Chapter Seventeen Ava
Ava Lane arrived at Lake Briar twenty-two minutes early because anxiety had apparently become punctual.
She parked behind the snack shack, turned off her car, and sat with both hands on the wheel while the lake glittered through the trees like it had no idea it was hosting a minor emotional collapse.
Rude of it, honestly.
Her phone sat in the passenger seat.
Faceup.
Silent.
Too silent.
Trevor had not texted again after his last little poison dart, which should have been a relief. It was not. Silence from Trevor had always felt less like absence and more like a man standing behind a door, waiting for the exact moment she relaxed.
Nate had texted once that morning.
NATE CALLAHAN: Lake at eleven? I can meet by the old rental dock. Less audience.
Less audience.
Ava had stared at that for an embarrassing amount of time.
Not because it was flirty.
It was not.
That was the problem.
It was considerate. Specific. Quiet. A man who understood that if they were going to keep doing this fake boyfriend adjacent disaster, she did not want Tyler, Beckett, Ellie, Denise, Paulson, three campers, a sponsor, and possibly her grandmother witnessing the rules meeting.
Thoughtful men were exhausting.
At least obvious jerks were efficient.
Ava checked the time.
10:51.
She was not getting out first.
Getting out first suggested eagerness, and Ava Lane had survived twenty-two years by never handing eagerness to men without making them sign for it.
At 10:53, a black truck turned into the staff lot.
Ava’s stomach did the thing.
The stupid thing.
The Nate thing.
He parked two spaces away and did not immediately get out either.
Good.
Awful.
Now they were both sitting in cars like emotionally constipated adults with good parking.
Her phone buzzed.
NATE CALLAHAN: Are we pretending not to see each other?
Ava looked through her windshield.
Nate sat in his truck, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on, mouth dangerously close to a smile.
She typed back.
AVA: I am establishing dominance.
His reply came fast.
NATE CALLAHAN: By hiding in a Honda?
Ava glared across the lot.
Nate’s smile appeared fully.
How dare he.
She grabbed her bag, shoved open the door, and stepped out with all the dignity a woman could manage while wearing a Lake Briar staff visor she despised on principle.
Nate got out too.
Black Ridgeview shirt. Athletic shorts. Damp hair like he had showered after a morning skate. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, which should have helped.
It did not.
His forearms were still out in public without supervision.
Ava pointed at him. “No comments.”
Nate shut his truck door. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face was preparing.”
“My face is trying to be respectful.”
“It should try indoors.”
He smiled. “Good morning to you too, Lane.”
Last name.
Dangerous.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and walked toward the old rental dock without waiting for him. “You are early.”
“So are you.”
“I work here.”
“Your shift starts at noon.”
Ava stopped walking and looked back. “Why do you know that?”
He stopped too. “Because Ellie told Tyler, Tyler told everyone, Griffin told Tyler that staff schedules are not public entertainment, and Soren said noon is a sensible shift start because it avoids morning chaos.”
Ava stared at him.
“Your team is a surveillance state with shin guards.”
“Yes.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It was accurate.”
“Do they know we are meeting?”
“No.”
“Can I believe that?”
Nate pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, and now his eyes were visible, which was worse because they were serious.
“Yes,” he said. “I didn’t tell them.”
Ava’s annoyance lost a little of its structure.
She hated when he did that. Answered directly. Removed the joke before she could use it as furniture.
“Good,” she said, softer than intended.
They walked in silence toward the old rental dock.
Lake Briar looked different away from the main deck. Quieter. Less decorated. No sponsor tents. No whiteboards. No players shouting over whistle blasts. Just a row of paddleboats, a weathered wooden bench, and a dock stretching out over clear water with yellow caution paint peeling along the edge.
Ava stepped onto the dock first.
It shifted slightly under her feet.
Nate followed, keeping enough distance that she noticed the distance.
Which was deeply unfair.
A man should not get credit for both closeness and restraint.
She sat on the bench near the dock rail and pulled out her phone.
Nate sat beside her, not too close.
Still too close.
The morning sun bounced off the water and turned the air warm between them.
Ava opened her notes app.
Nate looked at the screen. “The scary notes app.”
“Show respect. It is the only adult in this relationship.”
His eyes flicked to hers.
She froze.
“Fake relationship,” she corrected quickly.
“Right.”
His voice was neutral.
That was somehow worse than teasing.
Ava cleared her throat. “We need rule updates.”
“Agreed.”
“No sounding relieved about rules.”
“I am not relieved.”
“You look relieved.”
“I look like a man who enjoys structure when standing near an emotional cliff.”
Ava looked at him sharply.
He looked back.
No smile.
Just honesty.
Unacceptable.
She typed.
RULE UPDATE MEETING: LAKE brIAR, OLD RENTAL DOCK
Nate leaned slightly closer. “Do you always title notes like evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Comforting.”
“For me.”
“That tracks.”
She typed the first line.
Rule one: continuing does not mean becoming real.
Nate read it.
His jaw shifted.
Small.
Not a crime, but a misdemeanor.
“Problem?” Ava asked.
“No.”
“Your jaw disagrees.”
“My jaw is adjusting to policy.”
“Tell it to submit feedback in writing.”
He nodded. “Noted.”
She typed.
Rule two: no group chat. No spreadsheet. No Tyler.
“Strong rule,” Nate said.
“Necessary rule.”
“Tyler will sense a secret and start vibrating.”
“Then sedate him.”
“Legally?”
“Preferably.”
“I’ll ask Griffin.”
She typed.
Rule three: we only act couple-like when Trevor is present or when my family forces it.
Nate did not respond.
Ava looked over.
He was staring at the water now, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped.
“What?”
He glanced at her. “Define couple-like.”
Her pulse tripped.
“You know.”
“I need the play.”
“No, you need to make me say awkward things because you are secretly terrible.”
“Also possible.”
“Handholding,” she said.
His gaze dropped briefly to her hand.
Ava curled her fingers around her phone.
“Standing beside me in a way that makes Trevor look constipated,” she continued.
“Specific.”
“Useful.”
“What else?”
“Looking at me like you like me.”
The sentence fell out.
Ava’s entire body went silent.
Nate looked at her.
She wanted to grab the words out of the air and drown them in the lake.
“For performance,” she added quickly.
“Right.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
He looked back at the water.
Too controlled.
Too careful.
Ava hated that she wanted him to push.
No. She did not.
She wanted him to follow the rules.
Rules were safe.
Except safe had begun to feel like a locked room she had decorated herself and then forgotten how to leave.
She typed harder.
Rule four: no kissing still stands.
Nate made a sound.
Ava’s head snapped up. “Was that a sound?”
“Breathing.”
“That was not standard breathing.”
“You are monitoring my lungs now?”
“They were disruptive.”
His mouth twitched. “No kissing still stands.”
“Correct.”
“Clear rule.”
“Excellent rule.”
“Possibly over-bolded in your notes.”
“It is bolded the correct amount.”
“All caps and bold?”
“The rule has importance.”
Nate turned his head toward her.
The humor in his eyes softened into something warmer.
“It does,” he said.
Ava’s breath caught.
Not because he was teasing.
Because he was not.
He understood the rule mattered, not because kissing him would be bad, but because kissing him would not feel fake enough.
That was the unsaid thing.
It sat between them on the bench like a third person with excellent posture.
Ava looked back at her phone.
“Rule five,” she said. “No assuming.”
“Meaning?”
“If I hold your hand, you do not assume I want more.”
“I won’t.”
“If I text you because Trevor is being awful, you do not assume I need saving.”
“I won’t.”
“If my family invites you back, you do not assume you are welcome anytime even if my mother says welcome anytime.”
Nate’s mouth curved. “Specific callback.”
“My mother is a menace with hospitality.”
“Your grandmother is scarier.”
“Correct.”
“I like her.”
“Dangerous confession.”
“She respects verbs.”
“She also respects consequences. Remember that.”
“I will.”
Ava typed the rule.
Then stopped.
Her thumb hovered.
There was one more rule.
The one she did not want to write because writing it made it real.
Nate waited.
Not pushing.
Patient in a way that somehow made her feel more exposed than questions would have.
Finally, she typed.
Rule six: if either of us wants out, we say so. No punishment. No guilt. No disappearing.
Nate went still.
Ava stared at the screen, refusing to look at him.
“That’s a good rule,” he said quietly.
Her throat tightened.
“It is a basic rule.”
“Basic can still be good.”
“Do not make my rule emotional.”
“Too late.”
She looked at him.
His expression shifted immediately.
“Sorry,” he said. “Banned phrase. Reflex.”
Ava should have snapped at him.
Instead, she laughed.
Small.
Helpless.
The tension cracked just enough for air to get in.
Nate’s smile came slowly, like he knew it was a privilege and not a win.
That was the worst part.
He kept not making things wins.
Ava knew what to do when men wanted to win her.
She did not know what to do when one kept trying to be worthy of trust and then acted like it was normal.
She locked her phone and set it on the bench between them.
“Your turn,” she said.
Nate blinked. “My turn?”
“Rules. Boundaries. Whatever.”
“I don’t need rules.”
Ava gave him a look.
He sighed. “Fine. I need some rules.”
“Begin.”
He leaned back, looking out at the water.
For a second, he seemed younger. Not immature. Just less polished. A little tired around the edges. A little too honest for a sunny dock before noon.
“Do not use me to prove something to Trevor if it hurts you,” he said.
Ava’s stomach tightened.