3. Ava
3
AVA
I tell myself I don't care as I walk back to my apartment.
The city is buzzing with the kind of restless energy that only exists in the late afternoon—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks, the scents of roasted coffee and hot, salty fries teasing the air. It's too nice of a day to be brooding, and yet, here I am, brooding like my life depends on it.
It doesn't make any sense. Liam and I had a mature, rational conversation. We agreed the kiss was a mistake. No big deal. Adults make mistakes all the time. Just last week, I tried to cut my own bangs after watching one TikTok tutorial, and I'm still living with the consequences.
And yet, as I take the long way home, dodging couples holding hands and street musicians crooning about love, there's this dull, stupid ache sitting low in my chest.
Liam Carter kissed me.
And then he walked away.
Just like I told him to. Just like I wanted him to.
Right?
I scowl at my own reflection in a shop window and do what any reasonable woman in my position would do. I make a split-second decision to buy greasy, soul-soothing Chinese takeout and decide to drown my feelings in an unreasonable amount of MSG.
The place I stop at is a tiny hole-in-the-wall spot with cracked vinyl booths, flickering fluorescent lights, and a laminated menu that's been stained with soy sauce for probably a decade. In other words, the food is absolutely going to slap.
The cashier barely looks up as I rattle off my order. "Sesame chicken, extra sauce. Fried rice, but the kind that's so greasy it seeps through the carton. And, uh…" I scan the menu like I'm not about to make the most obvious choice. "Crab Rangoon."
I say it like it's a casual addition, like I wasn't already picturing the molten-hot cream cheese hitting my tongue the moment I stepped inside.
The cashier smacks her gum and rings me up without judgment. She gets it.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm back at my apartment, takeout bag clutched in one hand, keys in the other.
Home is a second-floor walk-up in the Riverwalk District, tucked above a small, independent bookstore that always smells like paper and cinnamon candles. My landlady, Mrs. Vasquez, likes to leave muffins outside my door whenever she bakes, and sometimes, I find stray cat hair on my welcome mat, even though I don't own a cat. The place has charm, and even though it's not big, it's mine.
I kick the door shut behind me, balancing my food and toeing off my boots. It's warm inside, the scent of old books mixing with vanilla from the half-burned candle on my coffee table. Fairy lights hang across my bookshelves, bathing the space in soft yellow, and there's an open notebook on the couch where I'd left it this morning, half a page of scribbled ideas for work waiting to be abandoned in favor of eating my weight in Chinese food.
The living room is an explosion of color and clutter—framed vintage posters, an overstuffed bookshelf sagging under the weight of too many novels, a throw blanket draped messily over the arm of my bright yellow couch. My laptop sits open on the coffee table next to an empty coffee mug—concrete evidence of my usual morning chaos.
It's not exactly a minimalist's dream, but it's warm, lived-in, full of pieces of me.
Unlike Liam's place. Although I've only seen it a couple of times when Dean needed to take me over if he was babysitting me.
Nevertheless, I shouldn't be thinking about that.
Sighing, I drop onto the couch and open the takeout bag. Steam ascends upward, bearing notes of dark soy sauce, fresh spring onions, and… heaven. The crab Rangoon are still hot, their crispy edges glistening with oil. I bite into one, and it's exactly the kind of mouth-burning, cheese-laden comfort I need right now.
"This is what love is," I murmur to no one, waving a dumpling in the air before dunking it into a plastic cup of neon-orange sweet-and-sour sauce.
My phone buzzes next to me.
I ignore it at first, too busy shoveling a forkful of rice into my mouth, but something about the timing makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Another buzz.
I swallow, wiping my fingers on a napkin before reaching for my phone.
The text is from an unknown number.
The moment I see the preview, my stomach drops.
You really shouldn't kiss people in public if you want to keep secrets.
Attached is a photo. It’s blurry and grainy, but it's also unmistakably Liam and me.
His hands are tangled in my hair, my fingers are curled into the lapels of his suit. Oh, no .
I drop the dumpling I was about to eat, my appetite evaporating in an instant as I stare at the screen, goosebumps erupting across my skin as a sinking feeling spreads through my chest.
Who the hell took this?
And, more importantly, why are they sending it to me now?
I inhale slowly, willing my nerves to settle. The rational part of my brain tells me this is just some sick prank. The irrational part—the one currently winning—is already spiraling into worst-case scenarios. If someone has this photo, what else do they have? How long have they been watching?
For a split second, I consider calling Liam. But I'm not ready to have another sensible conversation with him, not with my heart going a million a minute.
Instead, I do the only thing I can. I shut off my phone and shove it under a couch cushion like that'll somehow erase the entire situation.
Then I pick up my fallen dumpling and take a bite because, crisis or not, wasting crab Rangoon is a sin.
* * *
The next afternoon rolls in, and I cannot shake the gloom that has settled over me.
Sunday brunch at the Bennett house is a ritual. One that, today, I would rather chew glass than attend.
But ignoring my brothers is like ignoring a persistent case of food poisoning—eventually, it'll catch up to you, and it won't be pretty.
So, after spending an hour lying in bed staring at my ceiling, overanalyzing every possible outcome of that damn text, I finally drag myself out of the apartment, throw on a sweater and jeans, and head to Willow Heights.
The moment I step through the door, I'm ambushed by the chaotic medley of coffee, maple syrup, and what I can only assume was once bacon. Which can only mean one thing.
Ryan is cooking.
"Someone hide the fire extinguisher," I announce, stepping into the kitchen.
Ryan, standing over the griddle in a faded Henley and sweatpants, smirks as he flips a pancake. "Real funny, Ava."
"Just saying, last time you cooked, we had to evacuate."
"That was one time."
Nate, sitting at the kitchen island with his feet propped up on a chair, grins. "It was three times."
Ryan flips him off with the spatula before glancing at me, brow furrowing slightly. "You look… weird."
I blink. "Thanks?"
Dean, seated at the head of the table with his morning paper—because of course he still reads a physical newspaper—lowers it just enough to scrutinize me. "Ryan's right. You're twitchy."
I scoff, making my way toward the coffee pot like the caffeine might help me fake normalcy. "Wow, what a warm welcome. You guys ever consider just saying ‘Hi, Ava, how's your morning?'"
Dean ignores me, setting his paper down fully. "Did something happen?"
Yes. A possibly unhinged individual has photographic evidence of me making out with your best friend and is currently taunting me with it.
I pour myself a mug of coffee and take a sip. Bitter, but it'll do. "Nope."
Dean doesn't look convinced, but before he can launch into full interrogation mode, Nate, bless his meddling little heart, changes the subject.
"So, Ava, any romantic prospects lately?"
I choke on my coffee.
Ryan snorts. "Smooth, man."
"What?" Nate shrugs. "Just checking in on her love life. She's been very secretive lately."
I glare at him, gripping my mug like I might throw it at his head. "I hate you."
"You love me." He grins.
Dean leans back in his chair, eyeing me suspiciously. "You have been acting weird lately. Anything you want to tell us?"
Yes. That I'm living in a nightmare of my own making.
Instead, I plaster on my most innocent smile. "Nope. Just living my life. Thriving, actually."
Ryan snorts. "Thriving, huh? That why you look like you haven't slept?"
Damn it.
Distraction. I need a distraction. Something to steer this conversation anywhere other than my life, my face, my secrets.
I glance around the table, then realize something's missing—well, someone.
"Where's Emily?" I ask, shoving a forkful of pancake that Nate's passed in my direction into my mouth. "Finally come to her senses and run?"
Dean levels me with a look, the same one he used to give me when I tried to sneak out past curfew as a teenager. "She's sick."
I blink. "Like, actually sick, or ‘I married into the Bennett family and need a day of silence' sick?"
Ryan smirks. "Honestly, same result either way."
Dean ignores us both, lifting his coffee mug. "She woke up with a fever. I told her to rest."
I pause mid-chew. "And you left her?"
"She insisted."
I scoff. "Wow. Strong start to your marriage. ‘For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, except for Sunday brunch, which is sacred.'"
Dean rolls his eyes. "She told me to come. And I left her with soup and tea. She's fine."
"Uh-huh." I squint at him. "And you're sure this isn't, like, secretly a cover-up? Maybe she just couldn't take the overwhelming sex appeal of your Dad Face anymore and needed some space."
Ryan lets out a snort of laughter. Nate grins.
Dean, unimpressed, takes a slow sip of coffee. "You really want to talk about sex appeal right now?"
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth, and immediately regret giving him ammunition.
Because Dean doesn't smirk often, but when he does, it's menacing.
"I mean," he continues, all casual-like, "you have been acting weird. Maybe you're the one who couldn't take the overwhelming sex appeal of some poor guy and that's why you look like you haven't slept."
Nate whistles. "Ooh, plot twist."
Ryan leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. "She has been awfully twitchy today. Maybe we should keep asking her about her love life."
"No," I say immediately, pointing a fork at them. "Absolutely not. That is not what's happening here. I just—Emily is missing, I was asking about her, and somehow, this happened."
Dean shrugs. "You redirected to me first."
"That's because your love life is boring," I argue. "You're married now. You don't get to be interesting anymore."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "And yet, you still seem fascinated."
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "This is a nightmare."
"Okay, but for real," Ryan says, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Is there some secret mystery man in your life? And if so, do we need to intimidate him?"
"No," I say flatly.
Ryan turns to Nate. "That was way too quick."
"Suspiciously quick," Nate agrees.
"Oh, my God, stop."
Dean watches me for a long moment, like he's debating whether to push further. I shove another bite of pancake into my mouth and stare at him defiantly.
Finally, he sighs, shaking his head. "Fine. We'll drop it."
I exhale, relieved.
"But if you are seeing someone," he adds with a pointed look, "you know how this works."
I snort. "Oh, let me guess. Intimidation tactics? Silent, looming stares? The full-on Bennett interrogation?"
Ryan grins. "Obviously."
Nate nods. "Can't let just anyone in."
Dean smirks. "It's tradition."
I roll my eyes. "You guys act like I have a line of suitors beating down my door."
Nate shrugs. "I mean, if you did, we'd have to vet them."
"Exactly," Ryan agrees. "Maybe run background checks. See if they can withstand a psychological warfare level of questioning."
Dean lifts his coffee. "And if they really care about you, they'll survive it."
I groan, dropping my fork onto my plate. "This is why I don't bring guys home. You're insufferable."
Ryan grins. "Aw, c'mon, we're fun."
"I hate you."
Dean busies himself with his breakfast, cutting off a piece of bacon and sniffing it before taking a bite—safe, considering Ryan's cooked it. "Love you too, kid."
And just like that, the mood changes. Ryan launches into a story about a kitchen fire at the firehouse—something about a rookie, a flaming toaster, and an unfortunate amount of foam. Dean listens, shaking his head, while Nate interjects with unnecessary but wildly entertaining sound effects. The attention is officially off me, and I should feel better about that, except I don't.
The text sits heavily in my pocket, its weight so obnoxiously present that I half expect it to burn a hole straight through my jeans. Someone knows.
Someone saw.
Once I've finished the first few bites of the pancakes, my appetite drops. So I sit there, pushing my food around the plate, and debate what to do. My brothers can't know. They can't. If Dean found out, there would be no logical conversation, no calm discussion about how it was just one impulsive mistake. There would only be rage—the kind that involves fists meeting Liam's face and possibly some mild property damage.
Which leaves me with one terrible, inevitable option.
I need to call Liam.
By the time I get back to my apartment, the idea has cemented itself in my brain, but I still spend the next hour pacing my living room, my phone warm in my grip as I stare at his contact. It's not even under his name. Just Carter , because I put it in my phone years ago with the full intention of using it for emergencies only.
And this? This feels like an emergency.
I groan, shut my eyes, and press Call before I can second-guess myself.
The phone barely rings twice before his deep, familiar voice fills my ear.
"Bennett."
One word. My last name. A low, knowing drawl.
I hate that it does something to me.
"We have a problem," I say, skipping right past pleasantries.
A pause. "That bad?"
I swallow. "Yeah."
Silence stretches for a beat. Then, "I'm on my way."
Fifteen minutes later, there's a knock at my door.
I exhale, smoothing my palms over my thighs before pulling it open.
And there he is.
Liam Carter, standing in my doorway like a problem I don't know how to solve. He's in his trademark clothes—tailored slacks, a crisp white dress shirt rolled to the elbows—but he's ditched the tie, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, like he's had a long day and no patience for a razor. I curse inwardly at how he manages to look so effortlessly beautiful. It's just unfair.
His gaze flicks over me, assessing, lingering for just a second too long. "You gonna let me in, or are we handling this from the hallway?"
I huff out a breath and step aside.
Liam walks in, his presence too much in my small space. He scans the room briefly—the fairy lights, the cluttered bookshelf, the bright yellow couch I bought on an impulse because it made me happy—and then turns to me, expectant.
I don't say anything, just hold out my phone.
His brows pull together as he takes it, but the second he sees the message, his expression hardens.
"Shit." His voice is low, but he sounds unsurprised.
"So, I take it you got the same one?" I fold my arms over my chest, trying not to look as rattled as I feel.
Liam doesn't answer right away. Instead, he swipes through the image—the grainy, blurred shot of us kissing under the vineyard lights—and finally nods stiffly. "Yeah. Last night."
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't, just hands my phone back and pinches the bridge of his nose like he's fighting a headache.
"So," I say, crossing my arms. "Any brilliant ideas?"
Liam's jaw ticks. "One."
I lift a brow. "And?"
His gaze meets mine, steady. "We pretend to be dating."
I blink. "I'm sorry—what?"
"If that photo gets leaked, people are going to make their own assumptions," he says, looking at me like he's just said the most obvious thing. "Your brothers. Your family. Everyone in town. And the second that happens, we lose control of the narrative."
I stare at him, my eyes as wide as saucers. "So your solution is to pretend we're a couple?"
Liam shrugs, like it's simple. "We say we've been seeing each other. If people already know, they won't go digging."
As much as I'd love to respond with something sharp and scathing, my brain short-circuits, leaving me with nothing but a scoff that comes out like a dying tea kettle. "Oh, yeah, because nothing about that would be suspicious."
"Less suspicious than this." He holds up his phone dramatically, showing me the same message that I got, damning text still glowing on the screen.
I press my lips together, my head spinning. This is a bad idea. A spectacularly bad idea. I should shut it down right now, should tell him that under no circumstances am I going to fake date the one man I've spent my whole life trying—and failing—not to want.
But the alternative?
The alternative is my brothers finding out and taking a metaphorical (or possibly literal) shotgun to Liam's life.
I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. "This is the dumbest plan I've ever heard."
Liam smirks, infuriatingly unbothered. "So that's a yes?"
I drop my hands and glare. "This is going to be a disaster."
He leans against my doorframe, arms crossed, looking maddeningly pleased with himself. "Looking forward to it, sweetheart."