Chapter 41
forty-one
. . .
WHITNEY
I’m doing great.
Which is to say I’m smiling, nodding, posing for photos with kids who look at me like I’m a rockstar—and very intentionally not looking at Connor unless I have to.
It works. Until it doesn’t.
Because I catch him out of the corner of my eye, dropping to one knee in front of a kid like it’s instinct. Same height. Same level.
He listens. Really listens. Signs a swim cap with careful focus, then says something that makes the kid light up like he just got handed a future.
And my chest does that silly little squeeze it does when I’m about to get emotionally inconvenienced.
Then Connor looks up, right at me.
I pivot fast—too fast—and slam straight into a lanyard.
“Whoa.” Landyn steadies himself, phone already in hand. “Easy, Shields.”
“Sorry. Just working on my reaction time.”
He glances past me, toward Connor, then back. “I didn’t expect him to be good at this.”
My spine locks.
“What does that mean?”
Landyn shrugs. “His reputation. The whole lone wolf thing.”
“He’s good with people,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “He just doesn’t perform for it.”
Landyn’s brows lift. “Okay. Noted.”
Before I can dig myself in deeper, he claps once. “Cool. Need a quick clip. You and Connor.”
My stomach drops. “No.”
“Whitney.”
“Landyn.”
“Ten seconds.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer—just turns and calls, “Connor!”
And suddenly Connor’s walking toward me, and my body reacts like I’m about to race.
He stops at my side, close enough that I feel the heat of him.
“Three…two…one…”
Connor slips into it easily. Warm. Natural. Believable.
Of course he does.
“Whitney,” Landyn prompts. “Favorite part of today.”
My brain blanks.
Connor turns his head slightly, eyes on me instead of the camera.
“Hey,” he murmurs low. “You okay?”
It’s quiet. Simple.
And it hits harder than it should.
Because he saw me, and he checked in. Like it matters.
I force a smile. “Love it here in Myrtle Beach. The water is wet; the kids are fast. And Connor is annoyingly competent.”
Landyn laughs. “Perfect.”
The camera drops, but Connor doesn’t step away right away.
“You sure?” he asks, quieter now.
And that’s what does it.
The question is small and gentle, and careful enough to make something in my chest tilt in a way I don’t know how to fix.
Because I can fake it for everyone else.
I just can’t fake it with him.
By the time we get back to the hotel, my skin feels too tight for my body.
Not from the day’s schedule or from the smiling or the endless “community impact” talking points.
From Connor.
The elevator ride is quiet except for the soft chime of each floor, and I stand there pretending my chest isn’t compressed, and my lungs didn’t forget how to expand properly. Pretending the room sharing situation I put myself in isn’t getting away from me.
Outside the room, Connor swipes the keycard and holds the door open. I walk past him, aware of everything—his proximity, his heat, the way my body reacts like it’s already made decisions I haven’t agreed to yet.
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
Too quiet. Too close.
Connor moves first, setting his keys down like he’s careful with everything he touches.
Like he’s careful with me.
I want distance. And space. And unfortunately, I want him.
That’s the problem.
I drop my tote on the dresser harder than I mean to. The sound cracks through the room, sharp enough that his gaze snaps to mine immediately.
Concern. Instant. Unfiltered.
It hits me straight in the chest, and I hate that it does.
“I just—” I exhale, but it comes out tangled with a laugh that doesn’t quite work. “I didn’t realize I’d spend the day watching you sign autographs, charm donors, and cut steak like you have a 401(k)…and then come back here and feel like I should throw something at your head.”
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but knows better.
He steps closer, slow, careful. “Whit—”
“If you don’t recall,” I cut in quickly, because if he says my name like that I’m done for, “I’m the one who’s mad at you.
You ghosted me. You didn’t tell me who you were.
And now I’m standing here like an idiot who thought sharing a room would be funny, bought a Costco-sized box of condoms like a maniac, and—”
I gesture vaguely between us.
“—apparently cannot get you to take a very obvious hint.”
The words hang there, heavier than I meant them to.
His expression shifts but it’s neither defensive or amused. It’s soft.
And that softness is a problem. Because if he keeps looking at me like I matter, I’m going to forget why I’m supposed to be mad.
So I grab the nearest thing I can.
A pillow.
Not to throw. Just—something to hold.
I hug it to my chest like it’s armor and lift my chin.
“There,” I say. “Now I’m protected.”
Connor huffs out something that almost passes for a laugh, but there’s strain in it.
“That’s your strategy?”
“Yep. If I start feeling things, I’ll just smother them.”
His gaze drops to the pillow, then lifts back to me, steady and a little wrecked.
“Whitney.”
“Connor.”
“You’re not just—” He breaks off, swallowing like the words don’t come easily. “You’re not just a hookup to me.”
My grip tightens on the pillow.
“I was trying to meet you where you were,” he continues. “Keep it simple. What you said you wanted.”
“Casual sex,” I supply, even though the word casual feels increasingly theoretical.
His jaw flexes. “Yeah. That.”
A beat.
“But I can’t do that with you,” he says. “Not like it doesn’t mean anything.”
I blink at him. “Okay, Meatloaf.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“You know. ‘I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.’ Still unclear what that is, by the way.”
A short, helpless sound escapes him—half laugh, half something else entirely.
“Whitney—”
“No.” I point at him, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping me upright right now. “We’re not doing the noble, tortured hero routine. You don’t get to stand there acting like you’re sparing me.”
“I’m not sparing you.”
“Then what is this?” I gesture between us again, the bed, the room, everything that feels like it’s closing in. “Because it feels a lot like you’re putting me on pause.”
He steps closer, but it’s careful and measured, like he knows one wrong move and I’ll bolt.
“It’s because I care about you,” he says.
A scoff automatically exits my throat, but that doesn’t deter him.
“I care about you,” he repeats, quieter this time, but firmer. “And I have for a long time.”
My throat tightens before I can stop it.
“You want to know why I left the coffee shop?” he asks.
I don’t answer, because I can’t. I already know I’m not going to like whatever comes next.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Because the second I saw you,” he says, voice low and steady, “I knew you were going to matter to me.”
Everything in me stills.
“I knew you weren’t going to be something I could keep casual,” he continues. “And I didn’t trust myself not to screw that up.”
My pulse stumbles.
“So I left,” he finishes. “Before I could.”
The room feels smaller, like the air shifted and forgot to move again.
And suddenly this isn’t about being mad.
It’s not about rules or boundaries or who’s winning whatever game I thought we were playing. It’s about the fact that he walked away because I mattered. And I don’t know what to do with that.
I stare at him, heart pounding too fast, thoughts slipping out of order.
Because I wanted him to want me, but I didn’t expect it to look like this.
Softer, yet heavier. Real in a way that feels a little dangerous.
And way harder to walk away from.