Chapter 23 #2
“Turn around.”
Oh.
That tone.
I hesitate—briefly.
Then I turn.
Because of course I do.
His hand lands on my shoulder—warm, steady, entirely different from the chaos that came before—and he drags his palm down my arm, spreading the oil in slow, controlled strokes.
Fixing it.
Of course he’s fixing it.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not mad,” he murmurs. “I know you are.”
My breath catches, just slightly.
His thumb follows the inside of my wrist, catching the oil before it drips again, deliberate, unhurried.
“I’m not going anywhere until I fix it.”
I hate how low and annoyingly effective that lands. It’s exactly the kind of thing my brain should reject on principle, yet absolutely does not.
I swallow. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You didn’t.”
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Whitney, Connor—ready!” the photographer calls.
Connor’s hand slides once more over my shoulder, smoothing everything into place like he’s finishing something he started.
Then he steps in behind me, closer than necessary, his voice brushing my ear.
“Try not to recruit catering next time.”
I inhale sharply.
Okay, maybe petty jealousy wasn’t the right move.
As Connor walks onto the set, the production assistant offers him a towel for his hands.
Once she’s done, she walks over to me, glancing at my skin with a laser-focused professional eye. “Looks like he’s got you handled.”
Yeah. Unfortunately.
But I just smile and make my way on set.
“All right,” the photographer says as we step onto the mark. “Let’s start simple. Connor, hands on her waist. Whitney, angle in. Relax.”
Relax. Sure. I’m cool as a cucumber.
Connor doesn’t hesitate taking direction.
His hands find my waist again—firmer this time, more certain—and he adjusts my position like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Here,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Turn your shoulder.”
I do and it has our bodies brushing against each other.
Oh.
Oh, I hate that.
“Good,” the photographer says. “Yes—stay there.”
Connor’s grip shifts, subtle but intentional, guiding me a fraction closer.
It’s not enough to be obvious, but it’s enough that I feel it everywhere.
His thumb presses lightly at my side, anchoring me in place, and without hesitation my body just follows.
Cool. Love that loss of control for me.
“Chin up,” the photographer calls.
Before I can even react, Connor’s fingers brush just under my jaw as he adjusts me.
“Like this,” he says.
My pulse stutters. And when I glance up at him, I immediately regret it. Because now he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
And worse, that I’m letting him.
But that’s not how this is going to work, so I tell my brain to stop reacting and go on the offensive.
“Good,” the photographer murmurs. “Now—tell me a story. With your bodies.”
Oh, that’s a mistake.
Because right now my body is very much telling a story, and it’s not one I’m interested in sharing.
Connor’s hands are still at my waist. His thumb presses into my hip just enough to remind me he’s there—steady, certain, entirely too comfortable.
And I’m reacting. Which I hate.
I hate that he gets to stand there like he didn’t wreck me two days ago and still pull this out of me like nothing changed.
No. Absolutely not.
If we’re telling a story, I’m not letting him be the one in control of it.
“We have stories, don’t we, Connor?”
I tilt my head toward him, hair sliding over one shoulder, exposing warm skin. He inhales like someone punched the air from his lungs.
“You know,” I murmur for only him, “we could tell them the one about how you ghosted me. Or the one where you lied to me about who you were.”
His jaw ticks. “Whitney…”
“Or the part where you finally apologized on your knees.” I drag my fingertip slowly across his collarbone, not out of kindness—out of retaliation. A weapon disguised as touch.
Connor doesn’t move away. He moves closer. Barely a breath. Barely a tremor. But close enough that I can feel the heat of him lick up the front of my body.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he whispers, voice low enough to vibrate, rough enough to make me clench around nothing.
I hear the want in his voice and it gives me confidence.
“I didn’t say I wanted to finish,” I whisper back. “I said I wanted to tell the story.”
He swallows, eyes dropping to my mouth like he’s cataloguing it for later. “Dangerous,” he says.
I smile wickedly. “You like dangerous.”
His pupils are blown and I have half a second to savor that before the photographer shouts, “Perfect! Whitney, lift your chin—Connor, engage with her energy, don’t fight it!”
He doesn’t fight. Not at all.
His hand skims my waist—open-palmed, steady, proprietary in a way that shouldn’t be allowed—and my body goes molten from the contact. It’s nothing. Just a touch. But my nipples tighten against the sports bra top and I have to shift my stance to keep my knees from quitting on me.
Ridiculous. Infuriating.
“Since we’re telling stories,” I say lightly, “maybe include the part where I still haven’t forgiven you.”
Connor’s voice shreds. “Since we’re telling stories, maybe include the part where I’m not done earning it.”
His words land, softening my edges for just a moment before I reengage my shields.
The photographer circles us, camera clicking like a heartbeat. “Yes, yes, yes—that electricity between you two is unreal.”
Connor’s mouth hovers near mine.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and you’re going to get everything you’re asking for.”
My pulse jumps. “Bold of you to assume I’m asking.”
He smirks—slow, knowing, devastating. “You don’t have to ask. I can feel it.”
The worst part?
He’s right.
The heat. The irritation. The hunger. The wanting.
It’s vibrating off both of us like bad decisions waiting to happen.
And that’s when the photographer gasps, “God, the way you two look at each other—this isn’t marketing, this is—yes, hold that—don’t move—”
Connor’s mouth hovers near mine—not touching, not claiming, just there.
Close enough that I can feel his breath.
“You keep pushing me,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else hears.
My pulse spikes. “You keep reacting.”
His grip tightens at my waist—subtle, controlled, not something the camera would clock unless it knew what it was looking for.
“I’m trying not to,” he says.
I tilt my chin up just slightly, closing the distance another fraction. “You’re not trying that hard.”
His breath catches.
There it is. That crack. That loss of control.
“Whitney,” he says, warning threaded through it now.
I smile like I don’t hear it. Like I don’t care, and I’m not just as close to snapping as he is.
“Perfect,” the photographer calls. “That’s it—stay right there—”
Connor’s gaze drops to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
And for a second it feels like he’s going to do something about it.
My stomach flips, and my body leans in.
“Cut.”
That one word slices right through the moment, and Connor steps back immediately.
Which is probably for the best, but I hate it anyway.
“Whitney,” Blair calls from the side of the set.
I drag my attention away from Connor and head over, still trying to act like I didn’t just almost make a very questionable decision in front of a full production team.
“What’s up?”
Blair holds out a bottle.
“Hey,” she says, casual but not really, “is this what you used on your skin?”
I take the bottle from her to examine it.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“It wasn’t oil.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I’m already rotating the bottle in my hands to glance at the label on the front.
Blair doesn’t need to explain because the label tells me everything I need to know.
GloShine Self-Tanner – Deep Bronze.