Chapter 17 #2
What if, just once, I stopped thinking about everything that could go wrong, and let myself want him—not in locker room stalls or treehouses, but fully, recklessly, here and now?
The thought is terrifying. Yet intoxicating.
Bare minimum? I could get a few orgasms. Maybe even a dinner. Or two. And a side of dessert.
At what cost?
When Soren’s eyes drop to my mouth, electricity skitters across my nerves like someone just plugged me in. Every muscle locks, breath stumbles, and panic mixes with want. He’s about to kiss me, and my body is all in while my brain is screaming abort mission.
He drifts forward.
“There’s something that I don’t understand,” I say, making him halt.
“What’s that?” Soren leans back, away from the heat sparking between us, and my lungs forget their job—because apparently, they were counting on him to finish what he started.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’d like to.”
Something slithers into my chest. Hope? Oh no. I know better than to let that beast get comfortable, so I look away.
“We’ll see,” I say, more to myself than him.
Soren hears it, though. “That we will, Bells. That we will.”
He’s relentless in his pursuit to prove that this isn’t lust, or a publicity stunt, or some passing whim, but something that could actually matter.
I’m equally committed to shutting it down before it splinters through the seams I’ve spent years stitching shut. The stakes are too personal. This thing between us is a war of poached glances and loaded silences. Of confessions wrapped in charm and kisses.
All of which I haven’t stopped dreaming about over the years. To have…with someone.
And now, with Soren, I’ve stepped onto the battlefield, heart half-armored, pulse fully engaged, and no idea which one of us will be left standing when it’s over. As history has taught me, it won’t be me.
By the time we pull into the gravel drive of my family’s home, dusk has settled over the trees. The porch is lit, and the scent of roasted garlic and sage punches through the crisp air, enveloping us in a homecoming hug when I open the front door.
Inside, G-Ma is back. And hell hath no fury like a matriarch on a mission to celebrate her sweet Ava Bean and her handsome boyfriend before they jet off again.
Her exact words.
The moment we step over the threshold, she appears–lipstick fresh, arms flung wide. I know for a fact she’s been stationed between the curtains, waiting.
“There they are!” she bellows, bustling forward in a blaze of holiday sweater sequins and scented hairspray. “My favorite couple! I’ve got cider warming, apple pie cooling, and June performing a little ritual in your bedroom to assist with all your future lovemaking needs!”
Soren chokes beside me.
“Oh my God, G-Ma!” I hiss, face combusting.
“I’m trying to help’,” she huffs. “Memory foam absorbs everything.”
Before I can die a thousand deaths, the front door bursts open behind us with a slam.
Spinning, I immediately collide with an armful of wild hair, tote bags, and the scent of familiar citrus and sandalwood.
“EMILYYYYY!” I shriek.
We launch ourselves at each other with a high-pitched, best-friend squealing that could crack stained glass. Bags drop. Hair tangles. Soren flinches like he’s stumbled into an exorcism.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming home for Thanksgiving!” I hug her so tight she squeaks.
“I wanted it to be a surprise!” She hugs back. “You know what else is a surprise?” She breaks free. “This tall drink of sex appeal is standing in your foyer.”
My face goes up in flames.
“You didn’t mention anything about taking him home to meet your parents!”
“It’s not—he’s not—it’s complicated.”
Eyes wild with glee, Emily leans in. “It’s horny. That’s what it is. I get it.”
Soren gives a little wave, a half-grin tugging at his mouth as he tries to follow the conversation.
Emily turns to him. “Hi! I’m Emily. Just flew across the country, got frisked by TSA—which, not gonna lie, was oddly affirming—and sprinted through three terminals to make it here. So, hello. Big fan of your face.”
A hand runs through his hair. “I… uh–thank you?”
She points two fingers at his chest. “I’ve got questions. So many questions. And follow-ups.”
“Too late now!” G-Ma trills into the kitchen. “Corn pudding’s in the oven, and I whipped up extra cream for Ava’s boyfriend. He's a man who’s no stranger to dessert… or whipped cream. Are ya, honey?” She winks.
Soren’s mouth twitches. “I love this level of hospitality.”
“You’re about to get all of it, in 4-D surround sound.”
He grins at me, soft eyes and stupid charm, like walking into the crazy that is my family, is exactly where he wants to be.
We’re barely through the door to the dining room before G-Ma’s thrusting a plate of pecan pralines at Soren and pulling out a deck of cards. The Great Dalmuti. Our family’s preferred battleground.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask mom.
“It’s his weekly poker game.” She uncorks a bottle of wine. “So, Soren has all of us girls to himself. And Fisher.”
Soren turns to me. “So, basically, I’m outnumbered?”
Nodding, I pat his shoulder and walk away.
A few hours later, we’re gathered around the dining table: my mom, G-Ma, Fisher, Emily, me, and Soren—who, thanks to beginner’s luck or actual dark magic, has become the reigning Dalmuti three rounds in a row.
“Of course he’s good at this,” I mutter under my breath as I collect the Peon hat for the fourth time.
G-Ma leans in with a sharp elbow to my ribs. “Well, maybe if you’d focus less on huffing and more on strategy, Ava Bean, you wouldn’t be losing to your future husband.”
I fake a laugh and shoot Soren a look that should’ve engulfed him in a fit of flames.
Raising a brow, his grin turns lazy, gorgeous. “Honestly, I’m grateful that you all let me join. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
My mom beams. “You’re a delight, Soren. So well-spoken. And tall. Strong. So intelligent.”
“I’m literally right here,” I deadpan.
She waves me off. “Yes, yes, we know. We’ve seen you lose four times in a row. Let the man have a moment.”
Fisher snorts into his beer. “Can we make him our permanent Dalmuti? Forever?”
“Fisher!” I scold. “Wrong side.”
“What?” he shrugs. “He’s fun. You’re all stiff and twitchy.”
G-Ma throws her cards down. “Stop talking and let this man play. I haven’t seen hands that good since 1972, and let me tell you, the man who owned them back then could shuffle more than a deck.”
I groan. Soren laughs. My mom giggles. She’s three glasses in and feeling it.
Emily crosses her arms, one brow arched. “Okay, real talk, Soren. What exactly are your intentions with our Ava Bell? And know… if you lie, G-Ma’s probably got a meat tenderizer with your name on it.”
Soren’s mouth quirks. His eyes stay serious, staring straight at her. “Honestly? I know I want to make her laugh when she forgets how. I want to be the one she calls when everything goes sideways. And if I ever get lucky enough—really lucky enough—I want to be the reason she loves again.”
The room goes quiet.
Traitorous heat pricks the corners of my eyes. Absolutely not. No tears. Not for him. I force a laugh, too high-pitched to sound real. “You should bottle that line, Pembry. Sell it on ShelfSpace. The fangirls would eat it up.”
His jaw tics, the humor draining from his expression. “That’s the part you don’t get, Bells. I don’t care about them. Not when it comes to this, or to you.”
Emily stares, then nods approvingly. “Okay. Damn. No meat tenderizer for you.”
G-Ma sighs, “Too bad. I had good aim in my prime.”
I stuff a praline in my mouth to keep from screaming. Because here’s the truth: they’re all eating him up as though he’s a sugar-dusted pie. And Soren’s playing his part perfectly–as a damn walking, talking book boyfriend dream sequence.
And me? I’m faking it harder than ever because every time he meets my eyes, I feel soooo many things.
I’m not ready for this. I refuse to be.
“Okay,” my mom says, clasping her hands. “Let’s keep this grill going. Soren, what’s your favorite thing about Ava?”
The table falls silent. G-Ma puts down her fork. Even Fisher stops chewing.
“Mom—”
“No interrupting,” she sing-songs. “Let the man speak.”
Soren’s gaze slides to mine. His smirk fades into a softer version of his smile. “Her fire.”
The air is too thick. I can’t breathe.
“She comes in swinging,” he says, voice deliberate.
“She doesn’t let people coast on charm or bullshit.
She makes you earn every laugh. All her looks.
Each inch of trust. You think you’re ready for her, and then she proves you aren’t—unless you’re all in.
That kind of fire doesn’t burn you. It brands you.
You know? Makes you understand what matters in life. ”
Another beat of silence. My heart is a bass drum against my ribs.
My mom breathes. “I knew it. He’s the one.”
G-Ma sniffs, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “Lord have mercy, I’m gonna need a shot of bourbon and a handheld fan. Stat, Fisher.”
Fisher jumps from the table. All eyes turn to me. Crap.
“What about you, Ava?” my mom asks. “What’s your favorite thing about Soren?”
My palms are slick. I rub them on my jeans. “Uh...”
Don’t say the dick, and definitely don’t say he has a smile that could collapse a solar system.
“He’s… unexpected,” I manage. “He surprises me.”
Soren clutches his chest. “Bells, is that another compliment?”
“Don’t push it,” I shoot back. There’s no heat in it.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“He’s also… smart,” I continue. “Thoughtful. Kind, in a way that sneaks up on you. And he makes me laugh, a lot, even when I don’t want to.”
The weight of his attention is the same as the sun burning through glass.
G-Ma chimes in, “Soren, baby, tell us about your family.”
Soren’s hand, resting lightly on the table, goes still, and the boyish charm dims behind his eyes. With one single question, G-Ma flipped off a switch.
“There’s not much to tell,” he says after a few seconds of hesitation.
My mom frowns. G-Ma opens her mouth, ready to dive in with something probably involving casseroles and trauma.
I cut her off. “Hey.” I stand and grab the deck. “Who wants a rematch? I refuse to end this trip as the Peon.”
Everyone shifts their focus. Laughter returns, and the questions stop.
Soren meets my eyes, gratitude swimming inside his stormy grays. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.
I sit back down, nerves buzzing, because I know what I just did. I didn’t do it for the charade. Or for any cameras. Definitely not for some invisible contract.
I did it for him.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Fisher whoops, returning with a bottle of bourbon and a handheld fan for G-Ma. “Let’s go. Dalmuti rules. No mercy.”
Before anyone can deal, Emily lifts a finger. “No rematch for us. You three—out.” She points at me, Soren, and Fisher. “We’ve got drinks to consume, places to be, and a week of shit to unpack.” She grimaces. “Okay, that’s not a good visual. Sorry about that. We have things to discuss.”
G-Ma gasps. “But the casserole—”
Emily waves her off. “No can do, G-Ma. We’ll be back for leftovers and feelings later.”
Fisher grabs his coat and flashes a grin. “If we’re not back by midnight, assume we’ve all eloped or joined a cult.”
G-Ma huffs. “Same difference.”