Chapter Thirteen Ava #2
“Rule two,” she said, forcing her voice back into business. “No backstory that can be fact-checked.”
“Meaning?”
“Do not say we met somewhere we did not meet. My grandmother has the investigative instincts of a retired detective and the social network of a small-town mayor.”
“So we met at Lake Briar.”
“Correct.”
“Because I ordered lemonade.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And you insulted me.”
“Accurately.”
“And then we won a relay together.”
“Under protest.”
“This is basically the truth.”
“Do not get comfortable with truth.”
He nodded gravely. “Dangerous substance.”
“Rule three,” Ava said, typing. “No pet names.”
Nate’s mouth twitched.
She pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought sweetheart.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Then what did you think?”
His eyes met hers.
Too directly.
“Lane,” he said.
Her fingers paused over the screen.
That was worse.
Sweetheart would have been fake. Lane was theirs already, a little. A challenge. A line. A way of saying her name without sounding like he was testing it.
Ava typed harder than necessary.
NO PET NAMES.
“Rule four,” she said. “Do not charm my mother.”
Nate looked personally offended. “What if she asks questions?”
“Answer them badly.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“You have an entire team you can study.”
“Harsh.”
“Efficient.”
“What does badly mean?”
“Not too polished. Not too perfect. Do not make her say he has such a good head on his shoulders.”
“What if my head is fine?”
“Hide it.”
“Understood. Minimal head quality.”
“Rule five,” Ava said. “My grandmother gets honesty adjacent.”
Nate tilted his head. “Honesty adjacent?”
“We do not lie to Grandma Ruthie if we can avoid it. We use technically true statements.”
“Such as?”
“If she asks if I like you, I can say you are useful in emergencies.”
“Glowing.”
“If she asks if you like me, you can say I am hard to ignore.”
Nate’s gaze warmed. “That’s more than technically true.”
Ava forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Then she looked back at her phone. “Stop freelancing.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
She typed faster.
“Rule six. If Trevor appears, which he probably won’t, but if he does, you do not get territorial.”
Nate’s expression flattened.
“Define territorial,” he said.
“No jaw crimes. No silent hockey intimidation. No stepping in front of me. No asking him if he has a problem. No making it a man thing.”
“What if he makes it a man thing?”
“Then you make it a mature man thing and stand there quietly.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“That is why it is a rule.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
She studied him.
He let her.
“If he makes you uncomfortable,” Nate said, “I will follow your lead.”
Ava’s chest tightened.
“Good,” she said.
It came out smaller than she wanted.
Nate did not comment.
Another point for him.
Terrible trend.
Ava looked down at the list.
It was already too long and not long enough.
“Rule seven,” she said. “This does not become group-chat material.”
“I can control myself.”
“Can you control Tyler?”
Nate looked across the fire.
Tyler was currently trying to toast three marshmallows at once while Griffin stood beside him holding what appeared to be a cup of emergency water.
“No,” Nate said.
“Then he cannot know.”
“He’ll know I missed team dinner.”
“Lie.”
“About what?”
“Say you have a family thing.”
“I don’t.”
“You do now. Mine.”
Nate’s face did something dangerously soft.
Ava immediately regretted the sentence.
“Do not make that meaningful,” she said.
“I was not.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe a little.”
“This is why we need rules.”
He smiled down at her notes app. “Any more?”
Ava looked at the screen.
NO KISSING blinked in all caps like a wise legal warning.
“Rule eight,” she said, quieter. “After dinner, we stop.”
Nate’s smile faded.
Ava kept her eyes on the phone. “No fake boyfriend. No handholding unless Trevor is physically present and being awful. No implying things to my mother. No letting it grow legs.”
“Grow legs?”
“Lies get athletic.”
“Good line.”
“Bad reality.”
Nate was silent for a second.
Then he said, “Okay. After dinner, we stop.”
Ava looked at him.
That one should have been relief.
It was relief.
It was also something else.
Something she refused to name because naming it would violate several internal policies.
“Great,” she said.
“Great.”
They stood there, both pretending the word great had not just been murdered between them.
Ava texted her mother before she could change her mind.
AVA: Nate can come tomorrow. But please don’t make it weird.
The reply came in six seconds.
MOM: Wonderful. Grandma wants to know if he eats chicken.
Ava closed her eyes.
“Well?” Nate asked.
“Do you eat chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky you. You have passed the first trial.”
She typed back.
AVA: He eats chicken.
MOM: Good. Does he have allergies?
Ava looked at Nate. “Allergies?”
“Pineapple.”
“Really?”
“Sadly.”
“That’s upsettingly humanizing.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She typed.
AVA: Pineapple.
The next reply took longer.
MOM: Why would I put pineapple in chicken?
Ava showed Nate the screen.
He smiled. “Fair question.”
“My mother is already suspicious.”
“Of pineapple?”
“Of everything.”
Her phone buzzed again.
MOM: Be here at 1. Wear something nice. Tell him not to bring flowers. Grandma says flowers from men are either apology or panic.
Ava read it out loud.
Nate nodded slowly. “What does your grandmother prefer?”
“Honesty and dessert.”
“What kind of dessert?”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Information.”
“You are not bringing dessert.”
“Why not?”
“Because that looks like effort.”
“I am making effort.”
“Privately.”
“Dessert is public effort?”
“Dessert is a declaration.”
“What about rolls?”
Ava stared at him.
He stared back, completely serious.
“Rolls?”
“Useful. Nonromantic. Less emotionally loaded than dessert.”
Ava hated that she immediately saw the logic.
“Fine,” she said. “You can bring rolls.”