Chapter 15
Scottie
ONLY A LITTLE GRASS
The second the door clicks shut behind Gavin, the silence in the pool house is deafening.
He hadn’t lingered—just unlocked the door, handed me the key, and left before I could think of something to say.
Now it’s just me, alone with a racing mind and the unfamiliar sounds of a new space: the tick of the wall clock, the tiny shifts of the house as it settles, the slow drip of the faucet, my own pulse thudding in my ears.
I stand there for a second, still holding the random bag I grabbed from my car like it’s a flotation device.
I can’t figure out what possessed me to come here tonight.
It’s not like I didn’t have options—I could’ve stayed with Elyse, or checked into a hotel, or driven around aimlessly until my parents were done hosting the whole complex.
But instead, I ended up here. At Gavin’s.
The place smells freshly cleaned—soap, something woodsy, and that telltale trace of disinfectant.
I drop my bag on the edge of the bed and flop backward, staring up at the ceiling. God. He wasn’t kidding. This mattress is heaven.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done something this impulsive. I wish I could blame it on ADHD, or low blood sugar, or cosmic interference, but the truth is simpler: I wanted to see him.
That realization hits me like a punch to the ribs.
I wanted to see him.
Even after spending the better portion of the day together, faking a marriage, I still drove here.
I don’t know what that says about me, but it’s probably nothing good.
I roll onto my side, facing the window. Outside, the pool glows faint blue under the deck lights, rippling every few seconds from the breeze. Beyond that, the vineyard stretches like a dark ocean, and for the first time all day, I feel myself relax.
Which means, of course, my brain chooses now to replay the moment I showed up at his door.
The way he looked—barefoot, hair loose and a little damp from a shower, T-shirt clinging to him in all the right ways. He smelled like clean linen and pine. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bright, like he was happy to see me—though I might’ve been imagining that part.
And that voice—low, deep, the kind that sends goosebumps skimming across my skin, even when he’s just saying hey.
I groan and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “You’re a disaster,” I whisper to the empty room.
Because what kind of sane person drives across town to the house of the guy who kissed her in a moment that wasn’t supposed to mean anything—and can’t stop wondering why it felt like everything?
My heart does this annoying fluttery thing just remembering it—the warmth of his body flush with mine, the taste of his lips, his beard rasping against my skin, the cool edge of his glasses catching my temple, the way he gripped my waist like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or let me go.
I tell myself to stop, to think about literally anything else. But my brain is nothing if not stubborn.
So instead, I think about the way he looked tonight when I caught him mid-explanation about his sourdough starter. He was so sciencey and passionate, talking about bread like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
And the way he’d blushed when he realized it.
My cheeks warm thinking about it. I can still hear his voice, the subtle pride under the embarrassment. The man has no idea how hot it is when he talks about things he loves.
I kick off my shoes and curl up on my side. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel stupid about this—about showing up unannounced and asking to stay. But right now, I’m going to let myself enjoy something I haven’t had since the townhouse caught on fire.
A really good fucking mattress.
I close my eyes, and for a second, I let myself pretend this is normal—that there’s not a whole world of reasons why this is a bad idea.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
I lurch upright, my pulse spiking. It’s not a loud knock—just two short taps. But my stomach does that stupid swoopy thing again, because there’s only one person it could be.
I swing my legs off the bed and pad barefoot to the door. When I open it, Gavin is standing there, holding a small plate covered with foil.
He looks sheepish, one hand shoved in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bug you.”
My lips curve before I can stop them. “Pretty sure I bugged you first.”
He holds up the plate. “I thought—you probably didn’t eat dinner. Figured your blood sugar might tank overnight.”
I blink at him, thrown. “You brought me food?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Spaghetti, sourdough garlic bread, cheese, and a couple of apple slices. It’s not gourmet, but it’s something.”
He could’ve shown up here and whipped out his dick, and I think I’d still be less surprised than I am right now.
My diabetes has usually been more of an inconvenience to the men in my life.
Most people don’t really know how to help, so I stopped expecting them to.
You get used to handling it on your own, even when it can feel isolating.
And then there’s Gavin—who barely knows anything about the disease—and he’s already helping. I didn’t have to ask. He just knew.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods once, eyes flashing to mine. “Yeah, well. I can’t have anything happening to my wife.” He winks—obviously joking, trying to lighten the moment.
Meanwhile, I’m still stuck on wife and how that one word makes everything inside me go warm and gooey.
I take the plate from him, our fingers making just enough contact to spark that static I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“No problem.” He lingers, eyes dropping to my mouth before flicking back up. The air between us shifts, tightening.
It’s ridiculous how fast my heartbeat picks up. I swear he can hear it.
“Gav,” I start, but his name comes out softer than I mean it to—like a plea.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh, left the back door unlocked. If you need anything. Extra blankets, more food, anything.”
“I appreciate it,” I say, and it comes out thin, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
He gives a slow nod, but he doesn’t move to leave. For a long second, we stand there in the doorway, caught in that suspended moment where neither of us seems willing to break whatever this is.
I don’t know which of us leans in first, only that he’s suddenly closer. And because he’s at least a foot taller, I have to look up. The shift is small, but it feels seismic—close enough to see the green in his hazel eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between us.
It would be so easy to close that space. And God, I want to.
But then he steps back, the moment breaking under the sudden press of reality.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he says, voice strained.
“Right.” My breath catches. “Sleep.”
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Then he gives a small nod and turns toward the main house.
I watch him walk across the patio, the pool light reflecting off his shoulders.
When he’s gone, I close the door and lean back against it, pressing a hand to my chest.
My heart is still racing, but for the first time all day, I don’t feel quite so restless.
I uncover the plate for a quick inspection. I already ate but the thought means more than I can fully comprehend myself. It’s simple, thoughtful, and completely him.
Because it’s not about the food—it’s about someone thinking about you when they didn’t have to.
And that, I realize, is exactly why he terrifies me. Because Gavin isn’t just anyone—and letting myself get tangled up in him will only hurt more in the end.
The first thing I see when I wake up is a pair of unnervingly blue eyes staring into mine. For a disorienting second, I think I’ve died and a small Victorian ghost has come to claim me.
Then the ghost speaks. “You sleep weird.”
I sit up too fast, nearly banging my head on the headboard. “Jesus, Lily!”
She continues to stare, entirely unbothered. “Dad said you’re our guest, so I’m supposed to be extra nice.”
“Did he now?” I mutter, still waking up.
“I was watching you breathe. You made a snort noise.”
“Thanks for the observation.”
She grins, toothy and adorable. “Dad said to ask if you want breakfast. He’s making green juice.” She cups a hand around her mouth. “Don’t drink it. It tastes like grass.”
Her expression has me fighting a laugh. “Doesn’t sound very appetizing.” I glance toward the window, where sunlight is bleeding through the curtains. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight. Dad said he’d make waffles if you came.” She bounces once on her heels. “You’ll come, right?”
She says it like there’s only one correct answer. I sigh, already smiling. “Waffles sound delicious.”
“Yay!” She takes off down the path toward the main house, hair flying like a small hurricane in pajamas.
Before I even roll out of bed, I check my blood sugar, and lucky me, it’s in range. That’s one thing going right today.
I dig through my bag, praying something in there qualifies as an outfit. I come up with a pair of shorts and a random tank top. My hair’s a tangled mess, so I twist it into a ponytail and hope it reads as intentional. Toothbrush. Splash of water. Swipe of deodorant.
Outside, the air is already warm and sweet, carrying the faint smell of yeast and fruit from the vineyard. I pad across the patio, flip-flops slapping, and find the back door unlocked.
“Knock, knock?” I call, stepping inside.
“Morning,” Gavin calls back from the kitchen. He’s in basketball shorts and a cut-off T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide his large biceps. There’s just something about a hot man in the kitchen. If this is how the day starts, I might finally become a morning person.
He’s got one hand on a juicer that sounds like it’s pulverizing an entire garden and the other reaching for a mixing bowl. When the machine finally sputters to a stop, he pours something violently green into a glass before turning his attention to a bowl of batter.
He catches me eyeing the glass. “Before you judge, it’s spinach, cucumber, green apple, ginger, lemon, and kale.”
“So…grass.” Lily was right.
He glances up, smirking. “Mostly fruit. Only a little grass.” He winks, rinses another glass, and fills it halfway. “Want some?”
“I prefer my greens covered in butter next to a steak.”
“Live a little.” He slides the glass toward me, his fingers grazing the counter just shy of mine before he turns back to the stove. “Just a sip. For me.”
Not sure how I’m supposed to say no to that. I sniff it. It smells kind of fruity, kind of earthy. One sip and—okay, fine—it’s not awful. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had. But it’s still way too healthy for my taste.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He gives the waffle iron a decisive click and glances over his shoulder. “You good? Sleep okay?”
“Until your daughter went full Exorcist beside my bed.”
He laughs, a low, warm sound that slides right under my ribs. “She used to do that to me, too. Woke up once to her nose touching mine. Nearly threw her across the room.”
“She’s got horror-movie timing. You should be proud.”
“I am.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Sorry for sending her after you. She was supposed to knock.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter where I set it down. My agent’s name flashes across the screen, and my stomach flips.
“Sorry—give me a sec.” I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Scottie! You alive?” Russell’s voice is way too chipper for this hour—but then again, he’s a couple of time zones ahead.
“Barely,” I mumble, stepping toward the window.
“Great. I’ve got good news, which means I get to be loud. Remember the Off Script Collective? Big on sketch and improv hybrids? They saw your reel and loved it.”
Off Script. My old company’s biggest rival.
I stop breathing. “You’re serious?”
“Very. Their feature just booked a TV writers’ room, and they need a sub for eight weeks. They asked for you by name.”
My pulse does a stupid little drum solo. “Oh my God.”
“Rehearsals start in October. Thursdays through Saturdays. Paid. Maybe a few teaching gigs if you want them. They’d like to meet over video conference today or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow works,” I say automatically, because I’ll need some time to prepare.
He hums, pleased. “Noon good?”
“Noon is perfect.”
“Brush your hair, put on some makeup,” he says. “Or don’t. Just look like someone they’d pay.”
“Copy that.”
“Happy for you, kid. Text me after.”
When I hang up, I’m smiling like an idiot. The words replay in my head, realer each time: They asked for you.
Gavin’s watching me from across the kitchen, spatula in one hand, waffle iron steaming beside him. There’s batter on his forearm and a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Good news?”
“The best,” I say, laughing under my breath. “I’ve got a potential offer. A short-run show. They actually asked for me.”
His smirk eases, the brightness in his eyes dimming just a little. “That’s incredible, Scottie.”
“It feels—” I shake my head, trying to catch up with my own heart. “It feels like maybe my career isn’t as dead as I thought.”
He nods once, still watching the waffle instead of me. “Guess that means you won’t be stuck here much longer, huh?”
Right on cue, Lily bounds into the kitchen, cutting off our conversation. “Scottie!” she squeals, launching herself into my side. “I’m so glad you came!”
“Me too.” I roll my lips together, sneaking a look at Gavin. I thought he’d be a little more enthusiastic. Maybe it’s just too early—he’s probably still waking up.
I take another sip of the green juice and catch Lily watching me, nose wrinkling.
“I told you not to drink it. Be careful, sometimes he puts celery in it.” She makes a dramatic gagging sound.
I toss my head back, laughing. “Gross. What a mean daddy.”
Gavin gives us both a mock glare as he sets another waffle on the plate. “All right, ladies. Who wants the first waffle?”