Chapter 21
Girl on Fire
Olivia arrived this morning with matching designer luggage and a breezy plan to hit the farmers market with Gavin before picking up Quinn, Gavin’s business-partner-slash-best friend, who will be staying for two days.
Kiki is enjoying her Water’s Edge room at the Outlook Inn, so I do the only reasonable thing a woman does when handed an unexpected pocket of freedom: I take a bath. A long, glorious soak in the hand-hammered copper tub that Patricia absolutely did not buy for its resale value.
My sore, post-gardening muscles practically sob as I lower myself into lavender-scented water. I stay until my thoughts start to blur at the edges, until I almost—almost—believe that Gavin’s too-long stares and crooked smiles don’t mean anything at all.
Afterward, towel-wrapped and still warm, I tug on the lacy red panties Kiki gifted me with a note that read, For the next great mistake. She may not be having sex anymore, but she’s determined I will.
They’re barely on when it starts: a high-pitched shriek.
Not human.
Mechanical.
Smoke alarm.
“Gavin?” I call.
He’s probably still strolling the farmer’s market with Olivia, bonding over fresh zucchini and emotional unavailability.
The alarm keeps shrieking. The house could be burning down.
Still damp, with only the towel over my underwear, I sprint to the kitchen, already thick with smoke. Through the haze, I make out bacon charred on the stovetop, a small flame shooting up from the pan.
I move on instinct. Flour. That’s a thing. Right? I snatch the bag from the cabinet and toss a handful toward the flame in a reckless whoosh. The fire fizzles, but the smoke alarm keeps howling like it’s personally offended.
I grab a dishtowel and jump, fanning at the alarm, trying to swat it into silence.
Then my towel slips.
As it hits the floor, I lunge to grab it—
—and freeze.
The alarm cuts out, but a man I’ve never seen before is standing in the doorway.
He’s watching me, one eyebrow raised, one hand in his pocket, mouth tilted in a smirk like he’s just stumbled into an off-Broadway performance of Portrait of a Partially Nude Lady in Kitchen Fire.
He’s tall, lean, blonde, all sunlit edges and golden stubble. And those eyes: clear, sea-glass blue and very, very focused.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My heart thumps so loudly I half expect the alarm to start again in sympathy.
Then Gavin steps in behind him, suitcase in hand, and stops short.
His gaze flicks to me, takes in the smoke, the flour, the near-nakedness. He blinks once. Twice.
His jaw tightens.
I scramble to rewrap the towel around me. “The smoke alarm—”
“You must be Ava,” the man says, with the kind of accent that sets off my fight-or-flirt reflex. Australian. Definitely Australian. “You make one helluva first impression.”
His grin should be illegal in three states and supervised in the rest.
It’s not flirtatious, exactly. It’s amused. Intrigued. Like I’m a puzzle he’s not sure he can solve but wouldn’t mind trying.
Before I can demand who the hell he is—or where he gets those cheekbones—Olivia sweeps through the back door, earbuds in, sunglasses on, completely oblivious to the chaos in her kitchen.
Then she sees him.
“Quinn!” She throws her arms around him, but when she follows Quinn’s gaze to me, her expression falters.
“Ava, why are you wearing a towel and covered in flour?”
It’s not the question so much as the tone: one part concern, two parts judgment.
I open my mouth, but no words come, just heat and static and the low hum of humiliation.
Gavin elbows past Quinn and shoots him a look.
“Wipe that smile off your face, Romeo.”
He turns to me, hand landing at the small of my back. “Can we talk? Now. Privately.”
Even furious, he’s focused. Controlled. And something about that—his restraint—makes me feel reckless.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Just steers me down the hallway, past the pantry and closed doors, until we stop outside the laundry room.
The door clicks shut behind us.
For a second, there’s only silence. And him.
He’s close. Closer than he should be. His arm brushes mine as he turns. He paces once, then faces me like I’ve personally offended his moral code.
“You’re half-naked,” he says, low and sharp.
“I was putting out a fire,” I say. “Sorry if I didn’t have time to don my ball gown.”
His jaw flexes. “You didn’t need to handle it.”
“Well, I did. Because your fiancée tried to flambé bacon.”
“Still.” He rubs the back of his neck.
I narrow my eyes. “Still what? Should I have let your house burn down? Or maybe I should’ve waited for you and Olivia to come back with artisanal honey and put out the fire together as a bonding activity?”
His mouth tightens. “You don’t have to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Combative. I—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s like you want me to lose it.”
“Oh, poor you,” I snap. “Sorry my towel wasn’t securely fastened enough for your delicate sensibilities.”
His eyes drop to the towel now knotted at my chest. And then lower. And then back up.
His voice is rough when he says, “It wasn’t about the towel.”
Something electric sparks in the air between us. I can feel it tighten, coil around my lungs.
I should back away. I don’t.
He takes a step closer.
My breath catches. “If you’re going to lecture me, maybe don’t do it while standing that close.”
“Maybe don’t run around the house half-naked when there are guests arriving,” he growls, but his voice is husky now, all friction and contradiction.
“I didn’t run around,” I murmur. “I was in the kitchen. And I had a towel.”
“You had red panties and a towel.”
My mouth drops open. “How do you even—”
“Red lace,” he says, eyes flicking downward again. “Hard to miss.”
Oh.
Oh no.
I hate how my skin flushes. I hate how my pulse spikes.
He leans in, voice a velvet scrape. “You don’t think I notice these things, but I do.”
My back hits the wall before I realize I’ve even stepped away.
“And what, exactly,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “are you noticing?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Everything slows.
He takes a breath, then straightens like he’s just remembered where he is. Who he is. That he’s engaged to a woman who can’t operate a stove but knows how to apply lipstick with sniper precision.
“We should go back,” he says. But his voice is rougher than before. Regretful, maybe.
“Good idea.” Let’s go back to pretending none of this is happening.
He opens the door without looking at me.
I follow anyway, heart pounding, towel still damp, and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.