Chapter 7
Seven
AVA
The gym smells like overused disinfectant, synthetic citrus, and a type of sterile clean that never quite lets you forget where you are. Which is, and always will be, a germy gym, despite its five-star status.
It’s barely six a.m., and my anxiety got me out of bed faster than any alarm could. I told myself movement would help clear my head. Burn off the leftover humiliation still stewing in my bloodstream after last night’s encounter with Soren.
So far, the only thing I’ve managed to burn are the muscles in my inner thighs from the world’s most vindictive treadmill.
I should’ve gone for a walk outside. Got some fresh air. But no. I opted for pain and torture instead, because I’m a rational adult with control issues.
I’m gripping the handles so tightly my knuckles ache, and tension coils from my shoulders down to my fingertips. Each step is a desperate attempt to outrun the anxiety gnawing at my brainstem.
My playlist says: Power Mode.
My head says: Panic Spiral.
And my legs say: screw you, Ava Bell in Morse code made of lactic acid.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Then another. Then seven more.
Fumbling to check it mid-stride on the treadmill, I nearly face-plant into the emergency stop bar. Graceful, I am not.
Emily Lawson. Best friend, extraordinaire.
BELL.
WHY AM I LEARNING ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE ON THE INTERNET??
#BellAndTheBlade?
What the actual hell is happening?
I thought you hated that guy?!
Pictures of you two are everywhere!
Damn girl, I leave you alone for ONE minute and you go full fantasy porno?
Wait, are you two fucking?
Groaning, I jab at the incline, slow down, then snatch my phone to text her back.
Emily has been my best friend since undergrad at Amherst—back when we were both broke, brilliant, and stubborn enough to believe we could change the world through fiction. She’s the calm to my chaos, the steady voice that talked me off ledges I didn’t even know I was standing on.
When things were bad with I Hate Your Face, she was the one who saw through the highlight reel. While I was crumbling, she stayed—quiet, patient, unflinching, anchoring me back to myself every single time I forgot who that was.
Emily took a professor gig at Seattle Pacific University, and plans to finally finish her manuscript there.
I haven’t told her about this whole fake dating Soren Pembry debacle yet. Obviously. Which is why I almost crashed out on the treadmill the second my phone buzzes with her name.
Can I plead temporary insanity?
I was tricked. There were cocktails.
And contractual obligations.
And an audible purring sound from our managers.
Soren Pembry??????
I’m scrolling through pics from the panel. Why does it seem like you and Mr. Sword Daddy are about to kiss and/or kill each other?
It’s called professional tension.
Ava. His eyes are doing “I’d burn down a kingdom for you” things.
Pretty sure that’s his default setting. All part of the fantasy brand.
Uh-huh.
You haven’t answered the question! Did you fall on his “sword” or just look like you wanted to?
We haven’t. And we won’t.
Are you trying to convince both of us?
Nothing’s happening.
Yet.
Please stop. I’m in a public place. And sweating. Profusely.
Girl, same. It’s because I was writing until 3AM, and now I’m on my third cold brew, and the barista put way too much AXE body spray on today.
Still. EXPLAIN.
Can I call you later? I’ll tell you everything.
You fucking better. I’m in Port Townsend for the weekend working on my novel, but my phone is by me.
Also, please know that if this ends in scandal, heartbreak, or a surprise wedding—I’m flying down, slapping you once with love, then officiating.
There will be no wedding. Can’t promise the other two won’t happen though.
Uh oh.
Yeah. Remind me why I let you leave me for the Pacific Northwest again?
Tenure and peace and less nonsense.
Right, I forgot.
For what it’s worth, you two are cute together. You would have gorgeous babies.
Again…NEVER happening.
Don’t think I won’t board a ferry back to Seattle to drag your romance-avoidant ass back into emotional alignment.
Tell Fisher he still owes me a rematch in Mario Kart. I want blood.
I’m wiping away the sweat from my forehead when the gym door swings open behind me.
Soren struts in as a mix of lust and temptation, wearing black joggers, a fitted white shirt that emphasizes his built chest and arms. A towel is slung over one shoulder. His hair is messy in that deliberate way, and the stubble lining his jaw could probably file steel.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t smirk. Or wink. Doesn’t say a damn thing. Only nods. Like we’re two regular people in a regular gym doing regular things and not co-starring in the ShelfSpace rumor mill’s hottest romance of the season.
Correction, fake romance.
I refocus on the treadmill, which is hard when my brain starts writing smut based on how his biceps flex when he stretches his arms behind his head.
Focus.
I glimpse the timer. Ten minutes left. I can survive ten more—
After a few more seconds, he says, “Morning,” voice still rough with sleep, like sand mixed in honey. It’s sexy. And I hate that. Kind of.
I try to reply, but my throat has decided to be dramatic. So, I nod instead and jab at the elliptical incline setting with slightly more force than necessary.
Soren moves to the weights and starts doing bicep curls. I try not to watch him in the mirror, which of course means I absolutely do. His shirt rides up a little, revealing a line of skin that shouldn’t be legal before coffee.
After he finishes a set, he approaches. “You want to lift with me?” He towels off his forehead.
I nearly trip again. “No, I’m doing cardio.”
“Right.” He grins, crooked and cute. I hate that too. “Well, if you’re planning to brave the weight rack after you finish your cardio, let me know. Don’t want you getting pinned under a barbell. I’d be obligated to save you, and then you’d owe me your life.”
“I’d rather take my chances with the barbell.”
His smile falters, then he exhales. He’s clearly tiptoeing across eggshells with me. After what he said last night, he deserves to.
“Listen,” Soren’s voice drops so low I have to slow my pace to hear him, “about last night—I’m sorry. What I said was out of line, and it was shitty of me.”
I’m caught off guard. Soren Pembry, offering an actual apology?
He scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
There’s a brief silence. One beat. Two.
Softer, he adds, “Anyway. I don’t want to walk around, pretending it didn’t happen. Or have you thinking that’s how I am when it’s not. I’m not that guy.”
This is the official moment my brain abandons cardio mode and enters full emotional glitch.
“Okay,” Soren drags the word out. “Um, good talk then.” He taps the side of my treadmill twice before walking back toward the free weights.
His words bounce around my head, along with a few more smutty visuals, because when Soren rolls his shoulders, his shirt clings tighter across his chest and back, making my mouth go dry. Bone-dry. Dust-bowl dry. I have to gulp down half my water before my voice even works.
“Hey,” I call out right as he’s about to resume lifting.
He looks back over his shoulder.
“Thanks.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend. “For the apology. Seriously.”
The smile he gives me might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to my heart. It isn’t the practiced Pembry grin he unleashes on fans. It’s gentle. Almost shy. And I know right then that if I’m not careful, it’ll split cracks in the foundation of every wall I’ve built to keep men like him out.
We dance around each other for the next half hour—subtle glances when we think the other isn’t paying attention. Except we are. I catch him watching me in the mirror more than once, his gaze sweeping over me every time.
When our eyes meet head-on, for a split second, his jaw tightens, and his brows twitch. It’s like we’re standing under a spotlight and I’m not sure whether to step away or lean in.
What if Emily is right? Would he burn a kingdom down for me?
Nah. Soren’s too selfish. Best to remember that.
When I finally move to the mat area to do a few half-assed crunches, Soren follows. I stretch out, trying to ignore him. He picks up a medicine ball.
I’m mid-sit-up when he suddenly kneels beside me. “Don’t engage your neck so much,” he says. “You’re going to strain it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going to hurt tomorrow.”
“I write for a living. My entire body already hurts every day.”
“Here. Try this. Lift from here.” Before I can slap it away, Soren’s hand slides behind my shoulders and adjusts my form.
His palm warms my back while his other rests lightly on my stomach, above the waistband of my leggings. The heat of his touch and the soft steadiness of his voice manage to flip a switch I didn’t want turned on. Especially by him.
Soren doesn’t say much else. He helps, then backs off.
No lingering. And somehow that makes it worse because if he were only being cocky or flirty, I’d know how to deal with it.
I’ve been defending myself against his charm since the ShelfSpace algorithm started feeding me his stupid, seductive videos.
I don’t have defenses for this quiet, gentle, helpful Soren.
Sitting up, I grab my water bottle, trying not to let him see how flushed I am. My eyes betray me, darting back to the weight bench where he’s racked a barbell stacked heavier than twice my weight.
Gripping the bar again, his arms tense, veins standing out along his forearms. With his brows furrowed in concentration, Soren lowers and lifts with impressive control, and my mind... wanders.