Chapter 19 #2
My mind is racing. Going over everything in the past few weeks.
No, the past few months. My time gaming with DreamBoat.
Then the nights playing with Connor and the flicker of recognition in his banter and playing style that I’d dismissed because what are the fucking chances Connor would be DreamBoat?
It’s me, SailorGirl.
It hits me. If he never made it to the coffee shop, then he would have found out I was SailorGirl the night I invited him over, and he didn’t say anything when I signed in. That would have been impossible for me to do if the roles had been reversed. Why didn’t he say anything?
“So that first time we hung out and you saw my gamertag? That’s when you found out who I was?”
He sets the clothing on the table by the door, then takes a step toward me.
“Connor, answer the question.”
“Please, Whit. I can explain.”
He looks defeated, but I refuse to back down.
“When did you know, Connor?” I ask, razor sharp.
“I was going to tell you. Tonight. I just—”
“When. Did. You. Know?” I repeat slowly.
He opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. It’s that moment of hesitation that has my stomach plummeting. The taco digesting there is threatening revulsion. If I lose my stomach contents and it ruins Diego’s tacos for me, I’ll never forgive him.
He inhales shakily, like he’s taking his last big breath before revealing the truth. A truth that feels like it’s going to crush me.
“I was at the coffee shop.”
I didn’t think I could be more shocked tonight. He was at the coffee shop?
“Why didn’t you—”
“I saw you waiting for me, then I left.”
“What?” My voice cracks.
Hot tears sting my eyes. Every emotion I felt when DreamBoat didn’t show up to the coffee shop comes rushing back. Sadness. Anger. Worry. Humiliation.
Sitting in the coffee shop with an empty chair across from me. The waitress checking on me as I waited, glancing at my phone to see if he’d messaged me. With every second that passed, the thoughts that he decided I was too much, not worth the effort, and changed his mind growing louder.
That had been mortifying.
But hearing that Connor was there…he watched me wait. He saw me. And then left. That makes it worse.
I can’t stay in this room. I need air. I need—
I shoulder past him, and rush down the hallway toward the living room.
I need my purse. Did I bring a purse?
“Whitney, I’m sorry. Please. I can explain.”
I whirl around and nearly run into him.
“Explain? That you watched me wait for you and then left?” I choke out. I’m beyond hurt. I’m embarrassed and angry. The betrayal of someone I trusted, someone I thought I had connected with has elaborate scenarios forming in my head.
Was this manipulation?
Revenge against Rory?
A bet?
He takes a step forward and his thumb brushes my face, swiping away a tear I didn’t even know had fallen.
Part of me wants to bolt. Not let him see me hurt like this. But I also want answers.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I told myself to stay away from you. To not make this a thing when I’m trying to fix things with Rory.”
“Not make me a thing. I see.”
“That’s not—” He takes another step forward. “I left you in that coffee shop because I was afraid the moment you found out who I was you’d walk away, so I didn’t give you that chance.”
“Then you came to Coral Cove and pretended you didn’t know it was me.”
“I know I fucked everything up.”
“Yeah, you did.” My voice takes on an edge. I don’t get angry with people easily and I don’t hold a grudge, but after what feels like months of not knowing the truth, I’m furious.
He closes the distance between us again—slow, careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal, or maybe a bomb he’s already lit and is trying to defuse.
His gaze searches mine.
“I’m sorry. I want to fix this. What can I do to make it up to you?” he asks, voice low and raw.
The remorse in his eyes is real. And that’s the worst part—because I like him.
DreamBoat.
Connor.
Both versions.
He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through my dress. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedarwood and spice, and the faint salt of dried ocean air clinging to his skin. My pulse, that humiliating traitor, stutters at the proximity.
God, why does he have to smell so good?
And why does he look devastating in his tux shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms?
Everything about the way he’s staring at me right now should be illegal.
My brain is livid, but my body is interested. It’s an extremely inconvenient position to be in.
But, if I walk out right now, he doesn’t learn anything. If he wants forgiveness, he’s going to have to earn it this time. On my terms. And I can’t say I’m going to be particularly nice about it.
“You can start by apologizing.”
His jaw flexes—sharp, beautiful, infuriating—and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
His hand, the same one that oh so helpfully stretched my hip like he knew exactly what he was doing to me, lifts to my shoulder.
His thumb presses just below my collarbone, steady, grounding… or staking a claim, I can’t decide.
He nods once, but he doesn’t speak yet. Instead, he steps in even closer, until my back hits the wall and he’s right there, in front of me. Towering, repentant, and frustratingly attractive.
My breath hitches. So does his.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, barely a beat, but I feel it everywhere. He drags his gaze back up like it took actual effort.
“Whitney,” he murmurs, voice rough, “I—”
And here is the worst part: I want him. Even angry. Even betrayed. My thighs tighten and my skin feels too warm, and I hate that he gets to do this to me without even trying. I hate that part of me wants to close the last inch between us and let him kiss me until my brain shuts up.
But he doesn’t get easy forgiveness. Not after this.
If I walk out now, he gets distance, and he gets to disappear again. And if he wants me—really wants me—then he’s going to have to show me. With effort and humility. And by doing the exact opposite of ghosting.
His thumb strokes my shoulder once, tentative.
I catch his wrist to stop the motion and hold it for just a beat—just long enough for him to understand this part is mine. I’m the one in control right now.
Then I drop his wrist and lift my chin.
“Do it on your knees, DreamBoat.”