Chapter Fourteen Nate
Nate Brennan had never been intimidated by bread before.
Then he stood in front of the bakery case at Briar Bean Market on Sunday morning, staring at six different kinds of dinner rolls like one wrong choice might destroy his fake relationship, his summer, and possibly his soul.
Standard rolls.
No twine.
That had been the instruction.
Unfortunately, Briar Bean Market did not label anything standard. The case contained honey butter rolls, rosemary sea salt rolls, brioche knots, sourdough pull-aparts, garlic herb pillows, and something called Sunday supper rolls, which felt either perfect or aggressively manipulative.
Nate leaned closer to the glass.
A woman behind the counter wearing a flour-dusted apron looked at him with the patient expression of someone who had watched many men fail at pastry decisions.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I need rolls,” Nate said.
“Good start. What kind?”
“Standard. But good. Not romantic. No twine. Useful, but not desperate. Respectful, but not like I am trying to win over a grandmother with gluten.”
The woman blinked.
Nate heard himself.
He closed his eyes for one second.
“Sorry. Sunday supper rolls, please.”
The woman’s mouth twitched. “First family dinner?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Son, you just described bread like it was meeting your parole officer.”
“Fair.”
She grabbed a white bakery box.
Nate immediately pointed. “No twine.”
She paused with one hand near a spool of brown string. “No twine?”
“Strict rule.”
“From her?”
“Yes.”
The woman’s smile widened. “Smart girl. Twine is how men announce they Googled thoughtful.”
Nate stared at her.
Ava was everywhere.
Not physically. Obviously. Physically, she was probably at home regretting every decision that had led to Nate Brennan attending Sunday dinner with her family while pretending to be the kind of boyfriend mothers told church friends about.
But Ava’s voice had gotten into his head.
No twine.
No kissing.
No pet names.
No charming my mother.
Minimal head quality.
He had repeated the rules twice before leaving his apartment. He had written them in his notes app because apparently he had become the kind of man who needed a pregame strategy for chicken and family interrogation.
The bakery woman slid the box across the counter. Plain white. No string. No ribbon. No declaration.
Perfect.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Nate looked at the case again.
There were lemon bars.
Ava had ordered lemonade the first day. Well, technically, he had ordered lemonade from Ava, and she had used it as a weapon.
Not dessert.
Dessert was a declaration.
Rolls were safe.
He pointed at the lemon bars anyway. “Do those come in a small box?”
The woman laughed. “They come in whatever size box your bad judgment wants.”
Nate looked away from the lemon bars.
“Just the rolls.”
“Good choice,” she said.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Good choices rarely do at first.”
She rang him up, and Nate carried the white box out of Briar Bean Market like it contained legal evidence.
His phone buzzed before he reached his truck.
TYLER: Why are you at Briar Bean buying bread like a Victorian suitor?
Nate stopped in the parking lot.
Slowly, he looked around.
Across the street, Tyler sat in his Jeep wearing sunglasses and holding an iced coffee. Beckett was in the passenger seat, grinning like the devil’s assistant manager.
Nate closed his eyes.
Of course.
His phone buzzed again.
BECKETT: Respectfully, the bread has plot relevance.
Nate typed with one thumb.
NATE: Leave.
TYLER: Can’t. We are witnesses.
NATE: To bread?
BECKETT: To transformation.
Nate got into his truck before he did something that would make the Sunday paper under community notes.
Tyler appeared at the driver’s side window before Nate could start the engine.
Nate did not roll it down.
Tyler knocked anyway.
Nate stared forward.
Tyler pressed his phone against the glass. The screen showed a note.
DOES AVA KNOW ABOUT THE brEAD?
Nate started the truck.
Tyler flipped to another note.
IS THIS BOYFRIEND ADJACENT?
Nate backed out of the parking spot.
Tyler walked beside the truck for three steps, dramatically holding up one final note.
BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED A COVER STORY.
Nate did not blink.
He did, however, text Griffin at the first red light.
NATE: Tyler and Beckett are following me.
Griffin replied instantly.
GRIFFIN: On it.
Thirty seconds later, Tyler’s Jeep swerved into a gas station parking lot behind him.
Another text came in.
TYLER: Griffin says if we follow you, we have to run lake stairs until our ancestors apologize.
NATE: Good.
BECKETT: For the record, we support love and carbohydrates.
Nate tossed his phone into the cup holder and drove.
Not to Ava’s house yet. He had forty minutes, and showing up early felt eager. Showing up exactly on time felt planned. Showing up late felt like something Trevor Hale would make a comment about if he heard.
Nate hated that Trevor had entered the timing equation.
He pulled into a quiet spot near Lake Briar’s public overlook instead.
The lake was calmer than it had been yesterday. Sunday morning softened everything. The docks were mostly empty. The water caught the light in long silver streaks. A couple of kayakers moved near the cove, slow and silent. No whistle. No Tyler. No crowd chanting things he should not want to hear.
Nate left the rolls on the passenger seat and checked his notes.
AVA FAMILY DINNER RULES:
1. Not her real boyfriend.
2. One dinner only.
3. No kissing.
4. No pet names. Lane is dangerous. Avoid if possible.
5. Technically true statements for Grandma Ruthie.
6. Do not charm her mother. Minimal head quality.
7. If Trevor appears, follow Ava’s lead. No jaw crimes.
8. Rolls. No twine.
9. After dinner, stop.
He stared at rule nine.
After dinner, stop.
The words should have made him relax.
They did not.
Because the problem with pretending, Nate was learning, was not that it felt fake.
The problem was when the fake thing asked for better behavior than the real version of him had ever managed.
He could stand beside Ava without crowding her. He could listen without asking for the whole story. He could hold her hand without assuming. He could buy rolls without twine.
None of that was complicated.
So why did it feel bigger than every casual, easy, half-real thing he had ever done?
His phone buzzed.
Ava.
AVA: Are you bringing twine?
Nate smiled before he could stop himself.
NATE: No twine. Plain box. Standard rolls. Minimal declaration.
AVA: Good.
A pause.
Then another text.
AVA: My mother asked what your major is.
NATE: Sports management. Business minor.
AVA: Too polished.
NATE: Undeclared emotionally.
AVA: Better.
He laughed alone in his truck like an idiot.
Another message appeared.
AVA: Grandma asked if you have tattoos.
Nate looked down at his forearm.
The small black linework on the inside of his right bicep was hidden by his sleeve. His mother hated it. His teammates liked it. It was a simple compass because he had gotten it sophomore year during a week when he had felt like he knew where he was going.
He did not text that.
NATE: One. Hidden. Not scandalous.
AVA: Grandma says hidden is often more scandalous.
Nate’s grin widened.
NATE: Your grandmother may be right.
AVA: Do not flirt with my grandmother.
NATE: Rule update received.
AVA: Also my mother made a salad. Pretend to enjoy it.
NATE: I like salad.
AVA: Stop being suspiciously healthy.
NATE: I can complain about crouton distribution.
AVA: Excellent.
Then, after a full minute:
AVA: Trevor texted again.
Nate’s smile vanished.
He sat up straighter.
NATE: What did he say?
The typing dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
AVA: That he hopes dinner goes well. Smiley face. Which is worse than a threat.
Nate looked out at the lake.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
No jaw crimes.
The rule did not say anything about steering wheel crimes.
He exhaled slowly.
NATE: Do you want him blocked today? Temporarily. Just through dinner.
Ava’s response came fast.
AVA: I should be able to ignore him.
Nate read the sentence three times.
Should.
Such a small, brutal word.
He typed carefully.
NATE: Ignoring him is not a moral test. You can block him because you want quiet.
This time, she did not answer right away.
Nate waited.
He watched a kayaker glide past the dock.
His phone buzzed.
AVA: I muted him.
Nate let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.
NATE: Good.
AVA: Do not make good sound proud.
NATE: I said it neutrally.
AVA: Your texts have cheekbones.
Nate laughed so hard he dropped his phone.
When he picked it up, another message was waiting.
AVA: Be here at one. Park on the street. Do not knock too confidently.
NATE: How does one knock with minimal head quality?
AVA: Soft enough to seem humble. Firm enough to seem employed.
NATE: Very specific.
AVA: I am excellent at fake-boyfriend operations.
Nate stared at that one longer than he should have.
Then he typed:
NATE: See you at one, Lane.
He hit send before he could remember his own rule about Lane being dangerous.
Her reply came thirty seconds later.
AVA: Dangerous use of last name, Brennan.
Nate leaned back against the seat.
He was smiling again.
He was also in trouble.
Those two facts were becoming impossible to separate.
At twelve fifty-eight, Nate parked on the street outside the Lane house.
It was a small white bungalow with blue shutters, a porch swing, potted geraniums, and a front walk that looked like it had been swept by someone who believed first impressions were a civic duty.
A wind chime hung near the door. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch, one with a folded quilt over the back.
It did not look intimidating.
That made it worse.
Ava opened the front door before he reached the steps.
Nate stopped walking.
That was his second mistake of the day.
The first had been buying rolls while being surveilled by Tyler.
Ava stood in the doorway wearing a soft green sundress, white sneakers, and an expression that said if he commented on any of it, he would be buried behind the garage.
Her hair was down.
Nate had not prepared for that.