Chapter 20
Twenty
SOREN
I’m not nervous.
Okay, I’m a little nervous.
Which is a wild thing to admit, considering I’ve stood in front of packed convention centers, fielded flirtation from cosplayers dressed as succubi, and once gave a talk titled “Pleasure and Power: Crafting the Fantasy Villain Readers Want to Bone.”
None of that compares to tonight.
Tonight isn’t about readers or fans or keeping the Bell and the Blade ship trending on ShelfSpace.
Tonight is about Ava.
About us.
If I do this right, it won’t be one night. And one night only. It’ll be the beginning of so much more.
I pull my journal out of my bag. What started as a weekly routine has now morphed into nightly letters. Obsessive? Maybe. But it’s become a mission I have to complete.
Some are funny. Some are rambling. Some read close to love poems and others similar to apologies I haven’t earned the right to give. But every single one ends with the same tone:
Choose me, Bells.
I open my journal to a random page and trace the words with my thumb. They’re worn soft from revisiting them too often. Maybe tonight I’ll let Ava see the proof–the ink on paper–that she’s been my reality long before this fake-dating circus. That she’s the only story I’ve ever wanted to tell.
I shrug into my coat, slip the journal into my inside pocket and smooth my palms down the front of my black sweater.
Presentable, layered for cold weather, and exactly what I know she likes: low-effort hot.
I even shaved. Well, trimmed, really. Which I never do unless there’s a stylist hovering with a lint roller.
But Ava’s different. Has been from the start. The world falls away when she talks. And I want nothing more than to keep her talking.
Hopefully, she doesn’t think tonight is some prelude to casual sex.
A one night… stand.
Lord knows the girl is horny. And hell, I wouldn’t complain.
But I want her trust before I want her body.
Because I know her well enough now to recognize the heat in her eyes, how her body leans toward fire, even when she swears she wants distance.
Desire makes her reckless for a heartbeat, maybe two—but the traitorous hunger that I know she feels with me isn’t what I want from her. I want the part she’s afraid to give.
Hopefully, when she says yes to this—whatever this is—it isn’t to silence the ache between her thighs, but to answer the deeper ache in her heart. The one I’m waiting for her to trust me with.
Tonight, I need to let her keep control while I rewrite the story she tells herself—the one where all men are lying, disappointing assholes.
I’m here because of her, not the cameras. Or our brand. Not even her… Well, you know.
I won’t lie, though. That visual has forced me to cold shower every day since Thanksgiving.
She said one night. That’s her boundary. So I’ll give her the best one she’s ever had.
I pull up the itinerary on my phone and double-check the plan.
She thinks we’re going to dinner. And we are.
But I’ve also arranged for a private viewing at an immersive book-themed art exhibit in downtown Boston—one I know she’s been dying to visit but couldn’t score a ticket to.
Thanks to Emily, who’s helped me set up a few things for tonight.
After that, we’re hitting an indie bookstore. Not just to browse.
We made a deal when she helped me with my spicy scene. She gets three minutes to grab as many books as she can carry. No limits. Although there will probably be lots of judgment. Still, I’ll buy every single one, no matter the cost.
I make good on my promises. And if I’m lucky, this night will be one she doesn’t file away as fantasy.
And after that, something quieter. More personal. A stop that will remind her of childhood, of comfort, of the way books feel close to home. She said that when we were side-by-side at The Great Booksgiving panel. Probably didn’t realize I was listening.
I was.
I am.
Ava Bell deserves a man who listens. Who shows up, doesn’t walk away or lie or make her feel like collateral damage in someone else’s story. She deserves a man who sees the fire and the fear and stays anyway.
That’s exactly what I plan to do.
The car I rented for tonight is a Bentley Bentayga—ridiculously impractical, absurdly expensive, and worth every damn penny.
Let’s be honest, Ava could care less about the car. She’d roll her eyes at the price tag and ask why it doesn’t come with its own library.
I didn’t get it for her. I got it for me. It handles icy curves like a dream, the cabin smells of leather and ambition, and every detail whispers: You’re worth it.
The moment she slides into it, wrapped in winter and wonder, cheeks pink from the cold, I want her to feel like the queen she’ll never admit she is.
About thirty minutes and a couple of stops later, I park at the base of Ava’s rocky drive, step out, and lean against the driver’s side door with a thermos in hand—caramel blondie latte extra hot. Her favorite. She notices the little things, even when she pretends not to. So do I.
Ava appears on the porch, resembling a wary cat—poised, curious, and utterly unimpressed.
“You’re late.” She folds her arms. She’s in a long camel-colored coat, scarf wrapped once around her neck, hair down and slightly curled. Adorable. Gorgeous. Completely unaware of how kissable she looks.
“I was busy seducing your favorite barista,” I reply, holding up the thermos as a peace offering.
That gets a smile. Small, reluctant, but there.
She rounds the car to the passenger side. I follow her and quickly open her door before she gets a chance to.
Ava eyes me warily as she slides into the passenger seat. I hand her the thermos. She sniffs the drink before taking a sip. “If this is poisoned, it’s a very Ava-specific way to go.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” I shut the door and rush to get inside, to be closer to her, but there’s a wide console separating us. Who picked this car?
“No—ye of sketchy track record,” she says once I click my seatbelt.
I laugh, yank the car into drive, then pull onto the road, tires crunching over frostbitten gravel. “You wound me. I’m a changed man.”
“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
“I’d believe it.” I sneak a peek at her. “You’ve got the stare. Regal and slightly terrifying.”
She chuckles into the thermos. The faint tug of her lips tells me she’s trying not to love this. Or to like me. So, I must be doing something right.
The ride is quiet after that, but not uncomfortable. Her fingers tap against the thermos. Mine rest loose on the steering wheel.
Once we’re in the city, she watches it glide by, lights reflecting across the windshield like falling stars.
“Where are we going?” Ava asks.
“You’ll see.” I pull up to the small brick building tucked between a florist and an indie cinema, she frowns, curious.
“This isn’t dinner,” she says.
“Correct.” I hop out and jog around to open her door before she can argue. “It’s better than dinner.”
Inside, the smell of sawdust and aged paper hits us. The gallery is dimly lit, intimate. A woman with black marble glasses and a clipboard gives us a nod and slips away—she knows not to hover.
Ava stops short in the main hall.
Book art inspired by, well, books. The exhibit displays massive canvases splashed with quotes and character sketches, sculpture installations of iconic romantic moments carved in stone and light.
There’s one piece made entirely of burned paperbacks, forming the silhouette of two lovers kissing through ash.
Another has typewritten love letters suspended in glass.
Ava moves cautiously, seemingly afraid that if she breathes too loudly, it’ll all vanish. “How did you…” Her voice trails off.
“I called in a favor,” I say behind her. “Private showing. Thought maybe you’d like—”
“Love it,” she whispers at the same time, turning to me with wide, doughy eyes. “Soren… this is unreal.”
She drifts from piece to piece, murmuring titles under her breath, fingers hovering, just shy of touching. Jane Eyre, Normal People, The Secret History, Persuasion, The Great Gatsby—I know her reading tastes better than my own heartbeat by now.
I get a little giddy myself when I see The Princess Bride and A Court of Thorns and Roses.
When she reaches the wall covered in framed first pages—typewriter-font manuscripts mounted as museum pieces—her eyes shine. She turns to look at me then, and I hope to God she sees past all the jokes and banter and the stupid viral videos—to something solid. Something honest. Me.
This is who I’ve been trying to show her all along.
Ava’s slender fingers trail the frame of Persuasion, hovering over the opening line.
“I used to underline this one in every copy I found,” she says softly, almost to herself.
I step beside her. “Why?”
“At first glance, it’s not exactly romantic.
” Ava tilts her head, her hair falling, creating a curtain between us and the rest of the world.
“But it sets up the deeper themes. It’s about second chances.
About someone being worth the wait. It made me believe that even if I messed everything up—if I wasn’t brave the first time—I might get another shot someday.
” She laughs once, dry and hollow. “Except real life doesn’t work like that. ”
“No… it doesn’t.” The words are rough in my throat. I drag a hand over my face, wishing I could scrub away the truth of it. My chest caves in at her quiet pain, my heart pounding like it wants to argue otherwise, then her body turns toward mine.
“But you keep showing up like it might,” she says.
A heavy silence surrounds us. What Ava just said means she’s finally seeing me. And for the first time, she doesn’t push me away because she’s terrified of what happens if she doesn’t.
“Because you’re worth it, Bells.” I slide a stray hair away from her face.
Her breath shudders, as if she doesn’t believe that about herself. That tears me up inside.