Chapter 33 #2
“Stay on your side,” he murmurs.
I grin. “Or what?”
His eyes meet mine again, dark and hungry and restrained.
“Or I’ll forget I’m supposed to be good,” he says.
My pulse stutters.
I open my mouth to say something unhinged but the crunch of wheels on concrete makes me freeze mid-breath.
His head snaps toward the gate.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
Our eyes track the sound to the pool entrance where a man pushes a cart through the gate, keys jingling at his hip.
He’s with maintenance or maybe a cleaner. Either way he’s someone we need to avoid.
Connor moves instantly.
He swims to me and grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the nearest corner where the pool lights don’t reach. Fast. Silent. Efficient, like he’s done this kind of sneaking around before.
“Excuse me—what the—” I start, but Connor clamps a hand over my mouth.
My eyes go wide.
I hate being shushed. I hate being silenced. I hate that my brain’s first reaction is oh crap and my body’s first reaction is hell yeah.
“Shh,” he breathes, his face only an inch from mine. His eyes are wide and urgent. “We can’t get caught,” he whispers.
I immediately know what he means.
We’re here representing the Rising Tides Foundation.
Connor is already trying to outrun his reputation. Something that being an ambassador for Rising Tides is supposed to help.
And I’m not about to be the girl who gets written up in a donor newsletter as Olympian caught breaking into closed pool to skinny dip.
I nod against his palm, like a good little criminal, and finally he lowers his hand from my mouth, but he doesn’t move away.
He’s close enough that I can feel heat coming off him even in the cool water.
We’re pressed along the edge, tucked in shadow, trying to be silent like we’re not two idiots hiding from a man with a mop.
It’s a Connor-and-pool-wall sandwich and I’m the meat.
Speaking of meat.
The fear of getting caught is being replaced by a different feeling. Connor’s semi-hard dick brushing my thigh.
I gasp. Not loudly, but enough to register.
“Whitney,” he breathes against my ear, voice tight. “Please.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t be thinking about dicks right now. But truly, he can’t expect me to feel the hard ridge of him pressed against me for the first time and have no reaction. That would be inconsiderate of me.
I glare at him in the dark, furious and thrilled at the same time.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
Connor lifts his head just enough to peer over the edge of the pool.
“He’s picking up used towels,” he murmurs.
My stomach drops.
Because I left my robe on a chair. And Connor left his clothes.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Our—”
Connor’s hand presses back against my mouth.
His eyes flick to mine like he’s apologizing without saying it.
Then, we’re silent. Listening as the cleaner rolls the cart closer, muttering to himself.
“Pool’s closed,” he calls out. “Anybody out here?”
Connor goes perfectly still while my lungs forget how to work.
The cleaner pauses for a moment, then moves his cart again.
“All right,” he mutters. “Lost and found it is.”
I want to scream out wait! Connor must know this because he gives his head a quick shake.
I don’t have to see it to know what’s happening. Connor’s eyes tell me everything.
Like the universe is a comedian and we are the punchline, the worker scoops up our stuff.
My robe.
Connor’s clothes.
My room key card. Connor’s, too.
He tosses it all into the cart like it’s just laundry. Forgotten articles someone might remember to claim from the lost and found tomorrow. Like he doesn’t know it’s our entire dignity.
The cart wheels crunch away followed by the click of the gate, then silence returns.
For a moment, we don’t move. We just stare at each other, wet and naked. I wish it was as hot as it sounds.
“He took our stuff,” Connor confirms, in case I was holding onto any hope.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“We have no key cards.”
I blink slowly to process.
“Okay, we live here now. This pool will be our home.”
Connor stares at me for half a second—then his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh.
“You’re handling this really well,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. “I cope through delusion and comedy.”
His eyes flick over me, then he looks away again, jaw working like he’s forcing his brain to stay in problem-solving mode instead of whatever else this could become.
“Okay,” he says, quiet but calm. “We move. We stay low. We don’t get caught.”
I nod like I’m being briefed for a CIA mission, except I’m naked and dripping chlorinated water and my hair is plastered to my face like a wet mop.
“Copy that,” I whisper. “Operation: Don’t Let The Foundation Sponsors See My Butt Cheeks.”
That does it—Connor lets out a short breath that’s absolutely a laugh, even if he’s trying to pretend it isn’t.
“Whitney,” he warns, but it’s soft. Like he’s resigned to the fact that he likes my brand of chaos.
We swim to the ladder, then climb out of the pool. The night air hits my skin like a slap.
Connor’s hands drop, strategically placed, because he’s a man and he has one obvious vulnerability in this situation.
I clamp my arms over my chest and immediately realize the flaw in my plan.
“Oh my god,” I hiss. “I don’t have enough hands.”
Connor glances at me, eyes dark but warm. “You want me to lend you one?”
I swivel toward him. “You think I won’t accept that offer?”
His mouth pulls into the tiniest smile. “I’m offering support.”
“Support,” I repeat, deadpan. “Like a sports bra?”
“Like a teammate,” he says, and there’s something so normal about that word that it makes my stomach do a weird little flip. “A very supportive teammate.”
Before I can spiral, a door opens somewhere nearby and voices drift into the courtyard.
Connor’s expression shifts to alert—still not panicked, just on it—and he lifts one finger to signal.
Freeze.
We both drop behind the nearest hedge with the kind of coordination that suggests a plan, which is generous, because we absolutely didn’t have one.
The sharp leaves stab my shoulder while a branch scrapes my thigh. Nature is clearly not on my side right now.
I peer through the greenery and whisper, “If I get a rash from this bush, I’m naming it after you.”
Connor crouches beside me, shoulders shaking once like he’s silently laughing again.
“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “I deserve it.”
The footsteps pass, then a key card beeps, and a door shuts.
We stay still until the sound fades.
I look at Connor and whisper, “Okay. On three we sprint.”
He blinks. “We’re not sprinting.”
“What’s wrong? Flailing appendage?”
“Sprinting would draw more attention. We need to stay in stealth mode.”
That’s what he says, but I think it’s totally about his bouncy ball sack.
“Fine,” I whisper. “We speed-walk.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s better.”
We move—fast and hunched and ridiculous—darting from hedge to palm tree like two delinquents who committed the worst crime of all; thinking a midnight swim would solve our problems.
Connor pauses behind a palm trunk, and I attempt to squeeze in behind the same palm trunk.
The trunk isn’t wide, so I squish myself against him and regret ever leaving my room.
Connor keeps his gaze up and outward, like he’s being respectful and also like he’s trying not to combust. Meanwhile I’m pressed close enough to feel him. All slick, hot skin.
Even if we’re not caught, this moment is the true punishment. Now I’ll add the feeling of my bare ass pressed against Connor’s thigh to the mental imagery I’ve filed under ‘things that play on a loop inside my head.’
Connor’s eyes flick to mine—amused, a little helpless—and he murmurs, “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m thriving,” I whisper gleefully.
He shakes his head like I’m impossible, but the expression on his face says he doesn’t hate it.
That’s when I spot it.
It’s either a mirage of white and blue stripe taunting my eyes in the darkness of night, or it’s our solution.
A towel.
It’s hanging off the railing of a second-floor balcony, rumpled and forgotten, like it was left there by a swimmer who actually obeyed the posted pool hours sign.It’s big and plush, and I stare at it like it’s the holy grail.
Connor follows my gaze. “That’s someone’s room.”
“That’s someone’s towel,” I counter. “And right now, that towel is a public service.”
His eyes flick toward the courtyard, then back to me. “We’re not stealing it.”
“We’re borrowing it,” I correct instantly.
He gives me a look. “Borrowing implies returning.”
“I will absolutely return it,” I whisper solemnly. “To the hotel’s laundry bin.”
He bites the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a laugh and losing.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “What’s your plan, Captain Chaos?”
My chest warms at the nickname—even now. Especially now.
I point at the balcony. “I’m going to grab it.”
Connor’s gaze slides to me—steady, protective, a little “you’re going to get us arrested,” but mostly fond. “And how are you getting up there?”
I grin, already committing to the bit. “I’m going to climb.”
Connor’s mouth opens, then closes.
“Whitney,” he whispers, very gentle, like he’s trying to talk me off a ledge, “you’re naked.”
“Correct,” I whisper proudly. “And agile.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners—he’s fully smiling now, like he can’t help it.
“Fine,” he says. “Stay behind me.”