Chapter 4

FOUR

Ava

It was a shitty day at work—either double booked appointments or back-to-back no‐shows. I was alternatively running ragged and twiddling my thumbs. And it was in those thumb‐twiddling moments that boredom and curiosity had gotten the better of me. I'd pulled that business card out of my bag and keyed in his number before I let myself chicken out. Now, I'm standing at the stove spreading garlic butter on French bread while the lasagna bakes.

I'm not one of those women who can cook anything. But I am a woman who can cook a few things very, very well. My lasagna might not be world‐famous, but it damn well ought to be. And I'm not ashamed to admit that I might be trying to impress him a little. Why? Hell if I know. But there it is.

The doorbell sounds and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my jangled nerves. The minute I open the door, I realize that trying to calm my nerves was a waste of time. One look at him and everything has kicked into overdrive again. I can feel myself blushing.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey, yourself … Come on in." I step aside and he crosses the threshold. He smells like leather and just hot, sexy man. And suddenly dinner is the absolute last thing on my mind.

"I know you said just to bring my appetite, but my mama raised me better," he says and hands me the bottle of red wine I hadn't even noticed he was holding.

"Oh, wow. Thanks." I feel like a total idiot.

"Got a corkscrew?"

Somewhere. I'm sure of it. But my wine is typically served from a box, so I've not laid eyes on it in a while. "Let me see if I can find it. Why don't you come on into the kitchen?"

He falls in step behind me and then I'm digging through the junk drawer looking for my used one in a blue moon corkscrew. When I'm on the verge of giving up, I finally lay my hands on it. "Ah‐ha! I knew I had one here."

"Not much of a wine drinker?"

I laugh. I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not. That's also part of my yearly plan to improve myself. Make peace with who I am. "Oh, I'm a wine drinker. I'm just not a fine wine drinker. Give me a screw-top bottle of Three Buck Chuck and I'm all set."

"Truth be told, most of the time I'd rather have a beer. Or bourbon," he admits ruefully. "But there's something about dinner with a beautiful woman … wine seemed like the right choice."

It hits me like a ton of bricks. That compliment rolled off his tongue so smoothly. It triggers my anxiety and activates my red‐flag radar. But I talk myself off that ledge. It's dinner. Just fucking dinner. "You're pretty slick."

"Nope. Just honest … I'm not a saint, Ava. But I don't say things I don't mean. I can't tell you I'm gonna stick around here forever. Truth is, it's all up in the air right now. But I can tell you that since I've been back in Bellehaven, you're the only woman who has interested me … and I don't look for that to change any time soon."

Mic. Drop.

Somehow, I recovered from his earlier admission, and we made it through dinner without it going straight to Awkwardsville. He seems to be completely at ease, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb. The only woman he ' s been interested in. That's what he said. And now I can't decide if I want to jump his bones or run away.

What the fuck am I doing here? Other than turning myself into a neurotic mess, of course. I don't want a relationship, but I did invite him to my house. I'm supposed to be breaking bad habits and not making new ones.

"What's on your mind, Ava? I can hear those gears grinding all the way over here."

I glance across the table at him and take a sip of my wine, which is likely ruining Three Buck Chuck for me forever. It's a stalling tactic. In the end, the truth is always easier. "Just trying to figure out why I say one thing and then do another. It's kind of my thing."

"Like what?"

"Like telling myself I am not going to get involved with a man right now. That I'm going to take this time to work on myself and become the person I want to be. Can't do that if my mind is all tied up with someone else."

He nods. "I get that. But there's something that happens when you're over the age of forty. You realize that time is too precious to waste. I wasted a lot of time when I was younger … worrying, stressing, trying to figure out how to be better, do better and then beating myself up when I fell short."

"Sounds familiar," I tell him. "So, how'd you stop it?"

A shrug of those very impressive shoulders almost distracts me. Then he drops another truth bomb. "There's always tomorrow. If today gets fucked, there's always tomorrow. Perfection doesn't always determine worth."

That's a kick in the gut. Because all I've done is push myself to be perfect. Why? Because if I'm not perfect then I might slide back into the life I clawed my way out of. "I feel like you're poking around inside my head."

He gets up and walks toward me, takes my hand and pulls me up from my chair. We're standing there in my tiny little dining room, which is nothing more than a nook, and he's filling up that space. It feels crowded and small, but for once I don't have the urge to run. I want to stay right where I am and see what happens.

His hand, big, strong and surprisingly gentle, cups my cheek. Then he leans in and brushes his lips against mine. It's like putting something metal in the microwave, the current arcing wildly. The way his beard feels against my cheek makes me want to know what it'd be like to feel it in other places. But it's his lips that are just magic. Achingly soft, gentle, and promising things that I pray to god he can come through on.

And then it's over. He pulls back, gives me a half smile. "Thanks for dinner, Ava. I'll be seeing you."

Oh, yeah. He definitely will.