Chapter Nineteen Ava
Ava Lane had just announced to half of Lake Briar that she and Nate Brennan had never kissed.
There were many ways a woman could ruin her own evening.
Public honesty with a microphone was definitely one of them.
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
Not Trevor, who stood beside her with his sponsor smile frozen on his face.
Not Nate, who looked at her like she had placed his heart, his self-control, and possibly his remaining brain function on a tiny platform beneath string lights.
Not Tyler, who appeared to be physically restraining himself from exploding.
Not Grandma Ruthie, who sat at the judges’ table with one eyebrow lifted in what Ava could only interpret as judicial interest.
The microphone hummed in Ava’s hand.
Her pulse was louder.
Then Tyler’s voice broke across the silence.
“I would like to say, for the record, that I am emotionally unprepared but available as a witness.”
Griffin shouted, “No one asked you.”
A few people laughed.
The sound loosened the crowd, but not Ava.
Ava was still standing beside Nate with the prompt card in one hand, a microphone in the other, and her no kissing rule lying dead at her feet wearing a little pink Team One shirt.
Nate stepped closer.
Not for the crowd.
Not for the points.
For her.
“Ava,” he said quietly.
Her name was not a question.
It was a check-in.
A hand held out without touching.
A way out if she wanted one.
That was the problem with Nate Brennan. He kept offering exits right when she was trying to convince herself she had no choice.
Ava swallowed.
The smart choice was to laugh it off. Tell the crowd they were a new couple. Take the penalty. Walk away with her dignity mostly intact and her rule list still legally enforceable.
The safe choice was to forfeit.
Trevor wanted her to forfeit.
She could feel it from him. The smug patience. The expectation. The certainty that if he made a room uncomfortable enough, Ava would retreat and then hate herself for retreating.
She had done that before.
In restaurants. In hallways. In conversations where he smiled and she shrank because it was easier than being called dramatic.
Ava was tired.
Not tired like sleepy.
Tired like finished.
She looked at Trevor.
He lifted his brows, the movement small enough to seem innocent and sharp enough to make her skin prickle.
Then she looked at Nate.
Nate was not smiling.
He did not look excited, smug, triumphant, or amused. He looked steady in the way he had promised to be. He looked like a man willing to stand in the embarrassment with her and not ask to own it.
Ava’s throat tightened.
“Lane,” he said, softer this time. “Your lead.”
Oh.
No.
Those two words did something far more dangerous than any kiss could have.
Your lead.
Not the crowd’s. Not Trevor’s. Not Tyler’s spreadsheet. Not the bet. Not the bonus points. Hers.
Ava turned back toward the audience and lifted the microphone.
“I should clarify,” she said.
Trevor’s smile returned by one careful inch.
Ava smiled too.
His disappeared.
“We haven’t had one yet,” she said. “Because some of us believe in boundaries.”
Ruthie nodded approvingly.
“But,” Ava continued, because apparently she had chosen chaos with proper posture, “some boundaries deserve to be discussed by the people they actually belong to.”
The crowd made a low sound.
Beckett whispered loudly, “This is better than sports.”
Griffin muttered, “I hate that I agree.”
Nate’s eyes stayed on Ava.
Ava turned the microphone off.
The click sounded impossibly loud.
Trevor took one step forward. “Ava, the station is meant to be fun. No pressure.”
She looked at him.
There it was.
No pressure.
Said by the man applying it.
Her fear burned clean into anger.
“I know what pressure feels like, Trevor,” she said. “This isn’t it.”
His expression cracked.
Only for a second.
Enough.
Ava handed the microphone to Paulson, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, possibly underground.
Then she turned to Nate.
The whole lawn watched.
Ava forgot them.
Mostly.
Fine, not mostly. She was aware of every person within a five-mile radius. But awareness was different from obedience. Let them watch. Let them whisper. Let Tyler internally open ten tabs.
Ava stepped close enough that Nate’s breath changed.
His voice was barely audible. “You do not have to do this.”
“I know.”
“We can walk off this platform right now.”
“I know.”
“No kissing was your rule.”
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
Mistake.
Major mistake.
His mouth was not smiling now. It was serious. Soft in a way that made the air feel too warm.
“It was a good rule,” she said.
“It was.”
“Very practical.”
“Very.”
“Probably wise.”
“Definitely wise.”
She looked up at him. “I am so tired of being wise because someone else taught me that wanting things was embarrassing.”
Nate went still.
The crowd vanished for real then.
It was only him.
Only her.
Only the tiny space between the rule and the choice.
Nate’s voice was rough. “Then don’t do this for him.”
Ava’s heart hit once, hard.
“I’m not.”
He searched her face.
Ava let him.
For once, she did not sharpen the moment into a joke. She did not hide behind sarcasm. She did not make him prove himself before she admitted what she already knew.
She wanted to kiss him.
Not because of Trevor.
Not because of points.
Not because of a fake boyfriend operation that had gotten wildly out of hand.
Because Nate Brennan had stood beside her every time the room tried to make her smaller, and somehow, impossibly, he had never once asked her to become easier to stand beside.
Ava lifted one hand to his chest.
His heart was hammering.
Good.
Excellent, actually.
It helped to know she was not the only person making questionable life choices in public.
“No assuming,” she whispered.
His eyes held hers. “Never.”
“No victory face.”
“I will do my best.”
“No Tyler.”
“Spiritually impossible, but I support the goal.”
A laugh broke out of her.
Small.
Real.
Then Nate smiled, and the last of Ava’s good sense stepped politely off the dock.
She rose on her toes and kissed him.
The first touch was meant to be brief.
A point made. A choice claimed. A boundary moved on her terms.
That was the plan.
Unfortunately, plans had been failing around Nate Brennan since lemonade.
His hand came to her waist, careful at first, light enough that she could step back.
She did not step back.
His other hand lifted to her jaw, thumb still, fingers warm along her cheek. Not trapping. Not taking. Asking without words.
Ava answered by curling her fingers into the front of his shirt.
The crowd disappeared.
The lake disappeared.
Trevor disappeared.
There was only Nate, steady and warm and shaken beneath her hands, kissing her like he had been trying not to for days and was still more concerned with earning the moment than winning it.
Ava had been kissed before.
Of course she had.
She had been kissed by boys who wanted to be impressive. By men who wanted to be wanted. By Trevor, who had kissed her like affection was something he could turn on when it served him and off when it required responsibility.
Nate kissed her like responsibility was already in the room.
That should not have been hot.
It absolutely was.
The kiss deepened by one dangerous degree.
Ava’s hand slid higher on his chest.
Nate made a low sound she felt more than heard.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
That sound was going to live in her brain now.
She pulled back before she did something worse, like forget the existence of witnesses, rules, gravity, and basic lake safety.
The world came roaring back.
The crowd was silent.
For half a second.
Then Lake Briar exploded.
People cheered. Someone screamed. The local band hit a wrong chord.
Ellie shrieked so loudly Ava could identify her without looking.
Tyler appeared to be running in a circle.
Griffin had both hands on his head. Beckett was applauding like a proud stage parent.
Soren nodded once, which from Soren felt like a standing ovation.
Ruthie Lane leaned toward Denise at the judges’ table and said something Ava could not hear.
Denise raised both score paddles.
Tens.
Ruthie raised a paddle too.
Ten.
Soren raised his.
Nine.
Ava pointed at him from the platform, still breathless. “Nine?”
Soren said, “Room for improvement.”
The crowd lost it.
Nate laughed, stunned and breathless beside her.
Ava looked at him.
Mistake again.
His hair was a little messy from her hand. His mouth was softer than before. His eyes were on her like he had forgotten anyone else existed.
Victory face was not the problem.
Wonder face was.
Ava had no defense for wonder face.
Trevor’s voice cut through the noise.
“Well,” he said into the backup microphone he had apparently picked up, “that’s certainly one way to earn points.”
The lawn quieted by degrees.
Ava turned.
Trevor was smiling.
Still.
Always.
But his eyes were wrong now.
Cooler. Meaner. Less polished at the edges.
Nate moved slightly beside her.
Ava felt it and touched his wrist.
Stay.
He did.
Trevor looked at the prompt card in Ava’s hand. “Judges will count that as a completed station. Congratulations.”
Ava smiled. “Thank you.”
“Very committed performance.”
There it was.
Performance.
The word slid under her skin because it had teeth.
Nate’s wrist flexed beneath her fingers.
Ava held steady.
“You would know,” she said.
Trevor’s smile thinned.
The crowd made another sound, softer this time.
A dangerous one.
Not laughter exactly.
Recognition.
Trevor felt it. His gaze flicked toward the sponsor tables, then the judges, then Karen, who stood near Ellie with her face pale and furious in a way Ava had rarely seen.
Ruthie Lane set her score paddle down.
Slowly.
That somehow felt louder than yelling.
Paulson hurried onto the platform with the energy of a man trying to save both charity and liability. “Excellent station. Great crowd engagement. Team One receives full bonus points, plus judge bonus. Moving on. Next pair, please.”
Ava stepped off the platform before her knees could develop opinions.
Nate stepped down beside her.
The second their feet hit grass, Tyler barreled toward them.