Chapter Thirteen Ava
Ava Lane had asked Nate Brennan how he felt about grandmothers, and the man had looked at her like she had handed him a grenade wrapped in a casserole recipe.
Honestly, fair.
Grandmothers were powerful.
Ava’s grandmother, specifically, had once made a church deacon apologize to a fern because he had stepped on it during a fellowship luncheon and then claimed plants did not have feelings. Ruthie Lane did not believe in casualties without acknowledgment.
Nate stared at Ava’s phone.
Then at Ava.
Then back at the phone, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic.
They did not.
MOM: Bring him to Sunday dinner tomorrow. I already told your grandmother.
Across the bonfire, Tyler was still yelling something about divine visions, and Beckett had started narrating the situation to Miles like it was the third period of a playoff game.
Ava barely heard them.
Her brain was busy performing the emotional equivalent of dumping silverware down a staircase.
Nate cleared his throat. “Define grandmother.”
Ava blinked. “What?”
“Scale of threat. Cookie grandmother? Bible grandmother? Weaponized sweet tea grandmother?”
Despite everything, a laugh almost escaped.
Almost.
She swallowed it because this was not funny.
This was her mother, her grandmother, a fake boyfriend she had invented in a moment of Trevor-induced panic, and Nate Brennan standing close enough to smell like bonfire smoke, lake air, and the kind of trouble that did not know when to leave a girl alone.
“Ruthie Lane is a weaponized sweet tea grandmother with Bible grandmother influence,” Ava said.
Nate nodded solemnly. “Serious, then.”
“Very.”
“Does she own decorative plates with threats on them?”
“One says bless your heart. The other is implied.”
“Understood.”
Ava looked down at her mother’s text again.
It was worse the second time.
The first time, shock had done her the favor of numbing the edges. Now the reality came into focus with terrible clarity. Her mother had seen the Ridgeview post. Denise, may she trip over a clipboard, had sent it. Her grandmother had been told. Sunday dinner had been activated.
There were rules in the Lane family.
You did not miss Sunday dinner unless you were working, contagious, or dead in a documented way.
You did not lie to Ruthie Lane if you wanted to sleep well.
You absolutely did not bring a fake boyfriend into Ruthie’s dining room unless you were prepared to be asked about marriage, faith, vegetables, and whether you had a five-year plan that included dental insurance.
Ava’s stomach turned.
“I have to fix this,” she said.
Nate angled toward her. “Okay. How?”
She hated that he asked like he was already on the team.
Not the relay team. The problem team.
Worse, she liked it.
“I could tell my mother the truth,” Ava said.
“That I am not your boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Exactly.”
They stared at each other.
Ava sighed. “It would not be reasonable.”
Nate’s mouth twitched. “No?”
“My mother would hear, ’I lied publicly to escape my ex-boyfriend at a charity relay while holding hands with a hockey player I barely know.’”
“That’s fairly accurate.”
“Not helpful.”
“Sorry.”
“And then she would ask why I felt the need to lie. Then she would ask whether Trevor bothered me. Then she would ask if I had been keeping things from her. Then she would call him nice again, and I would black out from rage.”
Nate’s jaw did the thing.
Ava pointed at him. “No.”
He looked innocent in a way only guilty men attempted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face threatened Hale Development.”
“My face supports small business accountability.”
“Your face needs a hobby.”
“It has hockey.”
“Clearly not enough.”
His smile appeared, brief and unwilling, then faded as he looked at her phone again.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
Ava wanted to walk into the lake.
Not dramatically. Just efficiently.
Instead, she reread the message for a third time, because apparently pain improved with repetition.
“I could say you are busy,” she said.
“I am not.”
“You do not know that.”
“It’s Sunday. We have optional recovery skate in the morning and team dinner at night. Afternoon is open.”
Ava stared at him. “Why would you say that out loud?”
“Because it was information.”
“It was damaging information.”
“To who?”
“My escape plan.”
“Ah.”
“Try to be less available.”
“I can limp.”
“Emotionally?”
“Probably better than physically.”
Again, the laugh tried to happen.
Again, Ava strangled it before it could make a bad situation worse.
Nate stepped a little closer, keeping his voice low enough that Tyler’s spreadsheet instincts could not hear. “Ava.”
Her name in his mouth still did annoying things.
That was unfair. Names should not have range.
“What?”
“I can go.”
The world went briefly quiet.
Ava looked at him.
He did not smile. Did not posture. Did not look like he had just volunteered for a cute fake-boyfriend trope with a victory lap waiting on the other side.
He looked serious.
Careful.
Like he knew exactly what he was offering and exactly how badly it could go if he got careless.
Ava’s throat tightened.
“No,” she said immediately.
“Okay.”
That was it.
Just okay.
No wounded pride. No push. No but I could help. No performance.
He accepted the no so quickly that Ava wanted to throw something at him.
“Don’t just say okay,” she snapped.
His eyebrows lifted. “Would you like me to argue?”
“No.”
“Then I’m confused.”
“Join the club. We meet internally.”
His smile flickered.
Ava looked at the fire because looking at him was becoming dangerous. It made things feel possible. Not romantic possible, obviously. Disaster possible. Trust possible. The kind of possible that put cracks in all her careful no’s.
“If you go,” she said slowly, hating every word as it arrived, “my mother will think this is real.”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother will interrogate you.”
“Yes.”
“My little cousin might ask if hockey players have all their teeth.”
“Valid question.”
“My aunt may call you handsome in a way that feels both complimentary and invasive.”
“I have survived booster dinners.”
“This is worse than a booster dinner.”
“I believe you.”
She turned back to him. “And if Trevor hears about it, which he will, because Ridgeview is a gossip swamp with landscaping, he will think he got to me.”
Nate’s eyes sharpened.
“Did he?” he asked.
Ava hated the question.
Not because it was rude.
Because it was clean.
She could lie. She wanted to lie.
Instead, she looked toward the Hale Development tent, where Trevor was laughing under string lights like he had never made anyone feel small in private.
“Yes,” she said.
Nate did not move.
Ava’s pride screamed.
She ignored it.
“Not the way he thinks,” she added. “Not because I want him. Not because I’m heartbroken. I’m not. I just hate that he can still make me feel like the dumbest version of myself.”
Nate’s expression changed.
There was no pity in it.
That helped.
“You’re not dumb,” he said.
Ava rolled her eyes because if she did not, she might believe him too fast. “You have known me for one day.”
“Long enough to know that.”
“You also thought a feelings bet was a reasonable public activity.”
“I never thought that.”
“You participated by existing near Tyler.”
“Unfair charge.”
“Sustained.”
His mouth curved. “I don’t think that’s how court works.”
“It is in mine.”
The fire popped behind them.
Ava looked at her phone again.
She should text her mother back.
She should say, Sorry, misunderstanding. Nate is not my boyfriend. Denise sent a weird photo. Please do not tell Grandma anything else. Also please stop thinking every man in a polo is emotionally solvent.
Simple.
Clean.
Honest.
Instead, her thumb hovered over the keyboard while a terrible thought crawled into the room.
What if Nate came?
One dinner.
One controlled appearance.
One afternoon of letting her family believe she had not been rattled by Trevor Hale walking back into the edges of her life.
One meal where she did not have to be the single daughter with money stress and an ex her mother still remembered as nice.
One chance to see Trevor’s public version lose the private power.
Ava closed her eyes.
This was a terrible idea.
Not Book Two terrible, because this was not Maren’s book and Ava refused to be derivative inside her own life.
But still terrible.
“I am considering something stupid,” she said.
Nate’s voice lowered. “Do you want advice or participation?”
She opened her eyes.
Oh, that was a dangerous question.
A man who offered advice wanted to be right.
A man who offered participation understood the mess had already started.
“Participation,” she said before she could stop herself.
Nate nodded once.
No hesitation.
No grin.
No Tyler would love this.
Just, “Okay.”
Ava exhaled. “You need to stop making okay sound like a contract.”
“It kind of is.”
Her pulse stumbled.
“Rules,” she said quickly.
“Good.”
“Do not sound excited about rules.”
“I like knowing the play.”
“This is not hockey.”
“Everything is a little hockey if you’re annoying enough.”
“That may be the most honest thing you’ve said.”
He smiled.
Ava opened her notes app because if she did not formalize boundaries immediately, she was going to end up at Sunday dinner with a fake boyfriend and no operational plan, which was exactly how women in rom-coms lost legal custody of their common sense.
“Rule one,” she said. “You are not my boyfriend.”
“Correct.”
“You are pretending to be my boyfriend for one family dinner.”
“Correct.”
“No kissing.”
Nate went very still.
Ava’s whole body noticed.
Traitorous body.
“Correct,” he said, a fraction slower.
She looked up. “Was that hesitation?”
“That was processing.”
“Processing what?”
“The rule.”
“It’s two words.”
“Important words.”
The air shifted.
Just a little.
Ava suddenly remembered the way his hand had closed around hers. The warmth. The steadiness. The almost ridiculous awareness of him standing beside her.
No kissing was an extremely good rule.
Possibly the best rule ever written.
She typed it in all caps.
NO KISSING.