Chapter 21
Twenty-One
AVA
I’m not cold.
I’m confused.
Which on some level is worse than freezing, because at least freezing is straightforward. Hypothermia. Shivers. Possible death.
Confusion is layered. Slippery. Dangerous territory.
And standing here on my porch, still swaddled in the blanket Soren wrapped around me like I was a burrito.
I’m utterly baffled.
Soren Pembry—Fantasy Heartthrob, Viral Flamebait, Human Sin Against Sweaters—gave me the most romantic one night of my entire life.
A surprise art exhibit. A book buying spree. A botanical candlelit dinner. Power ballads. Dancing in the snow.
I’m toast.
Now I’m at my front door, key in hand, heart somewhere between my esophagus and the North Pole, trying to figure out what happens next.
He put the bags on the porch, and now he’s standing close enough to kiss me. Close enough to press me into the door and undo all the restraint I’ve watched him choke back for hours.
I want him to too.
I think?
No. I definitely do.
But I also don’t.
If I let him in, it’s no longer a bit, or a fling, or a PR stunt. It’s a shit-just-got-real kind of thing. And real means risk. Real means giving someone the power to hurt you—and trusting, hoping, that maybe they won’t.
I’ve been burned. Charred down to the bone by a man who smiled sweetly and left ash in his wake.
I spent years patching the cracks, constructing walls, and pretending my fortress made me strong instead of lonely.
But Soren…
Soren isn’t him.
He’s cocky and Blade-level dramatic. But he’s also the guy who planned an entire night to make me feel safe. And special.
I’ve been too damn focused on punishing him for sins he didn’t commit, holding him responsible for demons that don’t belong to him, that I haven’t fully recognized that the version of him the world sees—the glint and grit and swagger one—is the armor he wears to keep from getting gutted too.
What if letting Soren in means breaking the pattern? What if—terrifying thought—I deserve someone good? And honest? Who adores me? One who takes the time to show me that?
I’m tired of being careful.
Right now, as I look at him, I want to know…
What is it like to let someone in and not come undone entirely?
What I’m about to do could ruin me or save me. Fuck it.
I turn to face him. “You want to come in?”
As I wait for his answer, my pulse is erratic. Air to breathe?Forgotten.
Soren’s gaze flits down to my mouth. It’s quick. Intense.
“Yeah, I do,” he replies, voice sultry. Temptation disguised as politeness. “But I’m not going to.”
Don’t look disappointed. Do not let your shoulders drop. Or your face fall. Appear unaffected.
The words flood out. “I’ve got wine. And fruit.
And at least three different varieties of cheese.
We could make a charcuterie board. Roll the salami into little roses if we’re feeling fancy.
” I sound less like a rational human being and more like the host of a midnight infomercial for the lonely and emotionally insane.
A laugh rumbles out of him. “The most Ava Bell offer of all time.”
“Well, I’m very on brand.”
Soren steps forward. His cologne drives up my nostrils. Without ceremony, build-up, or a dramatic music cue, he kisses my forehead. Thoughtful. Kind. Friendly?
What just happened?
One hand cups my jaw as though I’m made of paper and poetry. His lips brush over my skin with devastating restraint, outlining the shape of the moment.
He pulls back, and my knees are asking my ankles for support. They’re not getting it, though.
“That’s it?” The shock in my voice is painfully apparent. I almost slap myself for not filtering the question.
Soren’s eyes sparkle with humor and control, as well as desire. His stormy grays are all mixed up and cocky as hell.
“Ava Bell, I had an amazing night with you. I’d love to see you again,” he says. “Maybe over breakfast tomorrow?”
“Breakfast?” I repeat, still confused.
He nods. “How about I come back tomorrow morning with pastries?”
“Okaaay.” The disappointment I’ve tried to keep at bay takes over. It’s thick in my tone.
Taking a step back, a faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Goodnight, Bells. Dream about a handsome, fantasy-obsessed warlock with half-decent sword skills and an inconvenient weakness for one woman in particular. In case you’re wondering…it’s you.” He winks.
My arms cross, but I’m smiling. “I’ll try not to let it ruin my eight hours.”
Soren chuckles, turns to head back toward his car. And I just… stand there, arms still folded, body still buzzing, mouth still twisted in a smile I don’t mean to wear.
Because hell.
I am definitely going to dream about that handsome warlock tonight…
might even masturbate to him. And I don’t mean the publicist-pleasing version.
Or the internet’s fantasy prince. The one who took me to dinner.
Danced with me. And is now walking away from me to prove he’s in it for the long haul, and not just one night.
Yeah. That version is hard to resist.
Lingering in the doorway, I watch the taillights of that ridiculously expensive SUV fade down the drive. With every inch that disappears, my heart sinks deeper in my chest.
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s cavernous. All the laughter and heat and banter that filled our night got sucked out the moment he hopped into the car and shut the door.
I press my palm to the banister on my porch as though it might hold me up, as though I can physically secure myself to something before the ache in my chest tips me over.
Fuuuuck.
Grabbing a few of the bags of books, I make my way inside and set them onto the kitchen counter, then retrieve the rest. I wander through my empty, quiet house, set in the middle of nowhere.
I chose this solitude for myself—on purpose, with intention, as a means of control.
And silence from the world. Protection, also, if I’m being honest.
But right now, I’ve never felt more alone in my own house. I’m not sure how to go back to my typical kind of quiet, which doesn’t include Soren’s voice in it.
My coat is still on, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking. I look out the window at the empty driveway, and my heart plummets. I wish he’d turn back.
I don’t want the night to end. Which means, I’m in trouble. And I now very much want to be in trouble.
But two seconds ago, I put myself out there, offered Soren more time with Ava Bell up on a silver platter, and… nothing.
He’s being respectful. It’s fine. I get it.
To distract myself, I toe off my boots. Hang my coat. Wander back into the kitchen where I’m going to do something normal and adult, maybe clean a dish or organize a cabinet.
That doesn’t happen. Instead, I open the fridge, stare at a wedge of brie, and close it again.
Why didn’t he push?
Why didn’t he kiss me?
He said he wanted to come in, Ava. Don’t overthink it.
Tonight, Soren gave me safety. Respect. And then he kissed my forehead and promised a tomorrow. A future.
Fucking hell. I’m so goddamn confused.
A few seconds later, I’m standing in my living room. I pick up the blanket from our picnic and wrap it around my shoulders like a dramatic widow in a BBC period drama. I consider calling him back for a second. To... rewrite the moment. Take control. Level the field.
But I don’t want control. I want to lose control. With him. Tonight. For one night.
Pushing pride aside, I grab my phone and pull up his contact. He answers on the first ring.
“Okay, so maybe pancakes are better as a post-date snack.” My voice wobbled at the end, and I hope he didn’t notice.
There’s a pause that’s full of breath and heartbeat.
I cradle my phone against my ear, staring at the half-finished puzzle on the table. “Soren, I know I do a phenomenal job of keeping you out. Award-winning. Tall walls. Strategic misdirection. Chains around my chest.”
Silence.
My eyes close, but I push forward before I lose my nerve.
“I really need you to storm through one of those walls right now before I chicken out and go back to pushing you away.” I laugh awkwardly.
“For tonight anyway. And I don’t want to pretend I don’t care when I do.
” My voice drops, shaky and small. I’m now entering rambling territory.
“I don’t know where this goes, and I’m scared.
But I know I want to spend more time with you.
I don’t want the night to end yet.” I chew on my lip, nerves kicking up again.
“So. Um. You want to come back? We could watch a movie. Keep the night going. No expectations, just time…together.”
Silence continues to fill the space.
Starting to panic, I add, “I have popcorn. And wine. And a decent couch-to-lap ratio. And I’m… really putting myself out there right now, so if you’re about to tell me no, can you at least pretend to think about it first?”
More silence. I hold my breath. He’s thinking, which is torture.
“Only if I get to pick the snacks. And you don’t judge me for my pajama pants. I’m already halfway to my hotel and halfway into them.”
Exhaling, I grin. “Deal. But I’m picking the movie.”
“You got it, Bells.”
About an hour later, Soren’s at my door in fire-breathing dragon PJ pants, a black long-sleeve thermal, holding a paper bag from the bodega in town that smells like buttered popcorn, and several other bags I’m assuming are filled with candy and snacks.
“You came back.”
“Of course I did, you tempted me with cinema.”
“Well then.” I make a grand sweeping gesture toward the couch. “Prepare to be disappointed.”
“Bells, you could play the director’s cut of Paint Drying: The Trilogy and I’d still call it the best night of my week.”
Forget butterflies. A tornado touched down in my gut, and debris is flying everywhere.
Breathe, Ava.