Chapter 21 Connor
CONNOR
SATURDAY
The boat hums low beneath our feet, slicing through the water in one smooth motion. Rain lingers at the edges of the sky, but for now the clouds are lifting, and faint strips of sunlight catch the ripples in the water, making it look a deep blue I’ve never seen before.
Jack, of course, has made the whole thing into an event.
A private chartered boat with cushioned seats, blankets folded neatly in case anyone gets chilly.
He’s standing near the bow with a captain’s hat on, pointing out landmarks along the shoreline like a man who’s already adopted this corner of Switzerland as his personal kingdom.
I’m sitting toward the middle, window cracked, the mountain air sharp with the scent of pine and lake, if that’s even a thing.
Cash is scrolling on his phone again, and his girlfriend Amelia is napping, head on his shoulder.
Somewhere else, Banks and Sterling are swapping stories about some ski trip from years back, the kind of conversation that loops around and around without ever going anywhere.
And then there’s her.
Manuela sits across from me, head tilted toward the window, strands of hair caught by the breeze. Her posture is lightly tense, but she laughs at something Elle says from behind her, soft and low, and the sound makes me ache in a place I didn’t realize was hollow until a few days ago.
I don’t even try to join the conversation. Instead I watch her fingers toy with the edge of her sleeve, watch the way her mouth curves when she smiles. I shouldn’t be staring, but the problem is I don’t want to stop.
Jack claps his hands together. “Alrighty, folks, we’re almost there. Who’s excited for some chocolate?”
“Dangerous,” Manuela says, shaking her head with mock seriousness. “I’ll have to be rolled out of there.”
“Same,” I say before I think better of it. Our eyes catch. It’s a flicker—half a second too long—and I swear her face changes, like she knows exactly where my head went: last night. Her taste still on my tongue, the sound of her falling apart under my hands.
My throat tightens, and I glance out the window like the scenery has suddenly become riveting.
“And to your right,” Jack bellows above the wind that has suddenly picked up. He gestures with his whole arm, playing tour guide. “See that white house? That is Tina Turner’s residence.”
Manuela nods her head a few times like she’s impressed, but then I catch her slipping her phone from her purse. She thumbs something in quickly, lips moving silently as she reads the screen. Fact-checking him. I’d bet money on it. Or maybe googling who Tina Turner even is.
Her focus is sharp, brows furrowed in that way that makes her look like she’s solving something important, like when we were playing Scrabble.
I imagine leaning across, brushing my lips to her ear, teasing her about it.
Whispering the words just for her. The picture in my head is so clear I almost feel the warmth of her skin.
I press my coffee cup harder against my knee. Jesus. I need to get my shit together.
“Connie, hello?”
The nickname grates, snapping me out of the daydream. I blink across the boat—Banks is staring at me like I’ve missed something.
“Sorry, what?” My voice is rougher than it should be, so I clear my throat. “Spaced out.”
He smirks. “Clearly. I asked you if you think Athena would’ve hated this little field trip or loved it. Can’t decide which.”
My chest tightens.
The group chuckles, harmless, but it lands like a weight anyway. Everyone’s looking at me now, waiting. My fingers tighten around the cup, the remnants of heat biting into my skin.
“I think she’d…” I pause, then take the easy way out. A shrug. “Depends on the day.”
That earns a round of nods, a few laughs, and the spotlight shifts away, the conversation rolling forward.
But across from me, Manuela is no longer reading. Her phone rests in her lap, and she’s watching the water, jaw set. The muscle ticks once, sharp.
I want to say something—anything—to cut through the tension. But I don’t. Not here. Not with all these eyes and ears.
So instead I sit there, pretending to sip my drink, staring out at the blur of lake and shoreline like it holds answers I don’t have and wait to disembark.
“Holy shit,” Banks says beside me. He’s rubbing the palms of his hands together like a child in a candy store.
The factory is all polished wood and glass, pristine white floors that look almost out of a modern Wonka movie set.
The air is thick and heavy with chocolate, and it’s overwhelming, to say the least.
We’re led through a private entrance, past a wall-sized fountain of molten chocolate that has my cousin grinning like a kid. I mean, everyone is, because this is just a level of extra that lots of money can buy.
Employees dressed in crisp white outfits and chef hats press tasting squares into our hands at intervals: dark with hints of orange, milk filled with praline, white flecked with crushed freeze-dried raspberries. The group chatters about favorites, tosses out jokes, compares notes.
Manuela takes a bite of one of the squares and closes her eyes. “This should be illegal.”
“Probably is somewhere,” I say, watching the way her tongue darts out to catch a smear of chocolate at the corner of her lip. I force my eyes away before I do something stupid like wipe it with my thumb.
We follow the sommelier-like guide through the atrium, Jack bouncing on his heels like he’s about to offer to buy the whole factory as a wedding present to Elle.
The guide, a stern-looking woman with perfect posture and an even more perfect British accent, is talking about the process at the front of the group, but I can’t focus on anything but Manuela.
She walks just ahead of me, hair tucked behind her ear, tilting her head at the displays we’re passing as though she’s cataloguing details no one else sees.
Her fingers trail lightly along the edge of a glass case filled with wrapped truffles, her nails painted the faintest neutral pink.
I want to reach for her hand and lace my fingers with hers.
“This is the heart of our process,” the guide explains, straightening her spine as she stops around a wide window where a chocolatier pours melted chocolate into molds. “Precision and patience. The Swiss way.”
Patience. The word almost makes me laugh. Last night, with her pressed against my door, patience didn’t stand a chance.
Jack elbows me. “Remember when you guys swore off chocolate for that keto thing?”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah,” I try to say lightly, forcing a smile. “Didn’t last long.”
Eventually, we are led into a long hallway with multiple doors on either side.
Sterile white walls are lined with old black-and-white photos of men in chef’s hats pouring chocolate into massive molds.
The air grows sweeter the deeper we go until it’s almost overwhelming.
At the end of the hall, double doors open into the tasting room for lunch: high ceilings, rows of wineglasses glinting in the light, and platters of chocolate arranged like jewels on marble stands.
“Too much?” I murmur.
She startles, then glances at me, her lips parting like she wasn’t expecting me to speak so close to her ear. For half a second, her hand brushes the edge of my sleeve—barely there, but I feel it like a jolt.
Her smile flickers. “Depends. You mean the sugar or the theatrics?”
“Both,” I admit, tipping my head toward Jack, as he’s already hamming it up with the sommelier, trying to out-charm her accent.
She huffs a laugh, soft, private. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel it in my stomach, an immediate tightening that has me catching my breath before I can stop it. “Definitely both.”
We sit, and the first course is served—tiny portions of cheese, pears, and chocolate paired with a dry Riesling.
The guide explains notes and origins, and Jack and Elle ask questions.
Hannah and Amelia are sitting at the end of the table, snapping photos of the dishes as they come, and the more we get into the meal, the more chocolate is served with the food.
The meal is long, just like that first day, everyone enjoying the conversation and the drinks.
Once, under the table, our knees knock and neither of us moves, and I’m tempted to place my hand on her thigh, possessively, like she’s mine.
Finally, what feels like hours later, we’re shepherded down another long corridor towards the demonstration kitchen for coffee.
The group surges ahead, drawn by the smell of caramelizing sugar and the promise of truffle samples.
Manuela lingers, pausing by a display of antique molds shaped like flowers. I stop beside her.
“They’re kind of creepy, right?” I whisper, leaning in.
She tilts her head, a grin tugging at her lips. “My grandmother had one like that one, see?” She points at one in the far corner. It’s rusted and old and looks like a Thanksgiving cornucopia. “My sister always thought it was creepy. And no one seems to know where it came from.”
“Was it haunted?”
“Maybe, but she baked the best cakes in it, so I’m not complaining.” Her laugh is soft, caught in the low hum of the ventilation overhead. She shakes her head but doesn’t move away. And that’s all the invitation I need to shift closer, just enough that the warmth of her arm grazes mine.
“Connor,” she says, warning in her voice, though the corner of her mouth betrays her with a smile.
“You weren’t in my bed this morning.” My hand hovers at her waist, careful, waiting for any sign I’ve gone too far.
Manuela’s eyes flick toward the hallway, where the rest of the group’s voices echo faintly. Then back to me. “Do you want to get caught?”
I shake my head, leaning in just a fraction. “No. But I hate pretending I don’t want you.”
Her expression flickers, just for a second, like she wasn’t expecting this level of honesty. She presses a palm to my chest, firm but not pushing me away. Her eyes spark, amused and sharp, and they drag all the way down to my lips. “Well, I care. No one needs to know our business, Connor.”
Something about the way she says it, low and deliberate, makes my pulse spike. Like she’s not shutting me down, just reminding me of the line we’re toeing and of the temporary nature of this arrangement.
And the worst part? It looks like she believes that.
I dip my head, brushing my mouth close enough to hers that I feel her sigh.
“One kiss,” I murmur.
Her hand lingers where it is, then relaxes just slightly, and that’s all the permission I need. My lips find hers, quick and hot, stealing the taste of her laugh before the sound of footsteps jolts us apart.
She smooths her hair like nothing happened, stepping out of the alcove ahead of me with a sneaky smile on her face.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to school my expression before I follow. And realize that I’m fucking done for.