Chapter 23
twenty-three
. . .
WHITNEY
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be headed to Savannah with Connor.
After morning dryland and weights, I packed my bags.
Then I unpacked and repacked at least five times.
Each time playing different scenarios in my head.
There was the I hate Connor, and I plan to ignore him the entire tour wardrobe which included oversized hoodies and sweatpants so I could be incognito.
Then, there was the Make Connor suffer the biggest case of blue balls wardrobe.
Everything short, tight, and revealing that I could find.
But ultimately, I settled on the Connor can eat his heart out and I’ll be comfortable and look good while he does.
Comfy athletic clothes, cut-off denim shorts, and a flowy mini sundress to show off my legs.
Rory called me last night to congratulate me on the Rising Tides ambassador spot. He also gently advised me not to let Connor steal my focus from the tour or my training. I would love to be that version of myself, but unfortunately I’m not.
When I arrive, the photo shoot space is already buzzing with action. Lighting rigs, garment racks, and people with thumbs flying over their phone screens like they’ve had too much coffee and not enough time.
As I wander inside looking for my place, a petite, yet curvy blonde woman in a trendy suit and heels approaches and I recognize her immediately.
Blair Young.
Eli’s ex.
It’s been years since they broke up, but Eli is kind of a grump about it. Like he turns into a human thundercloud if anyone mentions her name. It feels a bit dramatic, but what do I know about love and relationships?
My brain unhelpfully flashes to Connor on his knees.
Yeah, absolutely nothing.
“Whitney!” Blair beams at me like no time has passed. “Oh my gosh, look at you.”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, because she is annoyingly very easy to like.
She pulls me in for a quick hug, then leans back and does a full once-over. Her eyes sweeping me top to bottom with that big-sister efficiency—checking for injuries, chaos, and whether I’ve drank enough water today.
“Okay,” she declares. “You’re taller, your shoulders are illegal, and you look like you didn’t just roll out of a duffel bag.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I did get dressed without adult supervision.”
Blair laughs, but it’s softer than I remember.
And now that I’m looking closer, she looks tired.
She’s still put together perfectly, but there’s a tightness around her eyes, and she flinches every time the phone in her hand buzzes.
“Busy?” I ask.
Her smile stays bright, but it has a faint, strained edge. “Oh, you know. Just doing a light eighteen jobs at once.”
“I hate that for you.”
Her eyes flick to mine like she appreciates that more than she wants to admit. “Same.”
Then, her phone rings. When she glances at it, something shifts. Her posture straightens, and her expression smooths into something more controlled.
“Hi, Mark,” she says.
I don’t hear the other side, but I don’t need to.
Her smile stays bright. Her eyes tell a different story.
“Yep. We’re on schedule. I’ve got talent here now.” A pause. “I’ll make it work.”
She ends the call and exhales quietly, like she doesn’t have time for a full reaction.
I tilt my head. “Do I need to fight him or—”
Blair huffs out a laugh. “Please don’t commit a felony on my behalf.”
“No promises.”
Her eyes soften for a second before she resets, all business again.
“Come on,” she says, already moving. “Let’s get you into wardrobe before everything catches on fire.”
On the way, I nod at the All Sports logo on her badge. “So, you’re here with All Sports?”
“Mm-hm,” she says. “All Sports is doing a feature on Rising Tides ambassadors and sponsor partnerships.”
I gesture vaguely at the chaos. “So this entire circus is yours.”
Blair lifts one shoulder. “Technically it’s Mark’s.” She says his name like it tastes bad. “But yes. It’s mine.”
I squint. “That seems like theft.”
Blair flashes me a look. “Whitney.”
“What? I’m just saying. I could dunk him in the deep end or—”
She exhales on a laugh. “Let’s not escalate to that.” Then her eyes soften. “I forgot how feral you are.”
“It’s a gift.”
Blair slows near a rolling rack of garment bags and lowers her voice.
“So,” she says, slipping into that strategic tone, “Solway is one of the primary sponsors for the Rising Tides tour this year. They’re making a big push into swim—more lifestyle, more brand storytelling.”
I nod. “That’s cool.”
“It is,” she says. “They’re building a full campaign around the ambassadors. Digital, print, social—the whole rollout tied to the tour.”
My interest spikes. “Wait, like a real campaign?”
Blair grins. “A real campaign.”
Okay. That’s actually huge.
For a second, I’m already thinking about what that could turn into, and then my brain catches up.
Ambassadors. Plural.
Me and Connor.
Blair’s watching me, her smile shifting just slightly as she clocks it.
She tilts her head, eyes bright. “So what’s the vibe? Hate him or climb him?”
I choke.
Blair laughs, quick and warm, and bumps my shoulder like she’s teasing me on purpose—like she wants me to laugh, too.
“Oh my god,” I hiss. “Blair.”
“What?” she says, fully delighted. “I’m asking for safety reasons. We want to maintain a murder-free shoot.”
I press my lips together. “Right now? Both.”
“We all have one of those,” she says.
I blink. “One of what?”
Her mouth twitches. “A person you’d rather not be professionally photographed with half-naked.”
“Half-naked?”
“He’ll be shirtless and you’ll be in bra top.”
“Jesus, I can’t catch a break.”
Blair huffs a quiet laugh, already moving again. “You’ll survive. And if not, at least the lighting will be good.”
I exhale, bracing myself as I glance toward the entrance. To where Connor just walked in.
Of course.
Blair claps once, all business again—except now it feels like she’s inviting me into her orbit, not ordering me around.
“Okay,” she says. “Wardrobe first. Then we’ll let you terrorize Connor Fisk with your face.”
“My face doesn’t terrorize anyone.”
Blair’s smile turns wicked as she hands me a garment bag. “Whitney, your face could destabilize governments.”
We get through the Rising Tides headshots with minimal interaction. Which is impressive, considering we’re in the same room, breathing the same air, and very much aware of it.
“Okay, amazing,” the photographer calls. “That’s a wrap on individual shots. Let’s get some campaign content. Whitney and Connor together.”
Of course.
After changing into my first outfit for the Solway shoot, I walk out to find Connor already under the lights, shirtless and in joggers. When I glance over again, I immediately regret it.
A production assistant is standing way too close to him, hands slick with oil as she smooths it over his shoulders, his chest, down the cut of his abs like she’s being paid by the inch.
Cool.
Love that.
Totally fine.
I look away. Then immediately look back, because apparently, I enjoy suffering.
Her hands drag lower, and Connor tips his head back slightly, saying something that makes her laugh.
I snap my gaze away and try to keep my heart from exploding in my chest.
This is ridiculous. I absolutely do not care that some girl is touching him.
I definitely don’t care that two nights ago he was on his knees for me.
A guy in all black with a headset walks past me carrying a tray of bottled drinks.
“Hey,” I say, already stepping into his space. “Quick question.”
He blinks at me. “Uh, yeah?”
“Do you know where the body oil is?”
“Body oil?”
“Yeah. For the shoot.”
He glances around like he’s looking for help. “I think wardrobe—”
But I don’t wait for wardrobe because I spot a bottle on the table next to the makeup station.
“Perfect,” I cut in. Then, because I’ve clearly lost my mind, I add, “Can you help me?”
His eyes widen. “Help you?”
“With the oil,” I say, already turning around and lifting my hair while holding the bottle out with my other hand. “Just my shoulders since I can’t reach.”
The guy’s hesitation has me reconsidering this move.
What am I doing? This is ridiculous.
But I can’t stop myself because I feel Connor’s eyes on me. Or maybe I’m imagining that and he’s still chatting it up with the production assistant. Either way, I’m in it and pressing forward.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah. Okay,” he says cautiously.
A moment later cold liquid hits my skin, followed by movements that are hesitant and uneven.
This is already a terrible decision, but I can’t back out now.
“More,” I say, really committing.
He pours more and it’s too much. The liquid immediately starts sliding down my shoulder, then my arm.
Oh my god.
“Spread it out,” I add, because apparently, I’ve chosen this chaos.
His hands hover before awkwardly attempting to fix it like he’s icing a cake he didn’t sign up to decorate.
The oil is now actively dripping down my arm and it’s clear this man has no idea what he’s doing.
“Just rub it in,” I say, being as helpful as I can be with my hands full of my hair.
“Whitney.”
Connor’s voice comes low and flat, and right behind me.
I turn like I’m mildly surprised to find him there at all.
“Oh—hey,” I say, casual, like I didn’t just watch him get oiled down by the production assistant in high definition. “Didn’t even see you there.”
Connor looks at me, then his gaze drops—to the oil, to the guy, to the situation—and back up again, slower this time.
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t,” he says.
It’s not really a question, but I smile, sweet and completely unconvincing. “Nope.”
Connor shifts his attention to the guy oiling me up, then back to me. “You needed help with that?”
I shrug. “He was available.”
The catering guy freezes like he would very much like to become unavailable.
Connor steps in closer. “I got it from here,” he says, already taking the bottle from the guy’s hand.
The beverage guy grabs his tray and disappears.
Traitor.
Connor’s attention comes back to me.