Chapter 24
Gavin
MOON RIVER
Ihope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel for her company.
Even though I am pathetically desperate.
When she hesitates, I throw in one last attempt to keep her from leaving.
“Please? The house is so quiet without Lily. You’d really be doing me a favor.”
A smile ghosts across her mouth, and I know I’ve got her. “I guess I could eat.”
She claims a barstool at the kitchen island while I take stock of the fridge. In truth, I’d planned on throwing together a sad excuse for a salad with what’s left of the vegetables—and I’m definitely not serving that to Scottie. Nothing says romance like wilted produce.
“Chicken okay?”
She nods, elbows on the counter, watching me—curious.
As I pat the chicken dry and pull the seasonings from the cabinet, I ask, “How was your day? Other than the unwanted visitor, I mean.”
“It was good. I stopped by the real estate office before my showing and my dad asked me if you had been creepy with me.” She giggles, like the thought is ridiculous. “He asked if I had a lock on my door.”
I slice a lemon and squeeze it over the chicken, casting her a brief smile. “What did you tell him?”
Her smile widens. She rests her chin in her palm. “The truth. That you’re literally so creepy, staring at me through the windows. Basically a peeping Tom.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’m sure he loved that. He’s probably on his way now with a pitchfork.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Just kidding. I told him you haven’t been creepy at all, but he didn’t look totally convinced.”
While the chicken marinates, I chop cucumber, tomato, red onion, Kalamata olives, and a handful of fresh parsley.
Scottie glances at her phone, then stands and opens the fridge, grabbing one of the insulin pens I told her to keep here. I’m glad now that I did. She settles back onto the stool, dials in her dose, and gives herself a quick injection beneath the table.
“Can’t say I blame him,” I say, picking up where we left off. “If Lily was shacking up with some guy, pool house or not, I would’ve already run a background check on him while quietly plotting his murder.”
She sighs, eyes bright with amusement. “That poor girl. You’re not going to let her date until she’s thirty.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Twenty-nine. I’m not a monster.” I grab a box of quinoa from the pantry and get water boiling. “And tell your dad I’m planning to switch your lock to one of those keypad ones. You can give him the code if you want.”
Her head tilts, forehead creasing. “Why would you do that? The lock works just fine.”
“So you don’t have to worry about keeping track of a key,” I say, flipping the chicken to start it cooking.
Scottie inhales, eyes on me, the corners of her lips turning down—not a frown, but not a smile. “Thank you,” she says softly. And I get the feeling it means more to her than just a lock. Like maybe it’s the first time someone’s tried to make her life easier.
“So,” she starts, sliding on a smile, trying to look unaffected. “You mentioned having to tell me something.”
Right. I almost forgot.
“Ethan called me into his office today.” Her brows lift. “He asked why I added another dependent to my insurance, so I told him the truth.”
She sucks in a breath. “And what did he say?”
“That he’d keep it a secret from everyone except Marisa.”
Her shoulders sag, relief flashing across her face. “I wish it stayed between us, but if anyone was going to find out, Ethan and Marisa are the last people I’d worry about spreading it around.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as I stir the quinoa. “I should’ve talked to you first.”
“I don’t expect you to lie to your brother for me.”
The chicken sizzles as I set the lid on the pan. “But you should be able to trust me. To know that what happens between us stays between us.” I wipe my hands and move to stand in front of her. “My family is important to me, but so are you.”
We stare at each other for minute that seems to stretch beyond that—time stalling.
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing gently, and it completely undoes me.
In another life, this could be real. Me cooking dinner for my wife, her telling me about her day, but in the real version, dinner would get cold because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from scooping her up in my arms, taking her back to our bedroom, and making love to the woman of my dreams. But that’s not our life, so I stay on my side of the island and she stays on hers.
I finish cooking dinner while Scottie talks about her showing—some client her parents pawned off on her because she hasn’t been landing many on her own. Besides me.
While the chicken rests, I grate a clove of garlic into a bowl of thick yogurt, stir in diced cucumber, dill, salt, and another squeeze of lemon.
As I’m plating the food—layering the quinoa first, cucumber and tomato salad, sliced chicken over the top, and crumbling feta to finish it off—Scottie leans over, inspecting my work.
“Smells good. What is it?”
“Greek chicken bowls.”
We eat at the island, my knee accidentally brushing against hers, and I try my best to ignore the jolt that runs through me because of it.
She closes her eyes after the first bite, moaning, and I swear I almost forget how to breathe.
“This is really good,” she says around a small, pleased sigh. “Like really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, but the truth is I’m basking in it. Soaking it in. I’d cook for her every day if she asked.
We fall into easy conversation. She tells me more about the showing—how the client asked how difficult it would be to soundproof a room, and how she suspected he had plans to turn it into a sex room. I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my chicken.
When we finish, I gather our bowls and rinse them in the sink, not rushing—because every second she’s here is a second I get to keep her.
“So,” I begin, drying my hands on a dish towel like it’s no big deal. “Want to watch a movie?”
Her brows lift, gaze sparkling. “Almost sounds like you’re trying to get me to stay, Ledger?”
Yes. God, yes.
I clear my throat. “Just thought it’d be nice. House is quiet. I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie that didn’t have animated characters.”
She studies me for a moment too long—like she sees through the excuse, and maybe she does, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Her mouth pulls into a grin, chin dipping, ocean eyes clear and beautiful and devastatingly disarming.
“Okay,” she says softly. “A movie sounds nice.”
Relief hits hard enough I have to grip the counter.
She glances down at her slacks, making a face. “Mind if I change into something more comfortable first?”
“Yeah. Of course.” My voice comes out rough. Too rough.
I head to my room and pull on sweats and a T-shirt—nothing special, but even the idea of her changing is doing things to me I probably shouldn’t examine.
When I return to the living room, she walks in from the back door at the same time.
And it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to stare.
She’s in an oversized T-shirt—the kind that falls to mid-thigh. I’m pretty sure she’s wearing shorts under there, but they’re barely visible. She looks comfortable, effortless. Her long legs on display, face free of makeup, hair pulled into a loose knot.
Fucking stunning.
It’s not like she’s trying to be sexy. She just is. And somehow that’s worse. Or better. I don’t know. I can’t think.
She tucks one side of the shirt under her thigh as she sits on the couch, casual like she’s not trying to kill me.
“What are we watching?”
“I—uh—” I clear my throat again, useless. “I’ll let you pick.”
She smiles, small and familiar and warm, and pats the cushion beside her.
I sit. Not too close. Not far either.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her leg through my sweats.
“You’re going to regret that, because I’m picking the girliest movie possible.”
I laugh. “I’m a girl dad, I can handle girlie.”
She scrolls through streaming apps, humming to herself, before landing on a familiar blue poster.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
She glances over, testing my reaction.
I nod. “Good pick.”
I might’ve seen it once but can’t really recall much about it.
The opening credits roll. The room sinks into a soft glow—just the lamp beside the couch. Scottie tucks her legs up beside her, one knee brushing my thigh. I try to pretend it feels casual.
About fifteen minutes in, just as Audrey Hepburn’s character is stepping through a window in her black dress and pearls, Scottie speaks, voice quiet:
“This was my mom’s favorite movie.”
I almost say Beth?—but she doesn’t mean Beth.
She means her birth mother.
Her voice is quiet when she adds, “Her name was Renee.”
I knew she was adopted. But I’ve never gave it much thought.
“You miss her?” I ask.
She nods slowly. “Yeah. I do.” Her voice catches—like a memory is tugging at her.
“I used to be able to remember her voice. I held onto it for years. But I lost it. It’s just gone.
” She swallows hard, blinking at the screen.
“I hate that. I hate that I used to know something about her that I can’t get back. ”
My chest tightens. I shift closer—just enough so she’ll know I heard her.
“How old were you?” I ask gently.
“Six,” she says. “She had type 1. Money was tight—we didn’t have much. Insulin is expensive, and she was working two jobs, and sometimes she’d have to choose between bills and her medication.”
Her voice doesn’t shake, but mine might if I try to speak. “She slipped into diabetic ketoacidosis. They got her to the hospital, but her organs were already shutting down. She went into a coma and didn’t wake up.”
I close my eyes for a moment.
So fucking tragic. I didn’t know, but I should have.
“CPS tried to place me with family.” She gives a small shrug. “That’s how I ended up with Beth and Gordon. They were my mom’s aunt and uncle. I’d never met them before—the family wasn’t close.” Her expression softens. “But they saved me.”