Chapter 16
Sixteen
SOREN
I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life—broody, aloof, built for flings and random hookups, quick, dirty, and emotionally unavailable, but never of running from a challenge. Especially not one in the form of Ava Bell, with her stubborn heart and eyes that shoot lightning bolts.
Which is why I’m still here. Even after last night. Even after this morning. Even after breakfast. And especially after she fled the table like she was on fire and I was the gasoline.
Even now, standing in front of the house with my boots on the driveway, about to get into a car with her, for a day trip into the most ironic setting imaginable.
Salem, Massachusetts.
The town of witch trials. Of burning questions, ghost tours, and all the pent-up tension a pair of enemies-turned-fake-lovers–yes, lovers. I’m manifesting it.
“Where’s Fisher?” Ava asks, standing on the porch, arms crossed, lips pursed, wearing a fitted black V-neck sweater that dips down, teasing at her cleavage and hugging her petite frame.
Her hair is in a ponytail, giving all sorts of visuals of me gripping it tight while her lips wrap around my dick.
And then again, when I’m buried inside her from behind, tugging it back to make her moan my name.
My cock swells inside my jeans. Down, Captain Pembry!
“He said he was coming,” she says, peering behind me.
I shrug innocently, knowing exactly how this is going to play out. I overheard Fisher and Mandy whispering in the kitchen this morning about a Christmas crafting sesh in her “She Shed,” which Fisher replied with, “You mean your Smut Hut?”
Mandy pretty much gift-wrapped this solo tourist run with Ava for me. God bless her.
Just as Ava turns to head back inside, the front door swings open and there Fisher is, coffee mug in hand and fake innocence painted across his face.
“Why aren’t you ready to go?" Ava asks him, confused.
“Oh,” he says, British voice casual. “Forgot. Uh, I promised Mandy I’d help her with the hay bale staging for her Christmas nativity setup. Can’t bail on the family.”
Ava narrows her eyes. “You hate hay.”
“Luv, I’m doing it for Jesus.” He winks before backing into the house.
“Tell Jesus, I’m going to murder you,” she hisses.
Trying to hide the smile spreading across my face, my chin drops to my chest. Fisher blows her a kiss, then slams the door.
Ava’s cutting scowl could slice steel. I’m so thrilled for this development. No buffer. A whole day with a woman who drives me insane in every possible way.
I flash her a cocky grin. “Guess it’s just you and me, Bells.”
She doesn’t answer.
I can’t help myself. “It’s also a great opportunity to prove we’re the real deal to the world, don’t you think? We can take a million pics and post a few vids.”
The glare she levels me with nearly guts me.
There’s a storm brewing behind her expression that tells me her mind is grinding over a thousand unspoken questions while her heart pulls in opposite directions.
She’s rattled, caught between craving and caution, between the enemy she swore I was and the man she’s already reached for. Twice.
I’m blurring the hell out of that line for Ava, and I can see her trying desperately to stitch the boundaries back together, to decide where the performance ends and the truth begins.
What’s left is her fear—feral, stubborn. But armor can be broken. When it does, she’ll finally see what I’ve known all along: none of this has ever been pretend.
I’ll show her. And I now know, after everything—me laying my cards out on the table like I did this morning— that I need to be strategic with Ava. Cautious as fuck. I have to do it through the role she’s letting me play.
Game on, Bells.
A beat of silence ticks between us, then she’s stomping toward the SUV.
I follow.
The rental smells of stale coffee and cheap car spray when I open the passenger side door for her. She hesitates. I catch the unease in her eyes as she climbs in without a word.
After rounding the front, I open the door on the driver’s side, and slide into the seat.
Now, it’s just me, her, and enough awkward tension to power a Tesla.
Let’s do this.
Ava fiddles with the hem of her sweater while I check the GPS. It’s suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.
My pulse thuds as though I’m about to face a firing squad instead of a girl with a brazen tongue and a wounded heart. But damn if I don’t want to be in this small space.
Alone.
With her.
Even if she stabbed me multiple times the whole way there, I’d welcome the pain. We might be playing two different games here, but I know, without a doubt, I’m going to win mine.
“And we’re off.” I grin. She doesn’t.
Salem in late autumn is a postcard come to life. Damp cobblestones shine beneath the sun, and amber leaves swirl in tight little tornadoes at every corner.
Colonial houses wear their history, proudly weathered shutters, creaky porches, garlands of dried corn husks and burnt-orange ribbon.
Storefront windows glow with soft light, fogged up from inside where baristas pull espresso shots and locals huddle over mugs. A brisk breeze cuts through it all, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of cold earth and a savory sweetness from the bakery two doors down.
I park near the town square, and I’m barely out of the SUV before I’m gawking like a tourist.
“You’ve got this dreamy gleam in your eyes. It’s almost cute enough to make me forget how insufferable you are.” She exits the car once I open her door.
“Insufferable’s one way to put it,” I say, brushing my thumb over the doorframe before she passes. “But if you think I’m letting go of the dreamy part, you’re out of luck.”
“Delusion does look mildly good on you.” She pulls her long hair over to one shoulder.
“Bells, is that a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.” She’s trying to hide that smile, but I see it. “So, this is your first time in Salem then?”
“Yeah, but I’ve always wanted to come here,” I admit, my gaze zipping around.
The buildings look as though they might hypnotize me if I stare long enough. “Seeing it with you, though, might be the best part.”
She rolls her eyes, but her blush betrays her. I’m going to wear you down, Ava Bell. And then you’ll blush for a completely different reason.
We walk down Essex Street, her voice slipping into tour-guide mode. She tells me about the original Puritan settlements, the trials, the accusations. About Bridget Bishop—the first person to be executed in Salem for the crime of witchcraft. About the way fear twisted justice into spectacle.
She points to historic plaques, tugs me into the graveyard where moss-covered headstones lean with time, and pauses to buy us cider donuts she insists are the best in the state.
“I’m serious,” she says with her mouth full. “This is a religious experience.”
I take a bite. She’s not wrong. They’re warm, the edges crisp with sugar, the inside impossibly soft and apple-spiced. It tastes like fall got deep-fried and handed over in a paper bag.
Hours have passed by the time we reach the Witch House. I’m more than halfway convinced I need to set my next novel here.
“You know.” I stare up at the black-gabled architecture, “I’ve never written about witches.”
Her brow arches. “You’re telling me the King of Dark Fantasy hasn’t sunk his teeth into spellcasters yet?”
“Not yet.” I grin. “But I may have found the perfect setting for a new witchy series.”
And the perfect muse, I don’t say.
Ava’s texting someone when I glance over, her fingers tapping rapidly across the screen. When she finally puts her phone away, I’m about to ask who it was when the answer appears in the form of a man with a windswept ponytail and a giant skeleton key hanging from his belt loop.
“Uncle Marty,” she calls out, waving him over.
He flashes us both a toothy smile and makes his way toward us.
Ava turns to me. “Well, Pembry, you’re getting the exclusive after-hours tour of The Witch House. It’s closed for the season, but I thought you might enjoy it.”
My heart fumbles out of my chest and onto the floor. This…well, this is probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Uncle Marty leads us through the creaky old house, talking like he’s the official mayor of all things spooky, his voice booming through the low-ceilinged rooms as he rattles off history, jokes, and the occasional “Don’t touch that, it’s haunted.”
He shows us a replica of a 1600s kitchen, complete with cast-iron cauldrons and a fireplace large enough to roast a whole pig.
“They used to make beer in these,” he says, slapping the side of a barrel. “Witch’s brew. Probably still better than Bud Light.”
Ava rolls her eyes. I laugh. Marty keeps going.
“This bed frame here? Hand-carved. Rumored to have belonged to one of the judges who sentenced the accused. Some people claim it creaks at night…empty.”
I lean down toward Ava, my voice brushing over her ear. “Maybe the ghosts are fucking on it.”
She chokes on nothing, eyes wide with half-laughter, half-mortification. Worth it.
I give her a wink. Before I can enjoy her full reaction, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Matthew.
After you’re done playing Hocus Pocus Boyfriend in Salem, maybe we take a breather from the fake? I’m serious, Soren. Publicity stunts at shared events is one thing. Meeting her family? That’s rom-com quicksand, my guy.
Deep in the quicksand. Bring rope.
After a pause, I add:
Any updates on the Lena situation?
No news is good news. For now.
I respond with another thumbs up, then tuck the phone away and set my attention back to Ava. “So... where were we? Oh right. Ghost sex.”
With a waggle of his bushy brows, Uncle Marty steps aside, muttering about “special witch business,” leaving us alone.
Silence creeps in like candle smoke, settling around us. Not going to lie, it’s definitely on the spooky side.
Turning in a slow circle, Ava’s eyes scan the low beams and warped windows. “You know, the walls remember everything.”