Chapter Twenty-Two Nate #3
“Five thousand,” she said.
“Maybe. Not definitely.”
“Enough.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the water. “I hate him.”
“Valid.”
“I hate that he can turn doing the wrong thing into everyone else’s cost.”
“Also valid.”
“I hate that part of me still wants to apologize just to make the room easier.”
Nate’s chest hurt.
He stepped closer, then stopped.
Ava noticed.
“You can come closer,” she said.
He did.
Not touching.
Close enough.
“I do not want you apologizing to make people comfortable,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She looked at him then.
Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but not her face. Her mouth softened by one degree.
“I am learning,” she said.
His own words from last night.
His heart did something dangerous with them.
Ava pulled off her sunglasses. “What happens if they pull the money?”
“We raise it.”
“We?”
“Team. Program. Community. Me. You, if you want. Not because you caused it. Because you are good under pressure and terrifying near clipboards.”
Her mouth twitched.
“I do have clipboard range.”
“Severe.”
“Do not compliment my administrative violence.”
“It is one of your strengths.”
She looked away again, but the smile stayed a little longer this time.
“My shift starts in twelve minutes,” she said.
“Okay.”
“You should go.”
“Okay.”
She looked back. “Stop obeying so respectfully. It makes it harder to be irritated.”
“I can be annoying.”
“You are annoying. Just not helpfully.”
Nate smiled.
Ava stepped closer.
Only one step.
Enough to change everything.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“Always.”
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Ava heard it.
Of course she did.
Her face changed.
Not panic.
Not exactly.
Awareness.
Nate wanted to take the word back and keep it at the same time.
Always was too big.
Too early.
Too real.
Ava looked at him for a long second.
Then she reached out and straightened the collar of his shirt.
The touch was small.
Almost practical.
Absolutely devastating.
“Careful, Brennan,” she said softly.
His voice dropped. “Trying.”
“Trying is not the same as being.”
Grandma Ruthie’s words.
He laughed under his breath.
“Now you are weaponizing your grandmother.”
“She would approve.”
“She would.”
Ava’s fingers lingered at his collar one second too long.
Then she stepped back.
“I have to work.”
“I know.”
“Do not make the scholarship money your personal mission without telling me.”
Nate paused.
Ava’s eyes narrowed.
“You were about to.”
“Maybe.”
“No noble sneak attacks.”
“Agreed.”
“We do this clean. If Hale pulls, we raise it publicly, honestly, without making it a Nate saves the day thing.”
Nate smiled slowly.
There she was.
Ava Lane, standing beside a dock, turning dread into a plan and refusing to let anyone make her smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“You are hard to miss.”
Her face softened.
Then she pointed at him. “Dangerously close to emotional trespassing before noon.”
“Noted.”
She backed toward the snack shack path. “Text me after you talk to Paulson again. Useful version.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Careful with ma’am.”
Nate grinned. “Operational respect.”
“Thin ice.”
“It’s summer.”
“Hockey boys always think that helps.”
She turned and walked toward the snack shack.
Nate watched her go until she looked back over her shoulder and caught him.
“Stop looking proud,” she called.
“Can’t.”
Her smile hit him square in the chest.
Then she disappeared inside.
Nate pulled out his phone to text Paulson.
Before he could, a message came through from an unknown number.
For one stupid second, his stomach tightened.
Trevor again.
But the message was not from Trevor.
It was from Martin Hale.
**MARTIN HALE: Mr. Brennan, after further review, Hale Development is withdrawing from the Ridgeview Challenge effective immediately. I suggest your program consider whether public spectacle is worth the cost.**
Nate stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
**MARTIN HALE: Please let Ms. Lane know this was avoidable.**
The lake sounds faded.
Nate looked toward the snack shack, where Ava had just stepped behind the service window and lifted a hand to a customer with the kind of smile she used when the world was making her work through impact.
His first instinct was to hide the message until after her shift.
Protect her from the hit.
Give her a few hours of peace.
Then he heard her voice on the dock.
No noble sneak attacks.
Nate closed his eyes.
The right thing still had paperwork.
And sometimes it had terrible timing.
He opened Ava’s contact, attached the screenshots, and typed the useful version before he could talk himself into cowardice.
**NATE CALLAHAN: Hale pulled. Five thousand short. He told me to tell you it was avoidable. He is wrong. I am telling you now because we said no surprises.**
He hit send.
Through the snack shack window, Ava’s phone lit beside the register.
She looked down.
Read it.
Went very still.
Then slowly, across the distance between them, she lifted her eyes to Nate.
No panic.
No collapse.
Just fire.
Nate knew then that Trevor Hale had miscalculated.
He had not made Ava smaller.
He had handed her a scoreboard.