Chapter 18
Plan Platonic
I am not falling for Gavin Jones.
Nope. Absolutely not.
Not just because he’s engaged to a woman People magazine once named one of America’s Most Beautiful Humans.
Of course, I am not falling for Gavin because that would be monumentally stupid.
Even if he may have looked at me yesterday, for the briefest of seconds, like I was dessert.
Nope. I am not going to pine like an Emily Henry heroine. Just because a man moans over custard doesn’t mean he’s your soulmate.
Even if I’m still thinking about the moment his fingers brushed mine when he handed back the pastry torch, and I felt that ridiculous zing that no amount of logic has managed to kill.
It’s not even about Gavin. It’s residual Jared. It’s just … emotional phantom limb syndrome. My heart reaching for something that’s no longer there, like it forgot it’s been cut off. Of course, I’d be drawn to someone who looks like Jared, sounds like him, has that same stubborn jaw and careful way with words. It’s just my brain, scrambling for comfort. Familiarity. Not lust. Definitely not lust.
I make a plan anyway. The plan is to stay in the platonic zone for the next three months, then leave by enacting the following:
1. Avoid alone time with Gavin.
2. Channel all rogue attraction into garden work. Sweat out the feelings. Compost the longing.
3. Remind myself: this is temporary. He is temporary. I am here to heal, not detonate.
When I spot him on the patio through the kitchen window, lying on a chaise, barefoot, shirtless, hair still damp from a shower, a book resting against his stomach, my breath catches. He looks relaxed. Unguarded. A version of him I would fall for, if things were different.
I grab my gloves and flee on the bike to my safe zone.
I’m elbows-deep in garden soil, tearing at weeds with the kind of energy usually reserved for Black Friday sales and betrayal. Dirt cakes under my nails. I find a worm and scream only a little. Nature is healing, apparently.
I’m muttering “He’s not yours, not yours, not yours…” when my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Kiki.
Kiki
Is it insane that I’m checking hotel availability on the island?
I call her, and she answers before the first ring ends.
“Okay, hear me out. I need air. Space. A place where no one is using ‘synergy’ unironically. And guess what? The Outlook Inn has a room available for the whole week. Can I come?” she asks.
My brain scrambles. “Wait—you want to come here?”
“To the island. You’re just a bonus. A messy, emotionally fragile, crème-br?lée-hoarding bonus.”
I laugh, the first real laugh of the day. “Come.”
I can practically hear her grin. “Great. I already booked a ticket. My flight arrives in Bellingham tomorrow.”
I let out a long breath. If anyone can distract me from Gavin and keep me from making an absolute mess of things, it’s Kiki.