Chapter 11
Honor System
We pull onto the one road that loops around the island like a lazy lasso. Green pastures roll out on either side of us, dotted with woolly sheep and newborn lambs that bounce like they’ve had too much caffeine. Wildflowers scatter themselves in every available space. Poppies, foxglove, Queen Anne’s lace, something pink I can’t name but desperately want to Pinterest later.
Gavin drives one-handed, like he’s traveled this route a thousand times. The windows are down, and the smell of salt air and cedar keeps finding its way into my lungs like a slow-release sedative.
We turn down a road actually named Enchanted Forest Lane. So picture perfect it’s ridiculous. There are no billboards. No honking. Not even a streetlight. Just the occasional cow or longhorn chewing on grass.
Further down the road, we pass an old weathered barn, one with a hand-painted wooden sign that reads: Fresh Eggs, Cash Only, Honor System.
Of course it is.
“You okay over there?” Gavin asks, eyes on the road.
“I’m fine,” I say too fast.
Which means I’m absolutely not fine. His voice reminds me that I’m a walking Reddit board of rising panic: How do you behave when your ex’s brother becomes your boss? How do you start over after losing your job, your apartment, and your almost-fiancé to a man named John?
Gavin never seems pressured to make small talk, which annoys me. I hate that he’s always so good at silence. At stillness. Like he has nothing to prove and knows it. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to narrate my internal spiral out loud.
As we take a curve, the forest opens up, revealing another rocky shoreline, so stunning I momentarily forget to be anxious. The water glints silver-blue, and along the low-tide edge, a row of blue herons stands so still they look like statues.
I say nothing. I don’t trust my voice not to tremble with awe, and I’ve already used up my day’s quota of awe and vulnerability.
Gavin glances over anyway. “It’s stunning the first time, but it never stops growing on you.”
“I’m not here long enough for anything to grow on me,” I reply.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Let me guess. They stayed?”
“Every time.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, don’t start rooting for me.”
He doesn’t answer, but I feel his gaze flicker over to me again before returning to the road like he’s taking stock. Like he knows something I don’t.
“What did you do before becoming a VC?” I ask.
“I was the lead singer of a rock band.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s very funny,” I say, trying to imagine stoic Gavin on stage, guitar in hand.
His mouth tightens like he’s already regretting hiring me. Then he brakes abruptly.
“Did we hit something?”
“Nope. Just giving the locals the right of way.”
A small family of deer—mom, a buck, and two fuzzy fawns—ambles across the road.
I sit in silence, watching them disappear into the underbrush, and feel something in my ribcage shift.
Gavin’s arm is still outstretched in front of me, like he was instinctively blocking me from impact, but he doesn’t move it right away.
When I finally glance over, he’s already looking at me, and suddenly the car feels way too small.
I clear my throat and fumble for something neutral. “That’s the most Pacific Northwest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You didn’t grow up with deer?”
“No. I grew up with cockroaches and chain-link fences.”
He doesn’t joke back, and now I wish I hadn’t said it.
But then he says, softly, “Well, you’re not there anymore.”
I nod once and focus my gaze out the window like there’s something urgent happening in a patch of poppies.
In the distance, the sun is beginning to dip, brushing everything in gold, and the trees go from towering to cathedral-like.
Gavin slows down to make another turn. “I forgot to ask. Are you allergic to Mohair?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“We have three Angora goats. They’re mostly harmless, unless you try to do yoga near them.”
“Noted.”
“I told them you were coming.”
“The goats?”
He smirks. “Yeah. They’re excited.”
Gavin Jones smiles—and it’s the kind of smile that gets stored in a mental folder titled Do Not Revisit While Lonely or Tipsy.
I cross my arms and look away.
Because this isn’t the time. Or the place. Or the anything.
Because Gavin is off-limits.
Because Jared.
Because Olivia.
Because reasons.
But still … my pulse has opinions. And I’m not sure if it’s the view or the man beside me, but something tells me this summer may be a lot harder—and a lot more confusing—than I ever imagined.
We turn onto a private driveway and travel through a dense forest patch and switchback roads rimmed with sword ferns, and then through pockets of golden grass that slope toward the sea. Moss blankets rocks. The light is different here, less showy, more secretive. And those trees. I’ve never seen anything like them. They twist up from earth and rock like they’ve been fighting for centuries to touch the sun. Their bark peels in spirals, cinnamon-red and startling, revealing green underneath, as if someone had hand-painted them and forgotten to finish.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Madronas. My grandmother used to make a cider from the berries and tea from the bark whenever I had an upset stomach.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I say quietly.
I spot more pale foxglove along the road, delicate but poisonous, he tells me, and wild huckleberries tangled with salal. It’s the kind of flora that hasn’t been planned or planted. It doesn’t perform for you. It just ... is.
I catch my first real glimpse of the house. It’s smaller than I imagined, and older. No pretentious facade, no oversized windows begging for attention. Just dark wood and a front structure that seems to have grown there from the ground up.
Gavin opens my door, his chivalry on autopilot.
I step out, inhaling damp cedar, as three Angora goats appear around the bend in the hill—white and absurdly magical, like tiny cloud creatures. One bleats at me, loudly, and I laugh.
“So, you weren’t joking.”
Gavin smirks and shrugs. “They came with the land.”
Two smaller structures sit behind the house, half-tucked between a grove of olive trees and low flowering bushes.
“The guesthouse, and… an unfinished studio.”
“Are those solar panels on top?”
“They can run completely off grid.”
“For the zombie apocalypse.”
“Exactly,” he nods. “Both were built without disturbing the wild growth or any old-growth trees.”
Wildness. That’s what I couldn’t name until now. This place hasn’t been tamed, just gently stewarded. Like someone knew the land had a soul and tried not to trample it.
“Is this the original house?” I ask, still staring.
“My great-grandfather built the original structure, his homestead house, in the late 1800s. Everyone thought I should tear it down to make way for something new.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because he built it from trees he felled right here. I didn’t want to erase the roots. I preferred to add on rather than tear down.”
I feel myself warming to him again—annoying, broody, unapproachable Gavin Jones—who happens to sound like someone who believes in family and trees and legacy.
“You were supposed to stay in the guesthouse,” he adds as we step toward the porch. “But the plumber ghosted me.”
“Seriously?”
“Plumbers are in high demand on these islands. We’re also on a septic system, which complicates matters.”
“So, what happens when I flush the toilet?”
“Probably nothing catastrophic. Probably.”
I raise a brow. He almost smiles. Almost.
“Anyway,” he says, “you’ll be in my mom’s room. Inside the house.”
“With you?”
“Not with me.” He makes a face. “Just... in proximity.” There’s a long pause. “I’m headed off island tomorrow,” he adds too casually. “Olivia has a benefit gala in L.A.”
Of course, she’s still in the picture. Olivia Hanson. America’s favorite morning anchor.
“You won’t need to cook until the next day. You’ll have the place to yourself to get settled.”
He opens the door. I expect starkness, maybe steel. But instead, it’s warm. Lived-in. Earthy tones layered with books that look like they’ve actually been read, and sharp modern art. But also, softness: the right kind of pillows, worn leather, a throw blanket tossed without aesthetic calculation.
“I pictured something more... James Bond villain chic,” I admit.
“Italian marble? Underground lair?” he asks.
“At least a martini fridge and a remote-controlled fireplace.”
He smirks. “Sorry to disappoint.”
I trace the curve of a small carved sandstone elephant. There’s a baby one carved inside the mother’s belly, a delicate, hidden detail you’d miss unless you knew to look.
Just like this place of Gavin’s.
On an end table, there’s a photo of a young Gavin pushing a younger Jared on a bike. Jared’s excited. Gavin’s focused. I blink against the sudden prick of tears. This was almost my family photo.
“You look tired,” he says. “Let me show you to your room.” He doesn’t ask. He just pivots.
We head down a hallway until he stops at a room at the far end.
“My room and office are that way,” he says, gesturing in the opposite direction. “So, we won’t run into each other much.”
Light spills into the room from a small garden patio, and light from a skylight dapples the floor. A copper tub sits under a rain showerhead, separated from the bedroom by only a pane of glass.
I trail my fingers across the hammered tub.
“Olivia hated all the dents,” Gavin says. “Mom said they gave it character.”
“If things are too perfect, they evoke less emotion.”
He glances sideways. “Mom said almost the exact same thing.”
He points to a weathered black secretary’s desk. “That was my great-grandmother’s. Four generations old. Cari, Jared, and I used to hide toys in it. Three generations of women in our family have hidden love letters in its secret compartments.”
“It looks like it remembers everything,” I say. “I kind of love that.”
“Olivia doesn’t think it works with the modern interior.”
“And yet, here it is.”
He shrugs. “Some things are worth keeping.”
“The room’s too nice, Gavin. Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“Afraid not.”
He hesitates. I’m staring at the wall above the bed.
“Is that…?”
It’s a cluster of photographs by Jared. And in the center—me.
I step closer to the photo. The image is shadowy, intimate. I’m wearing Jared’s button-up shirt. Drinking a cappuccino. My smile is sleep-mussed, radiant.
That morning. Our first morning. He captured me as if I were art.
Gavin clears his throat. “I didn’t know. I’ve never really... looked.”
We both know he has. Maybe not closely. But enough. I wonder if he’ll take it down. I wonder if I want him to.
“I need to run an errand,” he says. “How about I show you the kitchen when I get back?”
I nod, and he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
And just like that, I’m alone in a room surrounded by relics of a family I used to think might become mine.
I lie back on the bed, the sun-soaked mattress presses into my back like a hand trying to comfort me. The ceiling skylight is darkening, and I can still smell the lilac from outside. Still feel the echo of Gavin’s voice when he said he didn’t want to erase the roots.
Neither do I.