Chapter 32 #2
Ava has traded the ridiculous sweater for a dress that cheats the room of oxygen—a short silk slip in a red so deep it drinks the light.
Thin straps thread over her shoulders, the low back reveals the pale sweep of skin between her shoulder blades.
The fabric doesn’t sit on her so much as melt into her, clinging to the curve of her hip and the soft swell of her thigh, catching the candlelight and turning it into molten lava.
Moonlight pools along the window and finds her as if it’s drawn by a compass, slipping across the silk, picking out the highlights of her hair, and slithering over the slope of her collarbone, making her every move look like liquid.
She walks like someone who knows exactly how the light will love her, a slow tide of silk and shadow.
My heart is so damn full at the sight of her, drenched in all that light—vulnerable and impossible and absolutely mine. Later, I think, I’ll show her exactly how much I love her, with a thousand kisses and even more licks.
I’ve salvaged some of Camille’s dignity by putting on a shirt after my bare-chested stunt I pulled earlier, when I ripped off Camille’s tragic attempt at an ugly Christmas sweater.
Crisp, black, fitted—safe. Something that doesn’t get me a million views on ShelfSpace, like my torso does.
Well, one million four hundred thousand thirty-two to be exact.
We are now at a twinkle-lit mixer in one of the hotel’s luxury lounges, complete with mulled wine, book-themed cocktails, and a curated cheese board.
Ava moves across the room to post up near the fireplace, drink in hand, laughing with Fisher and a debut author wearing a cape. Her cheeks are glowing. Her smile is real. She looks so goddamn beautiful happy.
A nudge at my shoulder. Matthew.
He’s nursing a glass of a bourbon-based cocktail, eyes tracking Ava, running calculations.
“You two holding up okay after the whole Lena Laceration?” he asks, nonchalantly, as though we didn’t get verbally shanked in front of half the industry.
“My definition of okay might differ from yours.”
He grins. “She hasn’t set you on fire yet. That’s a promising start.”
My eyes drift back to Ava. She’s throwing her head back in laughter now—God, that sound—it’s champagne uncorked, bright and effervescent, fizzing straight through my veins until I’m drunk on nothing but her.
“So, you’re really in it, huh?” Matthew sips his bourbon and watches me watch her. He’s studying me, cataloging everything, posture, breath, expressions. Classic Matthew.
“I’m in something, alright.”
Shaking his head, he laughs, takes a sip from his glass. “You’re in deep, man. You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The one you used to make fun of me for when I saw Christina get out of the car in that ‘Good Trouble’ shirt. I was a man watching his emotional downfall walk across a parking lot in pink heels.”
“I remember that day vividly.”
Matthew’s gaze shifts. Ava. Back to me. Ava again.
“She’s hot,” he comments.
“Careful.” Arching a brow, I side-eye him, blood sparking.
“I’m married. Not blind.” He takes his phone out of his pocket, glances at it, then slips it back in. “But that’s not what I meant. She’s got spunk.”
“Yeah, she definitely does.”
“And you like that?”
“I love that.”
Still assessing me, Matthew hums. “Not gonna lie. I figured you’d write through this little crush of yours. But now that I’m here… and she’s here… and I’m watching you, and…” He turns his full attention to me. “…So, is this the one?”
My lips press together. Ava is now crouching to sign a fan’s book on the armrest of a velvet chair. She points to her signature. They giggle as if they just got away with something dirty. It melts my heart.
Ava finds me watching, and softens. I refocus my attention on Matthew. “I’m all in for this one.”
He studies me for another beat. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I mean, I’ve got more questions. For instance, when the hell did you become a panty-melter with principles? But okay.”
“You’re not going to interrogate her?”
“I might. But not tonight. She’s happy. And you look like a man who finally realized the life he once thought was out of reach was waiting for him all along.”
I stare into my glass, then huff a breath. “Guess I have.”
“Besides,” he starts, clamping a hand on my shoulder with a mock-grimace, “have you met her agent. Fucking terrifying.”
Huffing a laugh, I grin. “Victoria?”
He nods, but his expression is full of some war crime PTSD.
“That woman made me rewrite the contract three times, change the font to be ‘less aggressive,’ and sit through a three-hour Zoom where she compared your brand synergy to a layered trifle. And then—then—she made me role play as a toxic fan to test Ava’s publicist response time. ”
“You’re kidding.”
Matthew’s eyes turn haunted. “She gave me a script. It had stage directions. I had to use an alias—Thornblade69—and argue that romance is ruining fantasy. I haven’t slept right since.”
Covering my mouth with a fist, I wheeze out a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“Laugh it up,” he muses. “That woman could out-strategize a CIA advisor while wearing fuzzy slippers and sipping a turmeric latte. I’d rather be drop-kicked into a live cobra pit than ever work with her again.”
Matthew’s posture straightens. His features—formerly amused—morph into an eerily unreadable expression, as though he’s spotted a mythical creature in the wild. One that he’s read extensively about in my books, but now has to verify for himself. I don’t even have to turn around to know Ava’s there.
“Speak of the devil and she arrives in candy cane couture,” I say brightly.
“What? This old thing?” Ava teases, the silk catching the light as she steps up beside me, the dress clinging in all the ways it shouldn’t be legal to, her bare back a weapon all on its own.
She holds out two glasses of red wine, cheeks flushed from her earlier pour.
“Here.” She hands me a glass. “It’s either this or hot cider that smells like a Yankee Candle store exploded. ”
Matthew steps in smoothly, extends a hand. “Ava Bell.”
Ava appears surprised by the confident greeting. “Hi.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Matthew shakes her hand.
“All good, I hope.”
“Nothing but.” His finger taps on the rim of his glass. “But, you do know that I’m here to confirm if my best friend’s complete personality shift is warranted, right?”
Her brow lifts. “Personality shift?”
“Oh yeah. The man who used to drink bourbon for breakfast and mock emotional monologues is now quoting your paperbacks and baking muffins.”
Ava side-eyes me. “Cinnamon rolls, actually.”
With a chuckle, my head drops.
Matthew’s brow quirks. “Are we still talking about baked goods or…”
Ava’s cheeks flush a suspicious shade of guilty.
“Let’s just say that frosting was everywhere.” My lips press together while my arm snakes around her waist.
One of Matthew’s hands goes up, silently begging me to stop. “Nope. Nope. I’m tapping out. I did not come here to hear about Soren’s sticky buns being used in a biblical sense.”
Ava grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You brought up the muffins.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect it to be a Pillsbury-sponsored foreplay.” Matthew clears his throat, the sound resembling a benevolent threat. “Anyway. I’m here for the usual things—support, temperature gauging, and a vibe check.”
Ava’s arms cross. “So this is an interview?”
“Let’s call it… an informal review panel. I’m trying to understand the woman who managed to make this guy”—he jerks a thumb toward me—“watch the Twilight saga and do a puzzle.”
Ava sips her wine. “He likes the Volturi drama.”
“I’m a man of taste.” I shrug.
Matthew turns back to her. “So. Serious question.”
Ava braces. Uh oh. I’m nervous now.”
“Don’t be. I promise I won’t bite.” He grins. “Tell me, what’s your stance on dogs in Halloween costumes?”
Ava doesn’t hesitate. “Pro. Strongly pro. But only if the dog consents via tail wag.”
Matthew nods solemnly. “Correct answer.”
Ava smiles, lighting me up on the inside. “Was that the test?”
“No,” he says. “That was the warm-up.” His eyes glide between Ava and me. “Now tell me, Ava—is this all still a fake dating publicity stunt for you? Enemies with benefits? Your numbers have reached record highs due to this scheme. Is that all it still is?”