Chapter 31
thirty-one
. . .
WHITNEY
I should be good at this.
Especially now that my self-tanner disaster has mostly stopped announcing itself from across the room.
My arms have faded from obvious user error to almost normal, and the streak on my shoulder has finally surrendered to my swimsuit strap lines.
Basically, I’m one exfoliating shower away from looking like myself again.
So really, I should be thriving.
Rooms like this are my thing—conversation flowing, donors engaged, the easy rhythm of knowing when to listen and when to steer. I don’t have to think about it. I just do it in my own way.
So the fact that I can’t quite find that rhythm today is noticeable.
And not exactly a mystery.
I catch sight of Connor a few feet away, mid-conversation, listening in a way that’s steady instead of performative.
He asks a follow-up question, something thoughtful and specific, then shifts slightly so someone else can jump in, like he’s tracking the whole exchange instead of just his part in it.
It’s different.
Yesterday he was good with the kids, easy and natural in a way that didn’t feel like he was trying. And then, there was last night.
The memory slides in before I can stop it.
The almost kiss.
The way my body had leaned in, desperate for contact. The warmth of his breath on my cheek as we held impossibly still and close, like we were playing a game of chicken. Who will make the first move?
And then his voice, low and steady: I don’t want you to regret this.
So careful and considerate.
My jaw tightens.
Because he’s also the guy who didn’t show up. Left me hanging online, then showed up in real life and didn’t tell me who he was.
And somehow, this version of him—the one who pays attention, who chooses his words, who actually seems to care—exists right alongside that.
It doesn’t make sense.
I shift toward another group, fully intending to reset, but Tate’s voice cuts in behind me.
“Stay together. It reads better if you’re a unit.”
Of course it does.
Connor glances at me, just long enough to confirm we’re both stuck with it, then falls into step beside me like it’s nothing.
Great.
We move through the room together, conversations blending easily. I take one side, he picks up the other, and it works—smooth, seamless, like we’ve done this before.
Like we make sense. Which is terribly unhelpful to my emotional state where he’s concerned.
At one point, someone asks about outreach in underserved communities, and Connor leans in slightly, his focus sharpening.
“Access changes everything,” he says. “If you don’t learn early, you’re already behind.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, and one of the donors nods. “Was that always your focus? Or did that come later, after you started competing?”
Connor huffs out a quiet breath, one hand sliding to the back of his neck like he didn’t expect the question.
His mouth tips slightly, not quite a smile. “There was this kid in my neighborhood. A teenager, a few years older than me. Everyone just assumed he could swim.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“He couldn’t,” Connor continues. “Jumped off a dock one summer. Thought he’d figure it out. But it doesn’t work like that.”
The group goes quiet.
“Someone got to him in time,” he adds, a little more quietly. “Barely.”
Barely.
The word makes my throat tighten.
“That was the first time it clicked for me,” he says. “That you don’t get a warning. You either know what you’re doing or you don’t.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like it didn’t stay with him.
“I didn’t want to be the kid who didn’t know. So I joined a team to learn how to swim.” He pauses for a second, his lips expanding into a smile. “Turns out I was fast.”
There’s a soft ripple of laughter, the tension easing just enough, but I don’t join in.
I’m too busy watching him.
Because he didn’t perform that.
He didn’t dress it up or drag it out like a bit. He just said it like it mattered, but not in a way he needed credit for.
And somehow that makes everything worse.
The conversation picks back up around us—questions, follow-ups, someone laughing a little too loudly—but I’m only half paying attention now, because I’m still stuck on him.
On the way he said it. On the fact that he didn’t make it a thing. On how easily that version of him exists next to the one that left me sitting there waiting like I didn’t matter.
It doesn’t add up.
And instead of making it easier to write him off, it just complicates everything.
I drag my gaze away, forcing myself to reengage, to nod in the right places, to say something that sounds like me. It works well enough, but there’s a thread of awareness I can’t seem to shake.
Connor, close enough to keep pulling at my attention, entirely too easy to notice.
I’m attracted to him. Annoyingly. Inconveniently. In a way that feels like it’s been building since the moment I ran into him with my Hummingbird cake and despite the ghosting and not telling me he’s DreamBoat, it refuses to level out no matter how many reasons I give myself to shut it down.
Which means I need to handle it. Soon.
And preferably before I do something stupid.
Eventually the group breaks apart, people drifting toward the next conversation, the next table, the next obligation. I take a step back, creating distance on purpose this time, already planning my exit from whatever this is before it gets any worse.
“Hey.” His voice cuts in just as I’m about to turn away.
I look up to find him closer than expected.
“I’m heading to the gym later,” he says, casual, like it’s just a logistical question. “You going?”
For a split second, I consider it—how easy it would be to say yes, and stay in whatever this is that’s been building all day, but I can’t, not with how I’m feeling.
I shake my head, already stepping back.
“No,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Something flickers in his expression—gone too quickly to read—before he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “See you at dinner.”
I don’t wait for anything else. I turn, slipping into the next conversation, the next distraction, the next thing that isn’t him.
It doesn’t help as much as I want it to.
But it’s a start.
I already worked out, which was supposed to help—burn it off, reset, remind my body that it belongs to me and not whatever is happening to it every time Connor walks into a room.
It didn’t help.
Now I’m showered, restless, and way too aware of myself, like every nerve ending got flipped on and left there, humming under my skin with nowhere to go.
This is manageable. It has to be.
All I need to do is handle it logically, like an adult who is fully capable of making good decisions and not spiraling over a man she doesn’t even trust.
That would be a solid plan if my body had any interest in cooperating.
This thing with Connor is particularly annoying because while he doesn’t seem to be anywhere close to snapping, I’m about to start humping a pillow and pretend it’s his face.
I exhale slowly, my gaze scanning the room against my better judgment.
There are a few decorative pillows on the sofa.
Then, there’s my open bag sitting beside the dresser, half-unpacked because apparently even in a tidy hotel room, I can create the illusion that a raccoon ransacked the place in less than twenty minutes.
Skipper’s little pink axolotl face peeks out from between a hoodie and a spare swimsuit, his big glass-bead blue eyes staring up at me with horrifying innocence.
He is weighted and supportive.
I stare at him. He stares back, soft and blameless and completely unprepared for the direction my evening has taken.
“No,” I whisper. “Absolutely not.”
My eyes shift until they land on the round bolster pillow in the center of the bed. I pace over to grab the end of the green velvety upholstered pillow and hold it up.
The shape is ideal.
I wonder if a previous guest has ever had the same idea. Or if this issue—me becoming increasingly horny in Connor’s presence—is a completely unique situation.
I flip it over to find there’s no zipper, so the cover isn’t washable. It’s spot clean only. Yikes.
Now I’m imagining an old lady or someone’s kid laying their head across the pillow and never knowing what has happened to it.
That image should stop me in my tracks, but biology is a powerful thing.
That, and the image of Connor’s sweat slick tattooed arms rippling as he lifts dumbbells over his head.
And a personal favorite, the flash of his piercing when he runs his tongue along his bottom lip in concentration.
My thighs clench. Yeah, there’s no way this isn’t happening.
So, I grab a towel from the bathroom. As protection. Because I’m not an animal.
I wrap the bolster in the towel. Then another. Then add a third one just for safety measures.
I shed my shorts and underwear, then take a moment to reconsider. Because once I do this, I’ll never be able to deny that I did.
Someday, someone may ask me if I’ve ever humped a bolster to get myself off in a time of desperation, and I won’t be able to look them in the eyes and say no.
I’ll have to say yes. Connor Fisk made me do it.
It was those dimples and that wickedly charming smile.
And the way he’s careful with me, but I think he could also test my limits.
Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Bolster humping?
Why didn’t I bring my vibrator on this trip?
I know why. It was an act of defiance. A strong-willed attempt at reassuring myself I’d never be turned on in Connor’s presence. Not after he ghosted me, then didn’t tell me who he was. Because that would be insane.