Chapter 35
thirty-five
. . .
WHITNEY
With my back to his front, Connor and I walk down the path toward the lobby. We’re like one of those Chinese dragons, all shifty and fluid beneath the shared towel. It’s awkward and hot and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to recover from this.
In the lobby there are far less people than we ran into on our quest to claim the used towel. Only a custodian mopping a floor near the entrance and a front desk clerk.
“We got locked out,” Connor says matter-of-factly to the front desk clerk. “And we need to check the lost and found for some items that were left at the pool earlier.”
The front desk clerk smiles politely, but there’s a curious gleam in her eye as she scans our new cards. Like she’s filing this under Guests Most Likely To Be A Problem. So, it’s a good thing we’re leaving tomorrow.
“Here you go.” She hands us the cards, and I carefully reach through the front of the towel to accept them like a raccoon trying not to get caught stealing a granola bar.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be right back with the lost and found.”
Now that we’re in public, I press farther back against Connor’s body to ensure there’s no obvious gap between the ends of the towel.
He exhales deeply, like I’m torturing him. I feel it against my hair and then there’s the rock-hard evidence pressing firmly against my ass.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m trying my best.”
“Your effort is impressive,” I quip because if I stop joking, I might start thinking. And thinking is dangerous.
Because this is the problem with Connor.
He shows up in the exact shape I trust.
Not the naked part—obviously. The him part.
The calm. The quick decisions. The way he never once made me feel stupid for being chaotic. For being me.
DreamBoat used to make me feel safe in the middle of chaos. Like the world could be loud and messy and I’d still be okay because he was there on my team.
Tonight, under one towel like two idiots in a covert operation, I felt it again.
And I hate that my body recognizes it.
I hate that it wants to lean into it.
The clerk returns a few minutes later with a bin. Connor nods toward his shorts and t-shirt, so I claim them. My robe isn’t there, probably because it wasn’t really mine but the hotel’s, so it was sent to the laundry room instead.
“Have a good night,” I say cheerily, like this is completely normal and not at all suspicious.
“It’s technically morning,” Connor offers as we shimmy toward the elevator.
We punch the seventh floor, and I can’t help but notice our reflection and how ridiculous we look wrapped in the same towel.
I lean my head back onto Connor’s chest. After the adrenaline spike from the events of the night, I’m suddenly exhausted.
The kind of tired that makes my bones feel heavy and my frustration with him quieter.
In the mirror, his head tips down and his lips ghost over the top of my head. The touch is barely there, like he’s testing whether I’ll flinch.
“I had fun with you tonight,” he says.
It shouldn’t soften me, but it does, just a fraction. I resent it immediately.
“No regrets?” I ask, because if I make it a joke, it won’t feel so heavy.
His breath huffs against my hair. “I mean, if you wanted me naked, you could have just asked. It would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”
“What would have been the fun in that?”
The elevator dings and opens to our floor.
For the first time since he lifted me onto his shoulders, his hands find my hips to steer me down the hallway. Steady and careful, like I’m not an inconvenience but something precious.
I poke my arm out to tap the key card on the reader, then open the door for us to enter.
And as the room swallows us up, I realize something I don’t want to admit yet.
This is the first time since I found out who he is that I’ve felt that flicker of trust and belonging in my chest again.
It isn’t forgiveness or peace; it’s the memory of being safe with him. Of being understood.
The thought is inconvenient, and so is being naked and wrapped in a towel with him right now.
Inside our makeshift towel tent, I turn and hand him his clothes. He understands and releases one side of the towel so he can exit before wrapping it back around me.
Without him, the towel is large and empty. I hate it.
Connor pulls on his shorts. I watch like he’s my favorite reality TV show.
His eyes find mine as he pulls the shorts up his legs. “Should I be concerned that we’re so comfortable—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say instantly, because reflex is a powerful thing. “This isn’t comfort. This is fascination.”
His brow lifts. “Fascination?”
“Mm-hmm.” I cross my arms, the towel secure once again. “You’re like a documentary I can’t stop watching. Nature is terrifying. Look at the predator put on pants.”
Connor huffs a laugh and shakes his head, like he’s trying not to, but he’s losing.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but it’s warm. It’s not annoyed. It’s fond, which is a problem.
We stand there in silence, and I take the moment to reach out and touch the tiny sailboat tattoo over his left ribs. My finger tracing along the sail then swooping down to the boat sitting on two waves.
“You must really like sailing.”
“Something like that,” he says, turning his t-shirt right side out. “I like knowing where I’m headed, even if I don’t always get there the way I planned.”
He pulls the shirt over his head, the casualness of it makes my chest do that inconvenient flutter again.
For a second, he just stands there while I’m still wrapped in the towel, barefoot, damp at the edges, hair a mess, the adrenaline from earlier draining out of my bloodstream and leaving me heavier, like gravity just remembered I exist.
And that’s when the chill hits me. Without him beneath the towel, everything feels bigger. Colder. Empty in a way I don’t like.
Connor’s presence beneath the towel had been warm and silly and comforting, and I don’t want to lose that feeling.
While the chaos and heat are tangled up in it, what I want to hold onto is the belonging. The way it felt to be in sync with someone. Like we were a team again, even if I’m still clinging to my anger like a life jacket.
Connor’s gaze flicks to my face, like he can see the shift.
“You good?” he asks, quietly.
“I’m tired,” I admit, because it’s the safest truth. “Like bone tired.”
He nods, immediate. “I can go.”
The fact that he says it so easily—like he’s willing, like he’s already stepping back—makes something in me protest.
I don’t want him to go. I’m not ready to analyze why, but right now, I just want him here. No, need him here.
I swallow, staring at the carpet like it has all the answers.
Then, finally, I look up.
“Do you want to stay?” I ask, casual on the outside, like I’m offering him a stick of gum. “Just—” I gesture vaguely, because I refuse to make it a thing. “You can crash. If you want.”
Connor goes still.
Like he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing with something fragile.
His voice comes out low. “Yeah?”
I shrug, forcing lightness back into my tone. “I’m not saying we have to talk about feelings or hold hands or—whatever normal people do.”
A flicker crosses his face. Amusement. Relief. Something softer.
“I can just be here,” he says.
My throat tightens, which is annoying.
“Okay,” I say quickly, turning away so he can’t see my face doing something silly. “Cool. Great. Don’t be weird.”
Connor’s laugh is quiet. “You say that like I’m the weird one.”
I point at him over my shoulder. “You literally said you were meditating by the pool.”
“That was meditating,” he argues, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I head for the bathroom and shut the door, pressing my forehead to it for half a second.
Because inviting Connor to stay is either the best idea I’ve had all week or the worst.
Probably both.
I change fast—dry off, brush my teeth, pull on an oversized tee and shorts because my body is still very aware of him, and I don’t need to make this harder.
When I step out, Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed like he doesn’t know how beds work and is waiting for instructions. One hand resting on his thigh, posture controlled, gaze tipped toward the window like he’s giving me space.
It’s annoyingly considerate.
“You can get in,” I tell him, nodding at the bed.
He looks at me like he’s double-checking. “You sure?”
I roll my eyes. “Considering everything that happened tonight, sleeping under the covers together is low on the list of things we should be worried about.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
He slides under the covers on the far side, staying a respectful distance away, like there’s a line down the middle of the bed and he’s sworn an oath.
I switch off the lamp and crawl in on my side.
The dark settles around us.
The room hums lightly—AC, distant traffic, maybe the ocean if I listen hard enough.
For a few seconds, I just breathe.
I didn’t realize how tense I’ve been until I’m not.
“I had fun,” I say into the dark, because the words feel safer than the bigger ones trying to push their way up.
Connor’s voice is gentle. “Me, too.”
I stare at the ceiling, eyes open, heart doing something ridiculous.
“I hate that,” I admit.
His breath huffs. “That you had fun?”
“That I had fun with you.” I turn my head slightly, even though I can’t really see him. “Because it makes things messier.”
My chest aches in a way I don’t like.
“Honestly? Being mad at you is exhausting.”
Connor shifts beside me, still keeping that careful distance.
“Especially when I’m out here committing crimes like naked towel heists,” I mutter. “Feels like I’m undermining my own argument.”
His laugh is low, warm. “You are a little.”
“Unbelievable,” I say, but there’s no heat behind it.
I stare up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.
I’ve been holding the line with him like it matters.
Like if I just keep enough distance, I can win this.
But it’s starting to feel less like strategy and more like I’m just dragging it out.
Like I could stop fighting it, and nothing terrible would actually happen.
The thought settles in a way I don’t quite know what to do with.
“I felt like I belonged. With you,” I say, and immediately hate myself for it.
“You did,” he says, voice even and confident. “You do.”
My throat tightens so hard I have to stare at the ceiling and blink a few times to reset my face.
Because that’s the thing.
DreamBoat made me feel understood.
Connor—real Connor—still does.
And I’m not ready to reconcile those two truths yet.
So I tuck the softer part back inside my ribs where it can’t hurt me.
“Will you tell me about your mom?”
For a second, I think he won’t answer.
Then—
“She got sick when I was in high school,” he says. “And everything shifted.”
His voice stays even, but there’s something underneath it now. Not fragile. Just…older.
“I stopped being a kid pretty quick. It was doctors and bills and trying to figure out what I could do that actually mattered.”
I turn my head slightly, watching him in the dim light.
“Swimming was the one thing I had,” he continues. “The only thing I was good at that could turn into something real. Sponsorships, deals…money.”
It wasn’t his ego or ambition in the driver’s seat, it was survival and the desperation to help his mom.
“I thought if I leaned into it hard enough, I could help. Take some of it off her. Make it easier.”
My chest tightens.
“But when you need something that badly,” he says, quieter now, “you don’t always ask the right questions.”
I don’t interrupt.
“I trusted the people who said they could make it happen,” he adds. “Didn’t realize what they were actually building me into until I was already in it.”
There’s no anger in it. That’s what gets me.
Just clarity.
“And by the time I figured it out,” he says, “I didn’t really recognize myself anymore.”
The words settle deep.
“I lost her,” he continues after a second. “And somewhere in there, I lost whatever version of me existed before all of that.”
Something in my chest tightens.
It’s not the same as what Connor experienced with his mom, not even close, but I know the feeling of slipping into a version of yourself that works better for everyone else and not knowing how to get back.
Hearing his story has things shifting into place.
I can see it now.
Why he made the call he did. Why Rory couldn’t understand it.
Connor was trying to survive.
Rory was trying to protect him.
And somewhere in the middle of that, they stopped being on the same side.
The thought lingers, softer than everything that came before it.
Suddenly, the space between us feels different now. Not smaller exactly, just less guarded.
He hasn’t moved closer. He hasn’t tried.
He’s just here.
I don’t feel like I’m holding the line anymore. And strangely, that doesn’t feel like losing.
My eyes grow heavy, the day finally catching up to me.
“Thanks for staying,” I murmur.
“Always,” he says.