Chapter 36
Hungry Love
The garden looks even more cinematic than before, with pots of rosemary now flanking the walkway and stakes of soft landscape lights winding their way along the path and through the citrus trees like fireflies in formation. Next to the l’orangerie door, more herbs, a pile of much-needed gravel, and bags of bark have been delivered since I was last here.
Kiki stands in the middle of the l’orangerie, hands on her hips, assessing the light, the layout, the vaguely magical scent in the air. “Okay, I know this isn’t technically our place,” she says, “but we’re absolutely claiming credit for the vibe.”
I set a crate of mismatched dishes on the table—vintage plates, chipped mugs, someone’s old porcelain swan—all rescued from the Exchange, a place built by islanders to leave what they don’t need and take only what they love. It’s part thrift store, part magic trick. The only rule is: pay what you can.
“And here I thought the vibe came from Isabel and Batu adding these lights, and hauling in a literal ton of gravel, rosemary, and bark.”
Kiki lifts a brow. “Isabel and Batu didn’t do any of that.”
I pause mid-unpack. “What?”
“They left town two days ago. They’re in Port Townsend visiting Batu’s sister.”
I blink at her. Slowly. Like an idiot. Because of course.
It was Gavin.
Kiki watches my face for all of three seconds before smirking. “You didn’t know it was him.”
“I—no.”
She crosses the room, opens the tall windows until the breeze lifts the hem of her dress and sends the lilac swaying. “You’re so doomed.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Yeah. You’ve got post-sex soul haze.”
I look up from my stack of plates. “The what now?”
“You’re looking at everything like you’re in a romance directed by Sofia Coppola. Smeary light. Long silences. Existential yearning. Full-blown moodboard vibes.”
“Am not.”
Kiki gives me a long, appraising look as we both take a seat. “Did you do it in here?”
I nearly drop a plate. “What? No!”
“His living room?”
“No!”
“The porch swing?”
“Jesus, Kiki.”
“Come on, give me one room to cross off my fantasy list.”
I bite my lip to hide the smile. “Fine. The kitchen. Well, we started there at least.”
Kiki throws her hands in the air. “Yes. That tracks. Messy. Close to snacks. A room you know your way around.”
I shake my head, laughing as I pull out linen napkins. “We are not talking about this.”
“We are absolutely talking about this. You had kitchen sex with Gavin Jones. Your boss and former nemesis. The man with the midnight blue suit that makes him look like Mr. Darcy if Mr. Darcy had a turntable, a wine cellar, and opinions about first pressings.”
“It was a great suit.”
“It was. But apparently not as great as what’s under the suit.”
I toss a napkin at her. She catches it one-handed.
“Anyway,” I say. “We’re here to talk about Marisol’s party. Not my sudden descent into cliché.”
“Right,” Kiki says, sobering as she pulls out her tablet. “Is the menu confirmed?”
I nod. “She wants Coastal Mediterranean–inspired. Seasonal, something elegant but rustic.”
“So basically: she wants to feel like Anne Hathaway fell in love with a local while making tapas on a TikTok-viral island. White Lotus vibes minus the dead body.”
“Exactly,” I laugh. “We’ve got the figs. We’ve got the saffron. Isabel’s on the bread. I have the Ladies Hunting Club on speed dial if the meat doesn’t get delivered. The only possible wrench in our plan is that she’s requested we add a short set of live music.”
“What about Nico’s local musician friends—Pedro or Madison West? Maybe they can play a set together. And for dessert—”
“I was thinking a galette with plums from West Beach Farm.”
We fall into the rhythm of the planning. It’s easy, collaborative, full of our usual shorthand and spiraling daydreams. But somewhere between the handwritten menus and floral mockups forwarded by Patricia, Kiki goes quiet.
She’s fidgeting with her bracelet.
“You okay?” I ask.
She looks up at me, then exhales. “I haven’t told you the big news yet.”
“Oh no. You’re moving to Hawaii with the goat wrangler.”
“No,” she says, laughing. Then: “My GoFundMe got fully funded.”
“What?”
“An anonymous donor gave half the ask in one donation. Just like that. I’m freezing my ovaries, Ava.”
I launch myself at her, squealing and hugging, nearly knocking over a bottle of wine. She laughs into my shoulder, her body shaking.
But when we pull apart, I’m frowning.
“What?” she asks.
“Do you know who the donor was?”
“Nope. But I have a guess.”
I stare at her.
“I think it was Gavin.”
I go still. “Why would he—?”
“Because he listens. Because he gives a damn. Because that man looks at you like he wants to build a world around you and then make room in it for your best friend.”
“Well, shit.”
My phone buzzes on the table between us.
Kiki’s eyes flick down, then back up to mine.
I don’t even have to look. I already know.
Gavin
New York’s louder and faster after a summer on the island. And not the same without you. Let me know if you need anything else for the event.
Something warm and unsteady spreads through my chest.
Kiki grins. “And there it is.”
“Don’t,” I say weakly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face wrote a whole press release.”
Later, we sip rhubarb spritzes under the ginkgo tree.
“You know,” Kiki says, “people are starting to talk.”
“About what?”
“About us. About the dinners. A woman named Liberté asked if we’d consider catering a dinner next spring for KIXP radio. Katie from the Outlook Inn asked if we’d be open to doing all the pre-wedding events for their couples.”
My heart stutters. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Which is why,” she says carefully, “I think we should name this thing.”
“Oh god.”
“Two words.”
“I don’t know. That feels not temporary.”
“Hungry Love.”
I open my mouth to argue—and then don’t.
“Okay,” I say. “I kinda love it.”
Kiki beams. “I knew you would.”
We head to the café kitchen, glasses in hand, the rosemary brushing our legs on the path Gavin lit without telling anyone.
My phone buzzes again.
Gavin
Also … last night? Yeah. Still thinking about it.
I smile despite myself.
Kiki doesn’t miss it.
“Oh,” she says. “You are so gone.”
I laugh, watching the sea breeze move through the garden, catching on the ginkgo’s leaves, making them look iridescent.
“Do you think you could stay here?” she asks. “Build a life?”
I watch overhead lights flicker on one by one, feel the garden holding its breath.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I don’t think I could do it without you.”
She bumps my shoulder. “Good. Because I could definitely get used to living on a beautiful remote island with produce so sexy it deserves its own OnlyFans.”