Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
WHITNEY
I shove the last of my things into my suitcase and zip it closed, wishing I could seal my feelings inside it.
But I can’t. Because last night is still threaded through everything.
Connor’s hand at my hips. His chest at my back. The way I must’ve shifted in my sleep, because I woke up with my cheek pressed to his shoulder like my body made that decision without asking me first.
And worse, it felt normal.
Like the chaos didn’t matter. Like him being him didn’t matter. Like I could just exist there for a second without overthinking every part of it.
Which is probably where I went wrong.
I swing my tote bag over my shoulder and glance at the bed, immediately regretting it. It’s still rumpled, still holding onto the shape of something I shouldn’t have let feel that easy.
Because this morning also happened, and that part refuses to stay quiet.
Me waking up wrapped around him like he was mine to claim. The way his voice dropped when I teased him, rough and low in a way that made it very clear he wasn’t unaffected. The way he let me take control—until he didn’t.
I don’t have a condom.
Smart. Responsible. The correct call.
So why did it feel like rejection?
I adjust the strap on my bag, grounding myself in something tangible as the answer presses in anyway.
Because I didn’t want it to feel casual.
Because some part of me wanted—I cut the thought off before it can fully form, like that might make it less true.
But the fact is, I wanted to be different from anyone else he could have had in this room.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as I reach for the door.
“You’re fine,” I mutter under my breath. “Totally normal. Not spiraling at all.”
I yank the door handle and just like that, I’m walking out of a room that looks like nothing happened here, which is a big, fat lie.
The Savannah air hits me like a damp towel to the face the second I step out of the hotel.
It smells like rain, fresh pavement, and someone’s very confident breakfast sandwich.
My suitcase wheels thunk over the threshold like it’s judging me for every decision I made in this city, which is fair.
“Whitney—wait!”
I turn to find Venita hurrying across the lot with a tote bag and a tablet tucked under her arm, ponytail swinging, expression bright in that tour coordinator who hasn’t slept since Tuesday way.
“Morning,” I say casually, like I didn’t commit a felony-adjacent towel crime six hours ago. “Everything okay?”
Venita laughs, breathless. “Yes, fine. I just—I’m glad I caught you. I thought I missed you guys leaving.”
“Still here,” I confirm, motioning to my suitcase and tote. “But barely.”
Venita’s smile flashes warm, quick. “I can’t find Connor. Have you seen him this morning?”
At the mention of him, my stomach does something funny, which I immediately ignore. Because I’m an adult. A mature adult who has made excellent life choices lately.
“Um,” I say, scanning the curb like I might spot him. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
When I say ‘yet’ I mean since he left my room after we hooked up this morning.
“Okay,” she bites her lip as she scans the parking lot again. When she comes up empty, she holds out a single sheet of paper to me. It’s folded, but not enough to hide the Rising Tides letterhead at the top.
“Can you give this to him?” she asks. “It’s his donation receipt. Accounting needs him to have it for his records, and I promised I’d get it to him before he left.”
Donation.
My fingers close around the paper and my pulse stutters like my body recognizes the word before my brain catches up.
“I hate to not deliver it in person, especially since he covered the gap we needed for transportation in Wilmington, among other things. Can you make sure he gets it?”
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out a little hoarse. “Of course.”
Venita smiles, relieved. “Thank you. And, hey, you two did amazing here.”
“Thank you,” I say, because my mouth still knows how to be polite even while my insides rearrange themselves.
She jogs off toward another car like she’s already late to five things.
Give Connor the paper. Easy. But just as I stop to wait at the back of his SUV, a gust of wind rips it from my fingertips.
It lands in the middle of the parking lot—flat for one glorious second until I approach, then it takes off like an edgy animal.
“SERIOUSLY?” I hiss, lunging after it.
The paper skitters under the sedan in the adjacent parking spot. I drop to a crouch, ponytail smacking me in the face like I don’t have enough problems right now.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “We’re fine. This is normal. People definitely chase important paperwork at eight in the morning.”
I reach for it, but it slips out the other side like it’s mocking me.
The receipt catches a new gust and lifts—just enough to slap against the side of the SUV like a sticky note from hell.
“Yes!” I dart forward, slap my palm on it and lean in, forehead nearly hitting the window. “Got you.”
I’m catching my breath, and before I can stop them, my nosy eyes flick over the page.
It’s exactly what Venita said, a donation receipt on Rising Tides letterhead, no big deal.
My eyes land on a number so big my stomach drops.
Then, the donor name line: Anonymous.
ANONYMOUS.
My throat tightens.
Yes, the number is huge. But I know Connor has money. That part isn’t shocking.
What’s shocking is the silence around it.
This isn’t the kind of thing people do quietly. It’s the kind of thing people announce. Post. Turn into a headline. Attach their name to so strangers can clap for them.
And for someone like Connor, a man who could use every ounce of positive press, this would be easy for him to put out there and earn a few points.
Anonymous means he didn’t want anyone clapping.
Anonymous means he just wanted it handled.
I stare at the receipt again. Its edges are bent now, and there’s a dirty half of a shoe print on the back where I attempted to step on it before it launched again.
My fingers tighten around the paper like if I let go, the wind will take it again—and maybe it’ll take the feeling with it, too.
I swallow, fold the paper quickly and hold it to my stomach like it can’t be trusted out in the open.
Then a shadow falls over the pavement in front of me.
I look up to find Connor walking toward me from the street. Sunglasses on. Signature black t-shirt. Effortlessly messy hair still damp at the edges. He looks like a tatted golden retriever philanthropist, which is not a category I knew existed, let alone that I have a weakness for.
Then, I notice what’s in his hands.
Two coffees.
Connor stops in front of me and holds one coffee out.
His mouth twitches. “It’s coffee.”
“I know it’s coffee,” I say. “I mean—how do you know it’s my coffee.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his voice goes mild in that infuriating way it always does when he’s trying not to look pleased with himself.
“I paid attention.”
I take it slowly, suspicious. “What did you order?”
“Iced,” he says immediately.
My eyebrows lift.
He keeps going. “Dirty chai. Light ice.”
My brain stutters. Then my mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Connor’s gaze stays on me, calm like he didn’t just reach into my ribcage and squeeze.
“Oat milk?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he says, deadpan.
I take a sip.
It’s perfect and my brain glitches out for a second. Because he brought me coffee. And of course, this man who is actively ruining my emotional stability knows exactly how I take it. My coffee, that is.
And the worst part?
It makes me feel seen.
Not in the performative way people see Olympians, like I’m a headline or a medal count.
In the small way that matters. Like I’m just Whitney, dirty chai with oat milk lover.
My throat tightens, so I do what I always do when I’m about to feel something inconvenient—I tease.
“So,” I say, holding the cup up like evidence, “are you trying to impress me?”
Connor lifts his own coffee, takes a sip, and gives me a look over the rim that should be illegal before 8 a.m.
“I’m trying to keep you from murdering me in the car.”
I bark a laugh. “Wow. So thoughtful.”
He shifts his duffel. “I’m learning.”
Yes, unfortunately for my sanity, he is.
We load the trunk. He takes my suitcase without asking like it’s normal, like it’s nothing, like he isn’t careful in ways I don’t want to notice.
And then we’re in the car, iced coffee straw between my lips, receipt tucked into my bag like I forgot it exists.
We pull out of the hotel loop, Savannah sliding past the windows in the soft morning light.
For a few minutes, it’s just the hum of tires and my brain trying to behave.
It doesn’t.
Because the receipt burns through my bag like a secret.
I clear my throat. “So.”
Connor glances at me, one hand on the wheel. “So.”
I dig into my bag and pull out the folded paper. “Venita gave me this.”
Connor’s jaw shifts—small and controlled, like he already knows what it is.
I hold it up. “Donation receipt.”
His eyes flick to it, then back to the road. “Yeah.”
I wait for the brag. The shrug. The casual “no big deal.”
None of it comes.
Which makes the air in the car feel heavier.
“Why?” I ask, softer now.
Connor exhales slowly. “Because they needed it.”
“You covered a gap that big like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” he says. “I just didn’t need anyone to know about it.”
I study him. “Most people would.”
“Yeah.” His grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “And most people turn it into something else.”
There’s a quiet beat before he adds, “I’d rather just fix what I can and leave it at that.”
I fold the paper in my hands, slower this time.
This version of Connor—the one who pays attention, who shows up, who does things without needing anyone to clap for him—is starting to feel a lot more consistent than the one I’ve been holding onto.
And that makes something uncomfortable shift.
I glance down at my coffee. “You really did get the oat milk.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Obviously.”
I take a sip, mostly so I have something to do with my mouth that isn’t saying something I can’t take back.
Because now my brain won’t shut up.
About the receipt, and the way he remembered my order.
About this morning when I’d written I don’t have a condom off as predictable. The kind of line a guy like Connor would use without thinking twice. But now, I’m not so sure.
Because if this is how he handles things that matter—quiet, intentional, without making a show of it, then maybe I got that wrong, too.
Maybe it wasn’t about convenience or keeping things casual.
And it seems I have a new problem.
Because if I misunderstood that moment, then I need to know why he actually stopped.
I stare out the window, my reflection faint in the glass.
I guess there’s only one way to find out.