Chapter 24
The First Time I Hear Him
I haven’t seen Gavin since he carried me to bed last night. Not since he said my name like a warning. Not since I almost leaned in but didn’t.
Today, I need distance. A distraction. Something that doesn’t look like him or smell like him. So, when I find Nico’s note (Open mic tonight. Come watch me make a fool of myself?) scrawled across the back of a compostable takeout lid, I take it as a sign. Not from the universe. I’m not that woo-woo. But maybe from the version of me who still wants to flirt, but without dire consequences.
The wind curls off the water, teasing the ends of my hair as I follow the path toward the cliffside lawn. The sky is that impossible Pacific Northwest blue, streaked with clouds. Fir trees line the bluff, their tips swaying, and below, the rocky shoreline dips into a narrow cove, the water calm and pale jade. Picnic benches are scattered throughout the grass like a scene from a summer folk festival, rustic cabins and a few tucked-away yurts dot the surrounding hillsides.
I spot Nico instantly.
He’s perched on the edge of a picnic table, all easy limbs and unbothered confidence, his hair wind-tossed and his guitar balanced across one thigh. He’s surrounded by three women—one lounging nonchalantly, one braiding the other’s hair—but it’s clear they’re all orbiting him. He looks freshly tousled, like he just stepped out of a music video. He grins mid-story; something he’s said makes all of them laugh, and for a second, I get it. The charm isn’t just in how he looks. It’s in the way the air shimmers when he talks.
Nico catches sight of me and lights up. As he heads toward me, the women glance over, clocking me with mild curiosity and maybe a touch of territorial suspicion.
“Ava. You made it!”
Nico embraces me like we’re old friends instead of one-bag-of-gravel acquaintances. I don’t mind. The island has that effect on people.
“You didn’t tell me this place was straight out of a Bon Iver song,” I say, taking in the sweeping view.
“Wait until the sun sets,” he grins. “Full-on spiritual awakening.”
Before I can respond, his hand lands lightly on the small of my back. Not possessive, just ... confident. Familiar. Or maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be touched by someone who isn’t breaking their own rules to do it. My skin prickles beneath it.
“Come on, I want to introduce you to someone,” he says.
We weave through the picnic tables, his hand still gently guiding me, until we reach a tall man in a Patagonia jacket, his face friendly and open.
“Ava, meet Joe Brotherton, our fearless leader.”
Joe grins and shakes my hand. “Welcome to our little corner of the world. Nico here is our star resident and—”
He turns to his right, and I glance over.
Gavin.
He approaches Joe’s side, his expression unreadable.
Joe puts his arm around him. “And this is Gavin. The man who quietly helps support our songwriter residency, though he refuses to take any credit.”
Gavin’s gaze flicks briefly to Nico’s hand still hovering near my waist. A flicker. A register. Then gone. But I swear his mouth tightens.
“Gavin and I know each other,” I offer.
“Old family friend,” Gavin adds smoothly. “And my summer chef.”
His tone is light, but I catch the edge in it.
Joe claps his hands. “Well, you picked a good night. Nico’s opening our open mic, but hopefully we’ll get some other brave souls to follow.”
The Doe Bay Café smells like cardamom. Inside, strings of mismatched lights zigzag over tables. Wildflowers fill mason jars. The walls are lined with photos of past performers—some famous, some not—but all caught mid-song, mid-feeling, mid-flight.
Through the windows, the cove shines in the last light. A couple of dozen locals fill the café with a reverent buzz, eager to witness something sacred.
Nico takes the stage with practiced ease. The first notes hush the room.
He plays three songs, lean and soulful. His voice is raw silk. By the end, the crowd is putty in his hands.
“Thanks for letting me warm up the stage,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Now, hopefully someone else is ready to take a swing.”
A local singer, Stormy, in the back, boho dress, barefoot, takes the bait and walks to the mic with a fiddle. The crowd claps, easy and warm.
Nico slides back to our table and slouches into the seat beside me. His thigh presses against mine, casual and electric.
“What did you think?” he asks, voice low.
“Beautiful,” I say, meaning it.
He grins. “I’ve got two more later tonight. But I’m more interested in your thoughts now.”
He reaches for his drink, his fingers brushing mine, and I’m pleased to feel my pulse trip a little.
“Gavin, didn’t you play guitar in college?” Joe asks.
“Only in private. And mostly poorly.”
Nico laughs at Gavin’s response. “Let me guess, a couple of sad chords and a Dylan impression?”
“More than a couple,” Gavin replies coolly.
I laugh—too loud. “He won’t get up there. No way.” I reach for my drink.
Gavin’s gaze drifts to where Nico’s leg presses against mine. Then to my hand still on my glass.
Then he drains his drink like a dare. “Nico. Mind if I borrow your guitar?”
“Uh. Sure.” He passes it over, curious.
I freeze. “Wait. Seriously?”
Gavin doesn’t answer me. He just walks to the stage with an unhurried confidence.
He adjusts the microphone, then strums once. Then again. Then starts playing.
I recognize the chords to the Pete Molinari song: I Don’t Like the Man I Am. But Gavin slows it down. Gone is the bluesy bounce of the original. What’s left is a haunting hymn-like confession.
His voice is gravel and velvet as he sings about restraint—about wanting someone he won’t let himself have because he’s not the man he needs to be. Every word lands heavy and raw.
His voice cracks at the edge, but it doesn’t break. He sings like a man standing in a burning house, too lost in the music to notice the flames.
He sings like I’m the only person in the room.
Every line is a punch to the ribs. Not because he sings it to me, but because I believe he means it.
The trio of girls who were hanging on to Nico lean forward, rapt.
I can’t breathe.
The song aches. It confesses. It apologizes. It pleads.
When the song ends, there’s a beat of silence before the applause. I stand too fast.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing past someone’s chair.
Out the back door, the night hits me in the face. Cool and salt-sweet. I step into the dark, heart pounding.
Gavin’s voice echoes in my ears, haunting and hot.
My breath won’t regulate. My chest won’t unclench. Heat pools low in my belly and spreads, traitorous and terrifying.
I don’t want this.
I want this too much.
I lean over the edge of the bluff and inhale sharply, trying to will the feelings down. Far down. I’m dizzy. Like I’m losing altitude without warning.
I picture his eyes as he sang. Unblinking. On me. The way he held every note like it cost him something.
Then I hear footsteps on the gravel path behind me.
A jacket lands gently across my shoulders. Gavin says nothing.
Neither do I.
We stand side by side, the only sounds the waves below, the wind threading through the trees, and the thunder of my pulse.
The jacket smells like cedar and something unmistakably him. I should shrug it off.
Instead, I pull it tighter. And let the feeling stay. Just for a minute.