Chapter 14
CONNOR
The hallway upstairs is quiet. There’s movement downstairs as the staff prepares the house for dinner, but otherwise, everyone else is in their rooms—showering, dressing, touching up their makeup or recharging their social batteries.
I should be doing the same, maybe changing into something less wrinkled and warmer for dinner out on the terrace.
But instead, I’m leaning against the doorframe of the sliding glass door in my room, half watching the lake through the open window and half hoping she’ll walk by.
The thought takes me by surprise—the whole point of this trip was to reset, regroup, and figure out what’s next for me after years of working myself to the ground and walking away from something that should have been permanent but never felt right.
The last time I traveled internationally was five years ago, a trip Athena had planned down to the last minute.
I spent most of it holed up in a hotel room, trying to put out a fire for a client who panicked about his portfolio.
She gave me the silent treatment for months after that.
It should’ve been a red flag. For both of us.
But I let it slide, the way I let too many things slide.
This time feels different. I’ve got an out-of-office reply running, my phone is stripped of work apps, and for once I’ve promised myself I’ll actually be here.
Even if “here” means watching everyone else—including the groom—float around in their happily paired-off lives while I sit on the sidelines.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with Mom. I almost let it go, but years of conditioning win out. I swipe to answer.
“Connor, son,” my father says without preamble, “have you given more thought to that proposal from Joe?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not now, Dad. I’m—”
“It’s a good opportunity,” he presses, voice clipped like a verdict was already handed down.
My mother cuts in before I can respond. “We’ll see you next week at the wedding, darling. It’ll be so nice to have you there, looking settled.”
The word lands with a thud. Settled. Like that’s the metric. Not happy. Not present. Just… squared away, box checked, correct on paper.
I hang up, the echo of their voices still in my ear, and let the phone slide face-down on the nightstand.
I don’t know why the word grates me so much, like nails to chalkboard. Settled.
I don’t have time for dating, anyway. I’m still buried in a demanding job and trying to figure out what comes next. And it hasn’t even been that long since Athena and I walked away from each other. Long enough for the dust to settle but not long enough to forget.
So why the hell am I standing in my room, glancing over my shoulder every two minutes, half hoping Manuela will walk by?
“Are you hiding?” She slows by the door to my room, her hair still damp at the ends, and a soft sweatshirt is slung loosely over one shoulder. She’s wearing no makeup and is barefoot, even if temperatures have decreased since we spent the day soaking up the sun on the back deck.
“Definitely.”
Her smile is faint but it’s there, curling at the edges. She takes one step into my room, then another. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” I close the slider and turn, waiting for her next move.
Inside the room, it’s warm and golden from the setting sun.
She sits at the foot of the bed on a very stiff leather bench that really ties the whole vibe of the room together.
She crosses her legs so naturally, like she’s done it a hundred times before while having a conversation with someone who has been friend-adjacent for years.
Her fingers pick the bottom of her lounge pants, running over the stitching in a back-and-forth motion.
“So,” she says lightly, “do you think Nicole suspects we got stranded on purpose?”
I smile. “You mean because we definitely didn’t?”
“Right. Complete accident.”
She laughs softly, then goes quiet. I let the silence stretch between us for a beat. The movements in the house soften the hard edges of whatever the fuck this is between us. I’m ready to cut this shit open with a knife, spill all its guts out.
“You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?” she asks, still not looking at me.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“Me neither.”
She finally glances up at me, and that’s when it shifts—everything. It’s like the floor beneath my feet gets removed from under me, and I swear I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.
Her voice is softer now. “I kept thinking you were going to pull away.”
“I didn’t want to.”
Another pause.
Neither of us moves, but the energy is unmistakable now. If someone were to walk into this room right this minute, they would definitely see it. It’s a golden current, a hum under my skin that has my fingers twitching by my thighs.
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“That bed. Beds.” She laughs lightly and shakes her head. “The way you…” She exhales, eyes closing briefly. “You know what, never mind.”
I cross the room and stand in front of her, close enough to see the flush blooming across her cheeks. I reach for her hand.
“Tell me,” I say.
She looks up, and for a moment, I think she’s going to deflect again. But she doesn’t. “I didn’t want to stop touching you.”
My breath catches.
And then I bend down and kiss her.
It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s a steady pull—like gravity, like something we’ve been avoiding for days, since two nights ago on the couch when we were both slightly buzzed and relaxed after a nice dinner.
Manuela’s hands slide up my chest, around my neck. She leans in, deepens it, and the way she moves against me makes my thoughts scatter everywhere.
I pull her up gently from the bed, and I stumble backward with her in my arms until I feel the mattress at my knees.
She laughs into my mouth, breathless. “God, this is so—”
“Terrible idea,” I mutter, kissing down her jaw. “Absolutely awful.”
Manuela sneaks her hands under my shirt, her warm fingers touching the skin of my back. The movement makes my shirt lift. “Then stop me.”
I don’t.
Her sweatshirt goes next, soft fabric pulled over her head and tossed somewhere near the nightstand. I press her back against the bed and follow her down. We kiss like we’re starved, hands everywhere, mouths open, breathing fast.
I tug my shirt over my head, breathless, just as there’s a knock at the door.
We both freeze, but Manuela is stifling a giggle and hides her face against my neck.
Then Elle’s voice, sing-song and completely unbothered. “Connor, darling, dinner’s ready. If you’re not downstairs in five minutes, we’re starting without you.”
Silence.
Then Manuela groans and drops her head against my chest, but there’s a smile on her face. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I laugh, still catching my breath. “I don’t think she is.”
She sighs, then looks up at me, her expression caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“We can revisit it,” I say, brushing my thumb across her cheeks and trying not to sound too eager. “Soon.”
We lay there for another minute, catching our breaths, then slowly start to untangle.
Before she sits up fully, she pauses. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you… Like to…”
“Would you like to what?” I say, a smile tugging at my lips as she struggles with the words.
“This doesn’t have to be a thing,” she says carefully. “I’m not expecting anything. But we can if we… want to keep doing this. While we’re here. You know, so we’re not lonely.”
I blink because I can’t make sense of her proposal.
“Like, a no-pressure pact,” she says. “To help us relax.”
I nod, my voice quiet. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay,” she says, and she gives me a big smile that reaches her eyes. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
I grab my shirt from the floor and turn to follow her, but she stops me with a hand on my chest. “You need a minute.”
I look down at the front of my pants and decide that yes, I definitely need a minute.
When the door clicks shut behind her, I sit back on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair.
My pulse is still hammering, my shirt still wrinkled on the floor, and all I can think is: what just happened?
This trip was supposed to be a clean break, a chance to clear my head and keep things simple.
Instead, it feels like I’ve stumbled into something bigger than myself—something I can’t quite name but don’t want to let go of.
I tug my shirt back on, exhaling slowly. Maybe this isn’t a distraction. Maybe it’s exactly what I need. A no-pressure pact with her.