Connor slows so suddenly that I have to slow with him, his hand tightening around mine. His face goes carefully blank in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“About last night?” he repeats, his voice flat.
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize why he’s reacting like that. Does he think I mean the sex? Jesus.
“No! No—” I rush to clarify. “Not about…that. I meant for not talking to you. At dinner. I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just really annoyed about my parents being so extra and then Maya finding out… But that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” Connor says, relief crossing his face as his shoulders ease. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say. I feel like a complete idiot for acting like a pissed-off teenager. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“It’s fine.” Connor squeezes my hand. “I’m the one who should apologize,” he says. “I shouldn’t have promised all thosethings to your mom and dad. It wasn’t my place to create expectations like that.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For saying that.”
We walk in silence for a few more moments, the gravel path crunching beneath our feet before giving way to grass. The far side of the lake stretches out ahead of us, less manicured than the area around the cottages, with trees growing right up to the water’s edge.
“It sounded nice, though,” I admit quietly, not looking at him. “All of it. The apartment with better insulation. The yard for a dog.” I pause, heat creeping up my neck. “It sounded too good to be true, actually. Maybe that’s why I got so upset.”
Okay, did I just admit I want a future with him out loud? I think I did. Oh God.
Connor is silent for a long moment, and when I risk a glance at him, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “It did sound nice. Maybe because it didn’t feel completely fake when I said it.”
I stare at him, not sure I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing.
Does he want that too?
No. Absolutely not. That’s insane. I’m probably overthinking this, and he’s just being nice. We barely know each other, and Connor has already implied relationships are more hassle than they’re worth, so there are really only two other deeply unappealing explanations here.
Either he can tell I’ve basically imprinted on him after one amazing weekend and two orgasms and feels bad for me, or he doesn’t mean any of it, which would make him the kind of guy who says romantic things for sport.
A player, basically. Or a narcissist.
And he’s neither of those, unless my judgment has fully left the building—which, to be fair, given the last twenty-four hours, is not completely impossible.
He squeezes my hand again, and I bite back my own smile, because there’s no safe way to respond to that. Not without admitting how badly I want us to be real.
We keep walking until the cottages disappear behind us. The path curves around the lake, partly shaded by the trees, and eventually we find a small clearing near the water, sheltered from the cottages but still open enough to catch the sunlight.
“This looks good,” Connor says, nodding at the clearing.
“Perfect,” I say, my stomach doing an embarrassing little swoop.
Okay. Why do I feel so awkward? It’s like I’m sneaking off with my first boyfriend to make out under the bleachers.
Connor takes the blanket from me and spreads it out. We sit facing the lake, and I pull the shopping bag between us, unpacking the food he and Mom packed for our picnic: sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a container of fruit, two bags of chips, and a bottle of wine that looks far too expensive for a casual picnic.
I’m sure that was Mom’s idea.
Then I find two actual wine glasses—not plastic cups or tumblers, but real glass stemware—and set them carefully on the blanket.
“Mom did not mess around with the supplies,” I say, and Connor snorts.
“She insisted I take those.”
I watch as he uncorks the wine bottle, the muscles in his forearm flexing just enough that I have to force myself not to stare. He pours wine into both glasses, then hands one to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
