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying for patience. The taco is still in his hand, half unwrapped. It’s too inviting. Holding Pussy against my chest, I lean in and take a bite out of it.
Not a dainty one either. A real bite.
I chew, all smug with my eyes on him. “See? I’m completely focused on what you’re doing.”
His gaze drops to the missing bite, then flicks back to my face like his brain is trying to reboot.
“You just—” he starts.
“I did,” I confirm.
It’s messy and perfect and so stupidly intimate it makes my chest warm. Like a tiny, harmless moment that says we’re okay. Like last night didn’t end with him bolting.
Pussy leans toward the taco like she wants to participate.
“No,” Connor says immediately, voice sharp. “Absolutely not. I pay top dollar for your food,” he tells the cat, dead serious. “You are not eating two-for-one tacos.”
Pussy purrs like she’s unimpressed by his authority.
Then, Connor catches me watching him and finally takes a bite of his taco—like he’s reclaiming it. His eyes don’t leave mine when he does, and my stomach flips for no reason I’m willing to unpack.
We stand there in the kitchen, me holding a cat, him holding a taco, both of us pretending the air isn’t charged.
Then Pussy shifts in my arms, and her paws find the material of my dress.
The snag catches on the fabric, and I freeze.
Connor’s head snaps up. “No.”
“She’s doing that kneading thing cats do,” I whisper, horrified.
Another claw snag against fabric fills the air.
“She’s shredding,” he corrects, already stepping closer. His gaze drops to my dress, then back to my face. “You need to change.”
My brows lift. “Excuse me?”
He points at the cat, then my dress. “Before she ruins that.”
“I can’t just change,” I argue automatically, even though I totally can. But part of me wants to keep the dress on, because I like the way Connor’s been looking at me in it. Like he’s captivated but also a little nervous.
“If you want to snuggle the cat, you’ll have to change.
I have clothes. T-shirts. Sweatpants. You can put them on so she stops using your dress as a scratching post.” His tone is all practicality, but thinking about wearing Connor’s clothes, feeling them against my skin, his scent enveloping me, has my pulse skittering.
I clear my throat. “Fine. But if I look ridiculous, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” he says, already turning toward the hallway. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
“By ‘stay here’ do you mean ‘survive Pussy’s thrashing?’ Because your cat is fully committed to ruining my dress.”
Connor doesn’t answer as he disappears down the hall.
The second he’s gone; the house feels quieter.
So, I decide to do something useful.
Like pee. Because I realize I haven’t gone since the gala.
“Okay, Pussy,” I whisper. “I’m going to the bathroom and you’re going to behave.”
Pussy blinks slowly, unimpressed.
I carry her down the hallway toward the first door. It’s partially open, so I push through it and find what appears to be a guest room.
It’s not a guest room meant for sleeping, but more like a room Connor is using as a holding zone for his life.
A few unpacked boxes are stacked against the wall, labels scrawled in Sharpie—GEAR, RECOVERY, RANDOM. A duffel bag slumps beside them like it got dropped and forgotten.
Leaning against the dresser is a framed collage of medals—Olympic rings on the matting, little engraved nameplates that catch the light. It isn’t hung up. It’s propped there, angled like he hasn’t decided whether he wants to look at it or hide it.
Next to that is another frame—smaller, simpler—just a photo of him on a podium, wet hair slicked back, face blank like he didn’t quite believe what was happening.
On the dresser are a few practical things: charging cable, a folded training schedule, and a bottle of ibuprofen.
And then, a photo of Connor with his mom. I can tell because they have the same warm eyes and dimple in their cheeks.
He’s younger, maybe college age, with shorter hair, and his arm slung around her shoulders. She’s laughing with her head tipped back, like she’s mid-joke and he’s trying not to smile too hard because he knows she’ll tease him for it.
I’ve seen Connor’s face on posters and ads and headlines.
But this version? This one looks easy. Like he’s not yet carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Pussy squirms like she wants down, so I adjust my grip and step farther into the room, eyes still snagging on the boxes—on the half-unpacked life.
And then my gaze shifts to the corner where there’s a desk with a gaming setup. I do a double take, because it’s not a casual “I play sometimes” setup, but an advanced one.
Monitor and headset. Expensive controller. Ergonomic chair. The whole thing—intentional and arranged in a way you only do if something matters.
I stare, then laugh under my breath.
“Oh,” I whisper, moving closer. “So, you’re a little liar.”
Pussy wiggles again, impatient. I shift my weight to adjust my hold on her and bump the desk with my hip.
The screen flickers, and a second later, the monitor wakes. A cheerful little chime sounds, then the screen loads.
It’s the home screen for Sea of Thieves.
The play tab offers the standard selections. Adventure. Pirate’s Life. Maiden Voyage.
I guess Connor’s been brushing up on his skills.
My eyes snag on the upper right corner. To the place where the gamertag is listed. I’m expecting to see LittleDinghy but that’s not what I find.
There, in the game’s weathered, gothic-type font is the word DreamBoat.
My body stills, and the room suddenly feels too small.
Pussy purrs on, warm against my chest, completely unconcerned that my heart is banging loudly against my ribs.
It must be a glitch. A trick being played by my exhausted eyes. The universe fucking with me.
Any of those would make more sense than Connor having the same gamertag as the guy I gamed with online months ago, and who ghosted me when we were supposed to meet up in real life.
The footsteps echoing on the wood floor in the hallway only add to the chaos that is my brain trying to interpret what I just saw.
“Whitney?” Connor calls, like he isn’t sure where I am, but I can’t answer. I’m still processing. Still staring at the screen like that name is going to morph into something else.
Because what are the odds that Connor has the same gamertag as the guy I played with online?
Then, he’s there in the doorway with an armful of clothes. “What—” He stops when he sees my face.
When his eyes catch on the screen behind me, something flickers there.
Then I hear my own voice, quiet and wobbly with shock.
“Who’s DreamBoat?”
Pussy squirms out of my arms and hops down to the floor. She skitters past Connor and out the door like she’s got better things to do than witness human drama.
Still gripping the clothes, his arms drop to his side, like the weight of what he was carrying just became too much.
His throat works against a swallow. “It’s me, SailorGirl.”
The familiarity of his voice triggers a flashback of hearing him in my ears months ago.
But how is it possible I hadn’t put it together before this?