Chapter 11
JEREMY
It’s two weeks later, and I still can’t get Avah Harris out of my head.
As always, downtown Skylark resembles something a Hollywood set designer with a Hallmark fetish decorated.
The mid-August sky is the deep Colorado blue that could make the tropical island sky jealous.
It’s hot but not humid, and all along Main Street, colorful flowers cascade from massive hanging baskets.
Almost every shop has an outdoor display, hand-lettered signs propped against barrels or vintage crates, each one more aggressively quaint than the last.
I hate how much I don’t hate it here.
Cover to Cover bookstore is situated in the center of town, its green awning faded enough to suggest it’s been there for decades.
Above it, Sloane’s apartment windows catch the afternoon light.
Avah is up there, and has been since she left Bora Bora without waking me.
Without the final days I’d been foolish enough to assume we’d share before flying back together.
The morning after we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, I woke in an empty bed to Damon knocking on the villa’s door with coffee and the information that Ms. Harris had departed on the 6 a.m. shuttle to the airport.
She’d asked him to relay the message that she appreciated my hospitality.
Like I’d simply let her use my pool and not fucked her until we forgot our own names.
Sloane called the next day, right as I was boarding my private jet back to California. There was no reason to stay without Avah.
“I wanted to thank you,” my sister said. “Avah told me you put her up after she walked out on Jon because she’s my friend and I’d be pissed if you hadn’t.”
I’d gripped my phone so hard it’s a wonder the screen hadn’t cracked. “That’s about right.”
“I think it’s because you’re a better person than you let people in on.” Her voice had been warm with her particular brand of sunshine. That eternal optimism used to grate on me. Now I envy it.
But, like the ass I am, I confirmed that watching over Avah had been an inconvenience. I was on the island trying to close a business deal, and her friend had complicated things. My sister, ever generous with her assumptions about my character, had been sweet and grateful anyway.
Since then, Sloane and I have talked on the phone several times. And I couldn’t stop myself from trying to casually ask about Avah without sounding like I was more than a little butthurt about waking up alone.
On our last call, Sloane hesitated for only a moment before spilling her guts. “Jon is being the absolute douche canoe we all knew he was. But Avah’s strong. She’s going to be okay.”
I had Raina do some digging, but there wasn’t much to find.
Avah had scrubbed her social media and gone completely dark online.
The only concrete information I had was Jon Clark calling my assistant on the regular, trying to set up a meeting with me, which was part of the deal I authorized the hotel manager to offer to get him off the island that night.
I also gave him use of my private jet for the trip home.
Being civil to that piece of shit scraped at my insides like broken glass, but I’d hoped it would dissuade him from seeking revenge on Avah.
Apparently, he was too stupid to recognize a veiled threat when it was handed to him on a silver platter.
I stop in front of the bookstore, standing on a sidewalk in small-town Colorado like some lovesick idiot who flew nine hundred miles just to see a woman who wants nothing to do with him.
An older couple walks past with a golden retriever on a leash, and the dog strains toward me like I might have treats in my pocket.
The woman smiles with the easy friendliness I’ve always found a struggle.
I nod back stiffly and they move on, probably writing me off as another uptight urban asshole who doesn’t understand how things work in a small town.
It’s a fairly accurate assessment.
My sister’s apartment is accessed by either a set of interior stairs at the back of the bookstore or an outside staircase in the alley next to the building.
I happen to know Sloane’s at a doctor’s appointment, so don’t bother going through the bookstore.
Instead, I bound up the alley stairs two at a time before knocking on the door.
There’s no answer, but I can hear movement inside and knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing except the sound of a crash followed by a creative string of muffled profanity. My heart thumps wildly against my ribcage, and I try the knob, letting myself in when I find it unlocked.
The scent of sugar and cinnamon hits me first, so opposite of everything I associate with Avah that my brain takes a second to recalibrate.
Sloane’s one-bedroom apartment is tiny, with exposed brick walls and high windows that flood the interior with afternoon light.
The furniture is an eclectic and adorable mix of thrift-store finds and hand-me-downs.
Bright pillows, art posters, and woven blankets draped over a chintz chair, along with a macramé plant holder hanging in the corner, give the space a bohemian fantasy aesthetic.
It’s a vibe Mom and Dad would hate. It’s also perfectly Sloane, who’s spent her whole life proving she doesn’t need their approval or money.
Our parents—and for a long time, myself as well—saw her as flighty and irresponsible for refusing to follow the academic path they’d wanted.
And when I offered to buy her any house she chose when she moved to Skylark, she’d told me to shove my checkbook somewhere anatomically challenging.
The living area is one continuous space: a sofa and sitting area on one side, a small oval dining table in the middle, and a kitchen with a narrow island on the far end.
Avah is standing at that island, headphones clamped over her ears, mixing something in a large bowl.
Her arm moves in vigorous circles as she attacks the batter, but I don’t see the cause of the crash.
There’s already a pan of cinnamon rolls on the counter, the creamy frosting glistening. A wire rack of cookies cools beside them, golden-brown and stuffed with chips based on what I can see from the doorway.
She’s wearing a tank top and leggings, partially covered by an apron with frilly ruffles tied around her waist. The apron is pale pink and covered in tiny strawberries, about as far from Avah’s personality as anything I can imagine.
My chest just about cracks wide fucking open.
I can’t hear the song through her headphones, but her lips are moving, hips swaying to the beat. She picks up a wooden spatula and uses it as a microphone, belting out off-key lyrics to an empty room.
Was I expecting to find the polished version of Avah I knew before Bora Bora, all sharp edges and designer everything? Or maybe the unshielded woman who’d slept with her face pressed against my chest, while I counted her breaths like they were worth more than every dollar in my account.
Avah with an unguarded smile on her face, completely unaware she’s being watched, is a baking core revelation, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
So I stand there like an infatuated stalker, noticing the curve of her shoulder and the way her tank top rides up to show a sliver of skin at her hip.
Then she looks up, and the spatula slips from her fingers.
It hits the counter, clipping the edge of a measuring cup. Flour explodes in a white cloud, coating the front of that ridiculous apron. She rips off her headphones, blue eyes blazing.
“Jesus, Jeremy. Are you trying to scare the crap out of me?”
“Could be payback.” The words come out rougher—and, yeah, a little more butthurt—than I intend. “For how fucking terrified I was when I woke up to find you’d vanished.”
A flash of guilt crosses her face. Quick, but I catch it.
“I asked Damon to let you know I left.”
“I thought we were leaving together.”
Her body goes stiff. “We weren’t together.”
Those three words hit like a right hook. I know they’re true, but that hasn’t stopped me from waking up at 3 a.m. most nights since returning home to California, reaching for a warm body that isn’t there.
“No doubt.” I dial my tone back to pretentious asshole because hell, no, I’m not going to let her see my soft underbelly.
She makes no move to brush off the flour, just stands there with her arms crossed, chin lifted like she’s preparing for battle.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Visiting Sloane. What else would I be doing here?”
“She’s at a doctor’s appointment.”
“I know.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then why are you here?”
Instead of answering, I let my gaze drift to the sofa, where a pillow and a folded blanket occupy one corner.
“You lost your house?”
“Along with my job.” She ticks the items off on flour-dusted fingers. “My reputation, and about ninety-nine point nine percent of my savings, since I was stupid enough to give that pencil-dick weasel access to my bank accounts.”
Rage floods through me. “He can’t do that.”
“Yet he did.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug that’s trying too hard to look casual. “Turns out having joint accounts means he could drain them dry within twenty-four hours of landing back on the mainland. Lesson learned.”
“Fuck him.”
“Not if my life depended on it.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and I hear the fragility underneath all that bravado.
It’s a sound that does things to me. I want to hunt down Jonathan Clark and introduce his face to the business end of my fist. Or simply write a check large enough to erase every problem she has.
Maybe both. But mostly, it makes me want to gather her up and carry her somewhere safe.
The way I did that first night on the beach when she was bleeding and broken and still fiercer than anyone I’d ever met.
I take a step toward her.
“It’s fine.” She holds up a hand, shaking her head. “I’d rather have him out of my life than hang on to any of that stuff. He put the house up for sale and moved back to Denver to be closer to his family. My hope is he’s gone for good.”
The urge to pull her against my chest and promise to destroy Jon Clark so thoroughly that future generations will feel the reverberations is overpowering. But I stay where I am and keep my voice neutral.
“So what now, other than stress baking?”
The sound she makes can barely be described as a laugh, but it loosens the knot in my chest.
“I’m working on a plan.”
She starts cleaning up the flour explosion, and I wish I didn’t notice that she’s thinner than she was in Bora Bora.
Those gorgeous collarbones are more pronounced beneath the straps of her tank top.
The shadows under her eyes that had faded during our sun-drenched time in paradise are back.
I liked it when they went away, and foolishly believed I was part of the reason.
I have the resources to fix every one of her problems. I could wrap her in a cocoon of money that would ensure nothing ever touched her again. But she’d hate me for it. Just like Sloane would hate me if I tried to buy my way into showing up as a good brother instead of actually being one.
“Speaking of plans.” I try not to sound petulant as I remember why I’m actually here. It’s a struggle since I’ve been nursing this particular wound for two weeks. “I had a plan to connect with the Johnsons and discuss a partnership.”
She nods, not looking at me as she cleans up the mess. “How’s that going?”
“It’s not. Apparently, you were on the same flight home as them and trying to hide that you were crying, so they assumed I’d done something to cause it. Now I can’t get a meeting.”
Her hands still on the counter. “My allergies flared.”
“Yeah, well.” I take another step closer. “That allergy attack made them think I’m exactly the asshole my reputation purports me to be. I haven’t been able to convince them otherwise.”
Her eyes flash with the familiar fire I didn’t realize I’d been aching to see again.
“Is this where I whip out my tiny violin?”
God, I love that she won’t take my shit. Even at what could be her rock bottom, she refuses to allow me any power over her.
“No.” I hold her gaze. “I want you to join me for dinner with them to prove I wasn’t the one who made you cry.”
“You didn’t make me cry.”
It sounds like a lie, but I want to believe it.
“Give me Joel’s number,” she continues, all business. “I’ll text him and explain, but I’m not going to dinner.”
“I need you.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
“I don’t care,” she whispers, sounding breathless. Her chest rises and falls faster than it did a moment ago, those blue eyes blown wide like she’s as aware of the invisible string holding fast between us as I am.
There’s flour on her jaw, a smudge of white against her golden skin.
I want to close the distance between us and kiss it off.
Remind her what it felt like when she let me touch her.
When she gasped my name in the dark then fell asleep in my arms like I was her safe place.
I want her to kiss me on the mouth because she wants to, and fuck the NorthStar deal. Fuck everything except the two of us.
“Does my sister know we slept together?”
Her eyes narrow, furious and terrified at once. “You wouldn’t tell her.”
“Go to dinner with me.”
“Get out.”
“We’re not done, Avah.”
“Oh, we’re done.” She picks up the spatula from the counter, and I watch her grip tighten around the handle.
“I’m so done with men thinking they can bribe, coerce, or manipulate me into bending to their will.
” The spatula flies at my head with impressive accuracy.
I duck, and it clatters against the wall behind the sofa, leaving a flour smear on the exposed brick.
“I’m fucking done bending, Jeremy. Get out. ”
Because I’m an idiot, her temper makes me want her more, but I back away because I have a feeling that if I push any harder, I’m going to be the thing that breaks her.
That’s the last thing I want.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand on the outdoor landing, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape so it can scurry back to her.
What a dick I am, showing up with demands when what she needs is a tenderness I’m not sure I know how to give.
Avah deserves the space to fall apart without someone else’s agenda pressing against her.
But I didn’t build a billion-dollar company by retreating at the first obstacle, or win back a place in my sister’s life by accepting her initial “fuck off” as final.
I’ll find a way to show Avah that I’m not her douchey ex or her mysterious father. I’m not every other man who’s tried to bend her to his will. Now I just need to prove it to her.