Chapter 39
thirty-nine
. . .
WHITNEY
Sharing a room with Connor seemed like a great idea an hour ago.
That was before he looked at me, all quiet and controlled, and said he doesn’t sleep well next to distractions.
Like I’m just something he has to manage.
And I—like an absolute menace—looked him dead in the eye and said, who said you’d be sleeping?
I can still feel the way that landed between us.
The shift. The way his voice dropped when he told me I was making that very difficult to ignore.
Which is what I wanted.
Probably.
Because technically, this is exactly the kind of situation I had rules for. Very clear, very reasonable rules about keeping things simple, keeping things casual, and not—under any circumstances—getting swept up in Connor Fisk like he’s a personality trait I accidentally adopted.
But the problem is those rules feel a lot less important when I’m standing next to him.
When he looks at me like I’m challenging his sanity, yet grounding him at the same time.
When he says things in that low, steady voice that makes my brain forget what it was doing five seconds ago.
It’s less about the rules now, and more about him, which is deeply inconvenient.
Because now I’m standing here, fully aware that at some point he’s going to turn on the shower, and I’m going to have to pretend I’m not imagining exactly what that looks like.
Water running over his shoulders. Down his chest. Catching on the lines of his tattoos before slipping lower to his thick cock that felt like velvet on my tongue.
My brain is being wildly inappropriate.
And honestly? That part I could handle.
We’ve shared a bed before. Twice, in fact.
So, I know what he looks like. And I know what being close to him feels like. That’s not new.
What’s new is the way he said it.
Like the problem isn’t proximity.
It’s whatever this thing between us is turning into.
Like if we end up in that bed tonight, it won’t stay simple. Won’t stay something I can joke my way out of or pretend doesn’t mean anything in the morning. And that is the part I don’t know how to deal with.
While my thoughts may be a disaster, my schedule isn’t.
After check-in, I hit the gym because workouts don’t care about tension, mixed signals, or the fact that I’m sharing a room with a man who makes my skin feel like it’s humming to a Hozier song. You know that one where the beat drops and it’s basically a yell.
That song has been playing in my head since the car ride and I now associate it with Connor. And all the feelings I can’t quite name.
By the time I finish my last rep, I’m sweaty and steadier—like I’ve pressed the reset button on my brain with a dumbbell.
Back in the room, I drop my gym bag by the bed and change out of my sweaty leggings and sports bra and into a robe. I go for the snack bag next, because a hot shower will be more relaxing if my stomach isn’t screaming at me.
The bag is heavier than it should be for “snacks,” and my brain supplies the reason immediately.
The condoms.
The giant box of condoms that I, Whitney Shields—Olympian, professional athlete, alleged adult—walked through a Myrtle Beach grocery store carrying like a medal.
It had been a stunt designed to mess with Connor, to get under that tatted skin of his, with the premise of being responsible. It had earned me an exasperated sigh and a knowing smile.
A meat stick is the first thing I grab. I pull the plastic edges apart and take a huge bite. Then, holding it between my teeth, I reach in for the box of protein bars.
But I grab the wrong box.
My greasy meat stick fingers lose their grip on the boxy edges and I immediately regret having hands. The box shifts, then catches, and falls out of my grip. It hits the carpet corner-first and the lid pops open.
I’d already unsealed the box earlier in the car because, like a weirdo, I wanted to know what a bajillion condoms looked like. And now I know.
Because suddenly, I’m watching a condom avalanche spill across the hotel floor like festive little party favors.
I stare in shock.
The condom explosion stares back at me.
Somewhere, a seagull laughs.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, because they’re the only words I have.
I drop to my knees and start scooping them up with the urgency of someone trying to hide evidence before the cops show up.
I have six packets collected before the click of the opening door makes my spine lock.
Behind me, the door shuts with a thud, then footsteps. A moment later, Connor’s voice—deep, calm, and far too amused for the fact that I’m currently on my knees surrounded by what looks like someone shot off a latex confetti cannon.
“You redecorating?”
I scoot out from under the bed and sit back on my heels like this is absolutely what I meant to be doing.
Connor is by the door, sweaty and shirtless, his skin—tatted and corded with muscle—catches a glow like the hotel lighting system is personally invested in my downfall.
He’s holding a water bottle in one hand, and he pauses just long enough to take in the scene.
The bed. The floor. The little silver wrappers scattered like I’m staging a scandal.
His gaze lands on me, and it stays there—dark and heated in a way that makes my throat go tight. Not because he’s judging me but maybe because he’s imagining.
Then, like he remembers he’s supposed to be a responsible human being, his eyes flick away so fast it’s almost funny.
“Wow,” he says, voice dry, like his brain is trying to keep it casual. “You making sure they didn’t short you?”
“It exploded,” I say quickly.
Connor’s brows lift. “The box exploded.”
“Yes,” I snap. “Violently, and without warning.”
“As explosions usually happen.”
His mouth twitches—like the laugh is right there, ready for action—but he holds it back. Which is annoying. Because the second he doesn’t laugh, the room goes too quiet.
Then, he steps forward, and I swear I feel the heat of him before he even gets close.
“Do you need help?” he asks, voice innocent.
“No,” I say, but Connor crouches and starts picking them up, and the fact that he’s doing something so normal—so domestic—while looking like that is actually rude.
I grab a fistful and shove them back into the box with unnecessary aggression.
Connor reaches under the nightstand for one that skittered away. His shoulder brushes my knee. Not even on purpose. Yet, it sends a jolt up my spine like my body is a traitor with no loyalty.
He pauses for half a second, hand still under the nightstand, like he felt it, too. Like he’s deciding something.
His eyes flick to mine—quick, sharp—and there’s a flash of hunger there that’s so clear I almost choke on it.
Then he looks away again with an expression of calm neutrality like he didn’t just light my nervous system on fire.
He pulls out the runaway packet and holds it up between two fingers like he’s inspecting a rare artifact. “This is a lot.”
“It’s emergency preparedness,” I say, because if I don’t keep this funny, I’ll start thinking about the way he’s kneeling in front of me like a man who could wreck me, buy me tampons, and also fold my laundry.
“Emergency,” he repeats, deadpan.
“What if there’s a shortage?” I say. “What if the hotel runs out? What if we end up on a deserted island?”
Connor’s gaze lifts again—slow this time—and I can practically hear his thoughts: If we ended up on a deserted island, you wouldn’t be wearing that robe for long.
His jaw flexes once, like he’s swallowing it down.
“On a deserted island,” he says carefully, “I don’t think condom shortage would be our biggest issue.”
I laugh. It slips out of me, tired and real, and the sound changes the room. Softens it. Makes it feel like last night again.
Connor’s expression shifts, too. Like he’s tempted to stay in that moment.
But he looks at my mouth, and then like it’s physically painful, he tears his gaze away and stands up.
“You should go shower,” he says, like he’s giving me an order in the gentlest voice possible.
I bristle on instinct. “I was going to.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t say it in a controlling or bossy way, but more like he’s just taking care, which is sweet.
And also makes me want to scream, because being taken care of by him is exactly how I ended up with all these confusing feelings.
I close the bathroom door and just stand there for a second, heart still thumping like I’m about to race.
In the robe pocket, my phone buzzes.
I pull it out, expecting something fun like Ren and Dani debating over the latest drama on our Bravo reality shows, but it’s Winnie.
Winnie
How’s day four of “be a role model, don’t emotionally spiral” going?
I huff out a breath, leaning back against the door.
Define spiral…
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Winnie
Whitney, remember you’re there for Rising Tides, not to fall into a hot boy vortex
I close my eyes. I want to reply: Can’t I do both?
He is being unexpectedly not terrible
Winnie
Great. Still not the point.
Winnie
Show up for the kids. Everything else can wait.
My grip tightens slightly around my phone.
Because she’s right.
Annoyingly, aggressively right.
Rising Tides.
That’s why I’m here. Not to score Connor’s looks like this tour is some twisted competition where the prize is whether he chooses me.
I turn the shower on and let the water get loud enough to drown my thoughts of him out.
Kids are showing up today with hope and aspirations and excitement to meet Olympic swimmers. They don’t care if Connor Fisk is confusing. They care if I’m present.
So, I breathe, step under the spray, and make the deal with myself that the tour comes first.
For now, I need Connor to get out of my head. Even if I have to fake it.