Chapter 23
Agaricus Bisporus my neckline suddenly feels like a confession. My pulse stutters.
“What are you two doing tonight?” he asks, his voice pitched carefully neutral.
“We’re getting Ava laid,” announces Kiki.
I whip my head toward her, horrified. “Kiki!”
“What? That’s the plan, right? Your first one-night stand?” Kiki turns to Gavin as if he’s an impartial audience. “I didn’t spend two hours getting this one into my dress and Spanx for some innocent girl-dinner-and-Netflix situation. Ava needs a one-night stand, stat. Right, Ava?”
Yes, the plan is to get laid so that I can forget Jared—and Gavin—once and for all.
Gavin’s jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Okay. Time to go.” My voice cracks slightly as I dig in my purse, pretending to search for something. Anything to avoid his gaze.
“And dessert is gluten-free peach cobbler. Just nuke it for one minute and add the fresh whipped cream I made in the canister in the fridge. I repeat: the fresh whipped cream, not that fake fat-free rice milk canister of Olivia’s.”
Kiki elbows me. “Let’s go, goddess.”
Finally, I get up the courage to look him in the eye, taking a nerve-calming breath as I do. The mention of Olivia’s name has erased the look of lust on his face. Or, it was never there and only imagined by me, which might make far more sense.
Four hours later, not having sex tonight feels less like failure and more like mercy. Right now, slipping off my heels and climbing into cozy pajamas sounds like the truest kind of pleasure.
Through the car window, I can see Gavin is up past his usual bedtime, pacing like a dad waiting for his teenager to come home from prom. As Kiki pulls the car to a stop to drop me off, I watch as he grabs something off the bookshelf and drops onto the sofa.
The door sticks as I push it open, and I stumble slightly, trying to enter quietly, but the wine still fizzes in my bloodstream.
Gavin looks up as I shut the door. His eyes flick to my impossibly high heels, to my dress, and then snap quickly back to my face.
“Hey.” My voice comes out too chipper, too loose. I wince inwardly as I drop my purse on a chair.
“The National Audubon Field Guide to North American Mushrooms?” I read from the book in his lap, squinting.
“What? Who can know enough about the soil attrition rate”—he flips to a random page—“created by the over-farming of fleshy, spore-bearing Agaricus bisporus?”
“Agaricus bisporus. Uh-huh.”
I take a step toward the sofa, and my ankle wobbles in my too-high heels. Before I can catch myself, Gavin’s hand is there—steady, warm, curling around my elbow.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
The feel of his fingers burns through my skin, sending a sharp jolt of heat to my stomach. He doesn’t let go right away.
“You’re tipsy.”
“Am not.”
“You’re arguing like a tipsy person.”
“Fine. Slightly tipsy.”
“More than slightly.”
The room spins a little, so I plop down on the far end of the sofa to stop it. He pulls his legs in, sitting cross-legged to give me room.
“If I had a time machine, I’d go back and murder the person who invented high heels,” I grumble, as I loosen the strap on one of my heels to rub at angry red marks on my foot.
“You wouldn’t use it to take out Hitler? Stalin? Whoever invented TikTok challenges?”
“Nope. High heels. Obviously, a man. Definitely a sadist. Who would you take out?”
“Does it have to be murder? I can’t just go back in time and watch Queen at Wembley?”
“Sorry, this is what being back on the single scene does.”
“Makes you homicidal?”
“And desperate for an accomplice.”
He huffs a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth curving.
“You don’t know how lucky you are to be engaged to Olivia.”
Something flickers across his face. It’s not quite a smile.
“No one-night stand?” he asks softly.
“Do you really want to hear about my, in retrospect, premature foray back into singledom?”
“I have a strong hunch it might be more entertaining than North American mushrooms.” He snaps his book shut and gives me his full attention.
“Well.” I lean back. “Turns out I’m not my type’s type. The guy I was being set up with decided he doesn’t date women who ‘look their age.’ He’s five years older than me, by the way.”
“Sounds like a moron.”
“Oh, it gets better. The first guy who asked me to dance moved like he was auditioning for Magic Mike: The Musical.”
“Is that… bad?”
“I tried to keep up, but he was so wrapped up in his imaginary spotlight he didn’t notice when I slipped away.”
“I think I need a visual of this choreographed disaster.”
“Not happening. Guy number three hadn’t heard of Nick Cave or Mitski, but said he had heard of Bob Dylan, but couldn’t remember any of the titles to his songs, except for, wait for it… Born in The USA.”
“Not everyone has great taste in music.”
“Yeah, he said he liked ‘real music,’ the tortured meaningful kind. His examples? Nickelback. And… a Korean boy band he called ‘art for the soul.’”
Gavin presses a hand to his mouth, trying to hide his laugh. “Nickelback and K-pop? That’s… eclectic.”
“Eclectic? Or criminal?”
Gavin’s shoulders shake with laughter. It’s deep and unguarded, and I want more of it.
“Maybe the dress was the problem,” he says, his gaze flicking down for a split second before meeting mine again.
Ah. So, he noticed.
I grab a throw pillow and swat him lightly, but the air between us has shifted. His eyes have darkened. The heat in them makes my chest tighten.
“You’re staring,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
The words hang in the space between us, crackling like a live wire. If I were sober, I would have probably reasoned it away, but I’m not sober, and I can feel it.
I push myself off the sofa, breaking the moment. He’s Olivia’s. He’s off-limits. You don’t do this. But I wobble in my heels. This time, I’m not quick enough to recover, and he’s on his feet in an instant, one arm steadying me, the other at my back.
“You shouldn’t be walking in those.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, but the room tilts alarmingly.
“You’re not.”
Before I can protest, he sweeps me into his arms, bridal-style. My breath catches in my throat.
“Gavin, you don’t have to—”
His chest is warm and solid under my cheek. He smells like vanilla and cedar and something uniquely him, and I have to fight the sudden, dangerous thought of pressing my lips to the skin of his neck.
“You’re too good at this,” I mumble, my voice thick with exhaustion and wine.
“At what?”
“Being… good. It’s irritating.”
“Go to sleep, Ava.”
But I don’t. Not yet.
As he lays me gently on the bed, I stir. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Our faces are inches apart, his breath warm against my lips.
“Do you always carry women to bed like this?” I whisper, a faint, tipsy smile tugging at my lips.
His eyes flicker, something unreadable flashing through them. His voice comes out low, controlled:
“Ava, you’re asking dangerous questions.”
And then he’s gone.
I blink at the ceiling.
What did he mean by that?
I tell myself that it was nothing. But my heart is pounding like it disagrees.