Chapter 15 Jeremy
JEREMY
After Avah took off from the island like I was a mistake she needed to outrun and then went feral cat on me when I showed up at Sloane’s apartment, I figured our night together had been some kind of aberration.
A lusty glitch in reality that I’d replayed an embarrassing amount of times in the weeks since.
But she’s standing in my kitchen, and once again, those ocean-blue eyes make me want to drown in their depths.
For a split second, my brain short-circuits into full-on alpha mode.
I want to keep her locked up here where I can make sure no one hurts her again.
Not even me. Hell, I’d build her a massive library with a rolling ladder and a dream kitchen so she could stress-bake to her heart’s content, minus the talking teapot.
In other words, I’d give her anything if she’d just…stay.
Nope. I’m not that much of a fucking goner.
Close but not quite. I also have it on good authority that Avah would sooner gut me with a bread knife than tolerate being possessed.
She’s not property, and the fact that my instinct is to hoard her like dragon’s gold undoubtedly means I should seek professional help.
Or at least stop staring at her like she’s oxygen and I’ve been holding my breath for weeks.
What was the line from that movie my sister watched on repeat during her stay in the hospital last winter? Bewitched, body and soul.
Yeah. Makes perfect fucking sense now.
I unclench my jaw and force my features into something less nerd-boy-crush-on-the-homecoming-queen. Remind myself to act like a rational man who is not currently fantasizing about locking a woman away in his house.
Sloane clears her throat, her gaze bouncing between us with growing suspicion. “Is it a problem that I invited Avah for dinner?”
“Not if you’re into Taco Tuesday.” I direct the words at Avah, trying for casual and coming off closer to constipated, and dial back the smile that feels too wide and hungry on my face.
“Is there guacamole involved?” Avah asks, cool as a cucumber, damn her.
“Of course.” I turn toward the fridge, grateful for a moment to pull my shit together. “It will guac your socks off.” Christ, did I just try for avocado humor? If there’s a God, she’ll smite me right now.
“He’s better at food than jokes.” Sloane opens the bag of chips sitting on the counter. “It’s not fair that you got the brains and the cooking ability. What was left for me?”
“You’re plenty smart.” I grab the volcanic stone bowl I used to prepare the guac and set it next to the chips. “Plus, you got all the emotional intelligence in the family.”
Avah chokes back a laugh, and I raise a brow in her direction.
“You said it.” Her palms go up in mock surrender. I know it’s mock because I can’t imagine her ever surrendering, not that I’d want her to.
We eat on the back deck as the light softens and the river hums its familiar white noise below. Normally, I find the rhythmic gurgle meditative. At the moment, I’m too busy tracking Avah’s every movement to give a rip about nature’s soundtrack.
I bought this house to be close to Sloane, then bought the lot next door so no one could encroach on my privacy. Now Avah is sitting at my table, shiny hair grazing her shoulders, and the part of me that usually screams keep people out has rewired itself to keep her close.
My sister has a gift for filling silences, and I let her carry the conversation while I focus on not staring at Avah like a starving man at a buffet. Sloane talks about the bookstore, a difficult customer, and some new releases she’s excited to stock.
Avah’s snarky but playful responses make Sloane snort-laugh, and something that feels suspiciously like envy twists in my chest. The effortless back-and-forth of real friendship has always been a code I couldn’t crack.
Too many years as the awkward, sick geek who didn’t fit in, followed by too many more as the driven asshole who refused to try.
“So this is actually a celebration dinner.” Sloane ignores Avah’s silent plea to shut the fuck up and pins me with a look that says I better be ready to bust out a pinata. “Avah got a job as a baker at The Sugar Shack. She starts tomorrow morning.”
Avah rolls her eyes like Sloane is making a big deal out of nothing, but twin spots of color bloom in her cheeks. “Temporary, until I figure out my next move.”
Is she expecting me to point out that her resume should land her in a boardroom, not behind a bakery counter? As if working with her hands is somehow beneath her.
“Your cinnamon roll game is fucking fire.” I hold her gaze. “I expect Skylark to have a surge in type 2 diabetes diagnoses in the near future.”
I watch her struggle with the compliment, as if accepting it might cost her more than she’s willing to pay.
This woman has no problem turning me inside out with a single look, but can’t handle being told she’s good at something.
It’s adorable and infuriating and makes me want to find new ways to praise her just to watch her squirm.
“Speaking of an impending sugar high, I’m assuming you brought dessert?” I don’t assume anything where Avah is concerned, but I want to give her an escape route from the current squirming.
“Snickerdoodles, but I left them in the car.” She reaches for her water, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll grab them after dinner.”
Pretty sure I do a shitty job of hiding my surprise. “Those are my favorite.”
Avah just shrugs and takes another long drink of water, but Sloane grins.
“I told her. Based on how you plowed through the cinnamon rolls I brought over, I figured you wouldn’t be able to say no to snickerdoodles.
And I love that I’ve found my health-nut brother’s kryptonite after years of being lectured about sugar like you were a dentist with a grudge. ”
“Only an idiot would pass up what Avah makes.” I shrug like this is obvious. Then try not to think about what, exactly, my kryptonite might be, knowing full well it isn’t the cookies.
A shadow passes over Avah’s blue eyes—there and gone before I can read it. But if I had to guess, I’d bet money her piece of shit ex probably made her feel guilty for every moment of joy she found in her own kitchen.
I fucking hate seeing shadows in her eyes.
“So.” Avah sets down her water and fixes me with a look that’s pure business. Also adorable. “Have you talked to the couple we had dinner with on the island?”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this since she already knows the answer. “Joel and I have had trouble connecting,” I say, arching a brow and having the motion mimicked right back at me. “But I’m hoping to schedule another dinner soon.”
“Maybe I could tag along?” She says it casually, like we’re talking about the weather. “I really liked Mariel.”
Sloane perks up. “Is this the family who lost their daughter to cancer, then started that community platform in her honor?”
“Yep.” I’m watching Avah carefully now. She refused this exact thing when I asked her in Sloane’s apartment, then winged a spatula at my head for suggesting it.
Now she’s offering in front of my sister, so it looks like normal dinner conversation instead of whatever charged negotiation this actually is.
Clever, frustrating, and so perfectly Avah that my whole body thrums with wanting her.
“How about I set it up for this weekend?” I match her casual tone. “If they’re available.”
“Great.” The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s close enough that Sloane fails to notice.
We finish dinner as the last light fades, then Sloane stretches and starts gathering plates. Avah moves to help as I carry the serving dishes inside, thinking about how underrated normal is.
“I’ll go grab the cookies.” Sloane stacks the plates in the sink and heads for the front door.
The moment I hear it close behind her, I pin Avah against the counter, my arms bracketing her body, caging her in without actually touching her.
She could duck under my arm and escape if she wanted.
She could tell me to back off, and I would.
Instead, her hands come to my chest, not pushing me away, pressing hard, like she needs the contact as much as I do.
“Not on the mouth,” she whispers.
I lean in and nuzzle the underside of her jaw, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the faint sugar-sweetness that seems to cling to her skin. Her pulse flutters against my lips.
“What kind of game are you playing?”
“I’m not playing anything.” Her voice is shaky. “But I still feel like I owe you, and you know how I feel about that.”
“I like having you in my debt.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I could get used to it. I could get addicted to the way she fits against me. How the sharp edges soften when I touch her. The fire in her eyes that makes me feel more alive than I have in years.
The security system dings when the front door opens again, and I force myself to step back, dropping my hands to my sides. By the time Sloane rounds the corner with a plate of cookies in her hands, Avah and I are standing three feet apart with carefully neutral expressions.
But my heart is still pounding. Based on the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Avah’s is too. And I’m damn sure that whatever this is between us, it’s just getting started.