Chapter 27
twenty-seven
. . .
WHITNEY
The Sweet Bay House looks like Pinterest and Southern Living had a very enthusiastic baby. A wraparound porch with white railings, a collection of hanging ferns, and a porch swing that probably creaks in a charming, not haunted, way.
We slosh up the steps, leaving a trail of water behind us, dripping like we just crawled out of the ocean. An older woman with silver hair and bright, assessing eyes takes one look at us and clucks like she’s been expecting this exact situation all day.
“Oh, you poor babies,” she says. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”
I choke on air while Connor coughs like he swallowed something wrong, and she doesn’t even blink, already ushering us inside like this is normal and not the kind of sentence that should come with a warning label. Connor manages to ask about rooms, and she tells us there’s one left, and it’s “cozy.”
My brain doesn’t even compute what that could mean until Connor and I are standing in the doorway to said “cozy” room, viewing the single bed dressed in a floral quilt with matching shams.
“Absolutely not.” I’m cramping, I’m exhausted, and I need at least one moment tonight where I don’t have to be hyper-aware of Connor existing in my personal space.
“I can sleep on the couch downstairs,” Connor offers immediately.
“Oh no, honey,” Marjorie says from somewhere behind us. “We don’t have guests sleeping in the common areas.”
Connor turns. “It’s just for one night—”
“And I lock up the downstairs at ten,” she adds, smiling sweetly. “For insurance purposes.”
Of course.
Connor glances back at me, then around the room like maybe there’s a hidden second bed we both missed.
There isn’t.
There’s only one bed. And not even a chair that looks large enough to pretend it could be a sleeping surface.
“I could take the floor,” he offers.
I look down at it.
Old, creaky floorboards. Questionable rug. Zero chance that doesn’t somehow make everything worse.
“You’re not sleeping on that,” I say automatically.
He lifts a brow. “You just said—”
“I said absolutely not to the situation,” I cut in. “Not to you being able to function tomorrow.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
Marjorie claps her hands once, delighted. “Oh, you two will be just fine.”
She clearly doesn’t understand how that feels like a threat.
“Dinner’s in twenty minutes,” Marjorie chirps before disappearing down the creaky hallway.
“I’m going to shower,” I say, hoping that when I emerge from the steaming hot water, Connor will have come up with a way to make this less awkward.
I strip off my wet clothes and hop in, letting the hot water melt the tension in my body.
Fifteen minutes later, I convince myself to save Connor some hot water and get out.
Wrapping a threadbare towel around my body, I step out, my gaze locking on the heap of wet clothes on the floor.
I shudder at the thought of putting them back on, but I have nothing to wear.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Hey, I’ve got some clothes for you to wear,” Connor calls through the door.
I yank it open to find him standing there with a t-shirt, hoodie, and shorts folded neatly. Upon closer inspection, it’s the same cozy hoodie from the car that I refused to wear because it smelled like him.
Perfect. Everything is perfect. I’m trapped in a small-town bed and breakfast, in a room with one bed, with the guy I absolutely shouldn’t want, and my entire suitcase—clothes, makeup, tampons—is currently miles away without me.
I grab the pile of clothes, then slam the door shut.
“Whit—” Connor starts again, like he’s hesitating. Which is new.
I freeze for half a second, fingers digging into the clothing in my hands.
“What?” I call back.
“Do you…have what you need? Or do you want me to ask Marjorie if she has—”
I press my lips together.
Oh my god. Is he asking if I have tampons?
He doesn’t get to be considerate right now.
“Jesus, Connor. You don’t need to manage my menstruation.”
“I wasn’t managing it,” he says, a little defensive. “I was offering logistical support.”
“Hard pass,” I shoot back, even though something warm and inconvenient flutters in my ribcage. “I got it covered.”
“Okay,” he says easily. “Just checking.”
Yeah, that’s the problem.
I tie my wet hair up in a bun and start to get dressed.
Just like before, the hoodie is dry, unreasonably cozy, and smells like emotional devastation. I’m probably going to keep it forever.
When I reach for the shorts, another item falls onto the floor. Boxer briefs.
Of course, I need underwear, and Connor would think of that. I hesitate for a moment, then yank them on.
So. Freaking. Comfortable.
I exit the bathroom, and Connor enters, taking what is the quickest shower known to man before pulling on a t-shirt and joggers.
Downstairs, Marjorie feeds us before I can spiral any further.
A full meal that feels like it was designed to fix problems I haven’t even admitted out loud yet, and at some point, I mutter something about cramps.
She disappears, then comes back with a bottle of pills, tells me to take a couple, and I do it without question because I’m not about to lose a fight to my own body in front of Connor.
By the time we make it back upstairs, the storm has settled into something steady and persistent, rain tapping against the windows, thunder rolling softer now but still there, like a reminder that we’re not going anywhere tonight.
“Did you check on Pussy?” I ask, because talking about his cat is safer than acknowledging anything else in this room.
Connor glances up from his bag. “Yeah. Vivi sent me a picture.”
“Is she being dramatic?”
“She knocked her food off the counter and stared Vivi down while she did it.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “That’s my girl.”
“She’s thriving.”
“Good,” I murmur, shifting slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like my body is actively working against me.
For a second it almost feels normal again, like the peach cobbler festival, like the easy, comfortable laughter we had before I remembered why I shouldn’t let myself have it, and then the cramps hit again—sharp, immediate, pulling a quiet sound out of me before I can stop it.
Connor’s attention snaps back like a switch flipped. “Still bad?”
“Yeah, the medication Marjorie gave me is taking a long time to kick in.”
He studies me for a second, then reaches for the bottle on the nightstand. “These expired four years ago.”
“Okay, that explains a lot.”
“I can go find a pharmacy,” he says, already shifting like he’s about to stand.
“In a monsoon?” I glance toward the window where the rain is still coming down in sheets. “You’ll drown before you get to the car.”
“I’ve swum in worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” I say, curling slightly. “But I can’t be responsible for your heroic ibuprofen mission.”
He hesitates, then settles back instead of arguing, and something about that—about him not pushing—makes my chest feel tight again in a different way.
“All right,” he says. “Temporary solution.”
He reaches into his bag again, digging around before pulling something out and holding it up.
“You travel with a heating pad?”
“Of course,” he says, “I’m a high maintenance athlete.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, well aware that Connor’s preparedness is starting to chip away at my frustration with him.
“You’re not,” he says just as easily, already plugging it in. “You’re trying to tough it out, which is not the same thing.”
His assessment is accurate and annoying.
But I don’t stop him when he hands it to me.
The heat seeps through almost immediately when I press it to my stomach.
Okay. That’s…nice.
I exhale slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
Connor notices.
“Feel good?” he asks.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I mutter.
His mouth curves slightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leans in to adjust the heating pad, his hand pressing over it to reposition, and the second his palm settles, my eyes close before I can stop them. That—right there—feels even better. Not just the heat, but the pressure, solid and steady in a way that makes everything slowly unclench.
“Wait,” I say quickly, my hand catching his wrist before he can pull away. “Don’t—”
He stills immediately. “Like that?”
His voice is quieter now, focused, and I shift slightly under his hand, guiding it without thinking. “Yeah. Just…there.”
He adjusts, careful, like I’m something breakable, and I hate how much I like that. “More pressure?” he asks, and my breath catches just enough to make it noticeable.
“Just a little,” I say.
His palm presses more firmly through the heat, and somewhere in that small shift he ends up closer, leaning over me without either of us acknowledging it, one hand braced on the mattress, the other steady against my stomach.
He’s too close, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, close enough that if I turn my head even slightly I would be inches away from his mouth.
“Tell me what feels good.”
The words are soft, rough around the edges in a way that makes my entire body react like that sentence means something very different than what it actually is.
It’s normal. It’s helpful. It’s completely reasonable, and still heat blooms low and sharp, immediate and disorienting, separate from the cramps and not very helpful.
I become aware of everything all at once—his hand, his weight, the way my body is responding like it forgot every reason I have to stay mad at him—and that’s the problem.
Because in this moment, I could easily let myself soften, let him in, and forget that he didn’t tell me the truth, that I felt like an idiot.
I shift under his hand again, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to make my breath hitch, and that’s it. That’s the line.
I pull my hand back first, breaking the contact, then shift away just enough to put space between us like it might help me think clearly again.
“Okay,” I say quickly, forcing it steady. “That’s good. That helped.”
He pauses for a second before pulling his hand back completely, and the absence of it feels immediate, noticeable in a way I don’t like. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, staring up at the ceiling like it’s safer than looking at him. “Much better.”
There’s a beat of silence, stretched thin between us, and I add, quieter this time, “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he says, and that’s the problem. That word. That tone. Like this is easy for him, like he can just be this version of himself—the one who pays attention, who knows what to do, who doesn’t push—and expect me not to react to it.
I turn onto my side, curling slightly into the bed, gripping the edge of his hoodie like that’s going to anchor me somewhere stable. It still smells like him. Of course it does. Of course everything about this situation is designed to make it harder, not easier.
“I still need to hate you a little,” I mumble, the words softer now, slipping out before I can stop them. “Just for my own sanity.”
There’s a pause, and for a second I wonder if I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
“I know,” he says.
And that might be worse than anything else, because when he’s this sweet and considerate and caring, it makes it harder to hold onto the version of him I’m supposed to be mad at.
My chest tightens, and I close my eyes before I can look at him again, before I can let myself get pulled back into that space where things feel easy and warm and dangerously real.
The storm hums softly against the windows, steady and constant, and somewhere between the fading edge of the cramps, the warmth of the heating pad, and the exhaustion of everything that led to this moment, I let myself drift.
Still mad, still wanting him, and not nearly as safe from either as I should be.