But pressure iseverywhere.
The serversclear dessert like they’re on a mission, working fast and diligently so that they can close the kitchen and probably head home. Chairs all around the table scrape. Someone suggests cards inside. Someone else yells “hot tub,” and three people cheer like they’ve trained for this moment their whole lives.
I stand too fast and pretend it’s to help stack plates instead of to stop my hands from shaking.
I’m halfway to the kitchen door when a warm-hued glass appears in my line of sight.
“Water?” Connor’s voice is low and soothing, like a salve to my nerves. I don’t quite know why I’m so on edge. I was fine when it was just Connor and me, stranded in a small town, anonymous. But back here, under this roof with these people, everything feels magnified. Every laugh, every glance, every pause is another chance for someone to connect the dots. And maybe they already have.
“Thank you.” My throat is dry enough that the word comes out scratchy. I sip. I don’t look at him. Not yet.
He tips his head toward the kitchen. “Walk with me?”
We cut through the swinging door into soft light and the hum of the fridge. We’re at the back of the kitchen, tucked inside abutler’s pantry that rivals the size of my bedroom back in New York. Under-cabinet LEDs make everything look prettier than it already is in natural daylight. The bowls they used to serve dinner are stacked on a drying mat, and although it’s messy, it looks incredibly aesthetic.
The terrace chatter blurs to a muffled chorus.
“About earlier,” I say and then stop because I don’t actually know what I want to say.Sorry I climbed you?Thank you for making that noise I can’t stop hearing?“I didn’t expect a welcome committee the second we came downstairs.”
He leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms. Sleeves pushed up. Forearms tan. There’s a damp ring on his glass from the condensation, and he idly traces the drops with one finger. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
“You did,” I say. “You handled Nicole like a pro.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’ve had practice.”
“Right.” Of course. He’s been around these people—heisone of these people—for years. I rest my back against the opposite counter so we’re parallel, a safe strip of tile between us. “So. The pact?”
One of his eyebrows lifts, barely. “The no-pressure pact.”
“Don’t make fun.”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head, eyes steady on mine. “I just want you to know I heard you.”
I set the water down. My hands are calmer now. “Okay. Then here are my terms.” I count off on my fingers like I’m pitching a client. “No making it a thing in front of the group. No explanations. No… fondue jokes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That euphemism was definitely a stretch.”
“And we check in. If either of us feels weird, we stop. No resentment. No… emotional hangovers. Discretion is welcome, of course.”
He nods once, like he’s tucking each into a mental drawer. “And a rule for me,” he says. “If anyone starts taking shots, we vanish.”
I blink. “That’s… oddly specific.”
He glances toward the door, rueful. “Big groups, alcohol, and gossip? Not our sport.” He pauses, thumb dragging over the edge of the table. “People get sloppy, and sloppy usually means loud. Too many ears, too many opinions. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better not to hand them anything they can twist.”
Something about the flat honesty in his tone makes my chest pinch.
We let the quiet sit while the sound outside grows louder by the second. I swear I can hear someone chanting “shots, shots, shots,” but it’s so faint that I can’t be sure. If it were the case, then we could, potentially, retreat upstairs while no one is looking.
Connor straightens, like he’s about to move away, and then doesn’t. “You have, uh…” He gestures to his own jaw, and I touch mine, mortified, thinking,Mascara? Crumb?
“Here,” he says softly and takes a step. He stops short enough that I can smell the slight notes of citrus from his cologne, lifts his hand, and very carefully tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His knuckles brush my cheekbone, and it’s not a big moment, but my whole body lights up like I’ve swallowed a live wire.
“You’re going to get us in trouble,” I whisper.
“Probably.” He doesn’t step back. His gaze flicks to my mouth and then away, like he’s disciplining himself and forcing his body to retreat. “We should rejoin civilization.”
“Or we could hide here with the lemons,” I say, nodding at the cutting board.
