Chapter 50
Ava
Today feels like a marigold kind of day.
Not roses.
Not lilies.
Definitely not daisies.
Those all gave up days ago.
Even though fresh flowers keep arriving every week, the roses have started drooping at the edges.
The daisies look emotionally exhausted.
But the marigolds?
Still standing there bright and stubborn, refusing to die.
I try pretending I’m that resilient.
That strong.
Most days, I just want to throw in the towel.
I pick a plump little one and tuck it behind my ear. Then I head downstairs where there’s a dinner reservation for two.
Part of me just wants to crawl into bed, pull the blankets over my face, and wake up when this nightmare of a production is over and I can go home already.
Still, a girl’s gotta eat.
The elevator doors slide open to a sweeping panorama of windows and glittering Reykjavík lights beyond the glass.
Iceland somehow manages to make heartbreak look cinematic.
“Right this way, Ms. Alvarez.”
“Thank you.”
The hostess leads me through the restaurant to an empty table for two.
I’m early.
Or rather, he’s late.
Because he’s always late.
“Wine?”
“Please.”
She pours a glass of mulled wine while I sit alone. Snow drifts softly beyond the glass while candlelight flickers across the table. Cozy wool blankets are draped over every chair.
I slip mine over my shoulders.
“Is this seat taken?”
The deep voice has me smiling in an instant.
I hug him hard enough to wrinkle his pretty boy knitwear. “Yes, Mr. Cartwright, you may.”
He pulls away and looks me over carefully. “You look great. A little skinny and… ” He holds a hand to his chest. “Possibly shrinking from malnutrition.”
“That’s why I’m here. To be fattened up and prepped for the slaughter.”
“I can’t wait to try the local cuisine. Milanese chicken gets old after… oh, never.”
I notice his casual but not-so-casual wear. “A fisherman sweater…” I say, brushing imaginary lint from the deep navy knit.
“What’s wrong with it?” He pulls out my chair again. Always a gentleman.
I sit and gesture to his ensemble. “Do fishermen actually wear these sweaters? Or is this just a rich boy rebrand to sound humble? Because if so, I feel deeply lied to by society.”
His mouth twitches. “The fashion house calls it couture. It was a gift I could actually use. I’m freezing my ass off here.”
He checks the menu, then makes a face.
The waiter approaches. “Would you like to know the specials tonight?”
“Absolutely,” I say excitedly. I want Chase to know exactly what I've been eating while he’s been eating pasta under the Tuscan sun.
“Tonight’s special is smoked puffin with crowberry glaze,” the waiter says pleasantly. “Take as long as you like looking over the menu. I’ll be back shortly.”
Chase and I slowly turn toward each other.
His eyes widen slightly in horror. “Puffins?”
“They mate for life,” I whisper.
He leans in. “I’m not eating something that looks like it inspired mascots at the fair.”
“It’s authentic. If this isn’t full-on method acting, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m not eating fucking puffins, Ava.” Chase shakes his head. “And crowberry means our chef is a creepy Disney villain.”
I wave the waiter over and put Chase out of his misery.
“We’ll both take the grilled chicken on rye sandwiches with roasted root vegetables, please.”
The waiter places a basket of bread and artisanal crackers between us. “An appetizer?”
Chase presses his lips together so hard they nearly disappear.
The waiter smiles politely. “We’re featuring reindeer carpaccio with pickled berries and smoked sea salt tonight.”
“No,” Chase says immediately. “I’ll take a scotch.”
“Excellent.”
The waiter disappears, then returns a moment later with Chase’s drink.
“Let me know if you need anything else. Your order will be out shortly.”
Chase takes two large swallows.
“I thought you hated scotch.”
“I need something to wash this Stephen King dinner from my brain.”
I throw my napkin at him. “You’re the one who wanted to try the local cuisine.”
He catches it easily, folds it with absurd care, then hands it back.
“I didn’t know Blitzen was on the menu. You can never bring the kids here.”
The ache returns so fast my eyes sting.
I hide behind another sip of wine and tug the blanket tighter around myself.
Chase offers me the bread. “How are you?”
I’m about to give him the standard celebrity response.
Amazing.
Living the dream.
Couldn’t be better if I were dipped in chocolate.
But then he squeezes my hand. “Brutal honesty,” he reminds me. Our solemn oath. If not to ourselves, at least to each other. “Lying to me would be pointless.”
I tear the bread into tiny pieces I never actually eat. “I’m grieving.”
“You’re doom spiraling.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
“No.” He points at me. “We are not doing this. You are not wasting another second pining over an asshole who isn’t even here.” He straightens in his seat. “I have a better idea.”
“A better idea?” I ask, fighting tears as I shred another piece of bread.
“Close your eyes.”
I squint at him suspiciously. “You know I hate surprises.”
From everyone but Harrison, that is.
“Just do it,” he says.
Against my better judgment, I do.
All I hear is quiet rustling beside me. A small part of me is hoping it’s a cannoli. Or a dozen.
“Now open,” he whispers.
When I do, my gasp is so loud, you’d think he dropped a spider onto the table.
Before me sits a ring.
Big.
Flashy.
Enough diamonds to guide ships in from the sea.
And somehow…
it looks like a marigold.
Clusters of yellow and white stones catch the candlelight, sparkling hard enough to make my eyes blur all over again.
“What do you think?” Chase asks carefully.
I stare at the ring.
Then at him.
Then back at the ring.
“You want to know what I think?” I whisper.
Chase nods once. “Brutal honesty.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Chase Montgomery Cartwright…”
I blink up at him.
“What the actual fuck?”