My heart skips at the mention of Maya. Last night, before dinner, she accidentally found out about our fake relationship, so I panicked and told her everything—about Rick, about the lie, about how none of this is real. Except…maybe some of it is real now? I don’t even know anymore.
Anyway, she was really pissed at me. Not just because I lied to Mom and Dad, but because I wasn’t honest with her either. She had no idea about Rick, so the whole thing kind of threw her off. And if she and Connor spent the morning together, there’s no way she didn’t have questions.
“Was Maya…” I start, unsure how to phrase it. Hard on you? Interrogating you? Threatening to expose our lie? “Was she…okay with you?”
Connor’s expression shifts slightly, something flickering behind his eyes that I can’t quite read. “She was fine,” he says quickly. “We had a good talk, actually.”
“A good talk?” I repeat, quirking an eyebrow at him. “About what?”
Connor gives me a long look, like he’s deciding whether to tell me what he’s thinking.
“Uh,” he says, stalling, then smiles. “Nothing much.”
There’s definitely something he’s not telling me, but I don’t push. I’m not sure I’m ready to know, and I’m too busy trying not to dissolve into a puddle every time he looks at me.
“I should get dressed,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my towel situation.
Connor doesn’t move. He just watches me, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Don’t let me stop you.”
I pause, catching up.
Is he flirting with me?
The air between us feels hot enough to make me consider dropping the towel right there, but daylight and the complete lack of alcohol in my bloodstream keep me decent. Barely.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask, trying to sound casual as I inch toward my bag, already working out how to get dressed without giving Connor a show. Although after last night, that ship has pretty thoroughly sailed.
Connor walks to his side of the bed, where I notice a large shopping bag sitting on the bedside table. “I was thinking we could go for that picnic, if you’re still up for it.” He nods at the bag. “I packed some sandwiches, and your mom gave us wine and snacks.”
Relief washes through me, followed quickly by something warmer. He remembered our plan to escape for the day. He made sure we had food. After everything that happened last night, after everything that happened this morning, he still wants to spend time alone with me.
Sort of.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I hear how embarrassingly happy I sound. I clear my throat, trying to rein it in. “I mean, yeah. I’m starving, so a picnic sounds great.”
Connor’s smile widens, and he gives me a small nod. “Your mom wanted me to tell you they’re doing a bonfire by the lake later for s’mores, but we’re free until then.”
“Great,” I repeat, suddenly really happy.
For a moment, we just look at each other, like we’ve both forgotten what we’re supposed to do next. Then Connor says, “I’ll let you get dressed. Meet you downstairs?”
I nod, even though what I really want to say is,Or you could stay.
I don’t say it, though, because without alcohol in my bloodstream, I’m apparently not that brave.
***
We leave the cottage together ten minutes later, Connor carrying the shopping bag with our picnic supplies while I carry a blanket tucked under my arm. The afternoon sun is warm on my skin, and the air smells like pine and lake water. When Connor’s free hand slips into mine and our fingers lace together, my heart does a complicated flip in my chest.
He shoots me a quick look, like he’s checking if I’m okay with it, and when I smile at him, he smiles back.
It feels so right. Like we’re actually a couple on a weekend getaway, heading off for a romantic picnic. Not neighbors playing an elaborate charade that somehow morphed into…whatever this is now.
We follow the shoreline away from the cottages, his thumb occasionally brushing over my skin and sending a shiver up my arm. I’m painfully aware of every inch of him beside me, because my brain is helpfully filling in the rest from last night—the mouth that made me come completely undone, the hands that gripped my thighs, the hips that pinned me to the mattress.
My body responds to the memory with a hum of arousal that I try very hard to ignore. Every time our shoulders brush, the contact feels magnified, my skin buzzing everywhere he touches me.
“So,” I say when the silence starts to feel too loaded, “I wanted to say sorry. About last night.”
