Avah’s snarky but playful responses make Sloane snort-laugh, and something that feels suspiciously like envy twists in my chest. The effortless back-and-forth of real friendship has always been a code I couldn’t crack. Too many years as the awkward, sick geek who didn’t fit in, followed by too many more as the driven asshole who refused to try.
“So this is actually a celebration dinner.” Sloane ignores Avah’s silent plea to shut the fuck up and pins me with a look that says I better be ready to bust out a piñata. “Avah got a job as a baker at The Sugar Shack. She starts tomorrow morning.”
Avah rolls her eyes like Sloane is making a big deal out of nothing, but twin spots of color bloom in her cheeks. “Temporary, until I figure out my next move.”
Is she expecting me to point out that her resume should land her in a boardroom, not behind a bakery counter? As if working with her hands is somehow beneath her.
“Your cinnamon roll game is fucking fire.” I hold her gaze. “I expect Skylark to have a surge in type 2 diabetes diagnoses in the near future.”
I watch her struggle with the compliment, as if accepting it might cost her more than she’s willing to pay. This woman has no problem turning me inside out with a single look, but can’t handle being told she’s good at something. It’s adorable and infuriating and makes me want to find new ways to praise her just to watchher squirm.
“Speaking of an impending sugar high, I’m assuming you brought dessert?” I don’t assume anything where Avah is concerned, but I want to give her an escape route from the current squirming.
“Snickerdoodles, but I left them in the car.” She reaches for her water, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll grab them after dinner.”
Pretty sure I do a shitty job of hiding my surprise. “Those are my favorite.”
Avah just shrugs and takes another long drink of water, but Sloane grins. “I told her. Based on how you plowed through the cinnamon rolls I brought over, I figured you wouldn’t be able to say no to snickerdoodles. And I love that I’ve found my health-nut brother’s kryptonite after years of being lectured about sugar like you were a dentist with a grudge.”
“Only an idiot would pass up what Avah makes.” I shrug like this is obvious. Then try not to think about what, exactly, my kryptonite might be, knowing full well it isn’t the cookies.
A shadow passes over Avah’s blue eyes—there and gone before I can read it. But if I had to guess, I’d bet money her piece of shit ex probably made her feel guilty for every moment of joy she found in her own kitchen.
I fucking hate seeing shadows in her eyes.
“So.” Avah sets down her water and fixes me with a look that’s pure business. Also adorable. “Have you talked to the couple we had dinner with on the island?”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this since she already knows the answer. “Joel and I have had trouble connecting,” I say, arching a brow and having the motion mimicked right back at me. “But I’m hoping to schedule another dinner soon.”
“Maybe I could tag along?” She says it casually, like we’re talking about the weather. “I really liked Mariel.”
Sloane perks up. “Is this the family who lost their daughter to cancer, then started that community platform in her honor?”
“Yep.” I’m watching Avah carefully now. She refused this exactthing when I asked her in Sloane’s apartment, then winged a spatula at my head for suggesting it. Now she’s offering in front of my sister, so it looks like normal dinner conversation instead of whatever charged negotiation this actually is.
Clever, frustrating, and so perfectly Avah that my whole body thrums with wanting her.
“How about I set it up for this weekend?” I match her casual tone. “If they’re available.”
“Great.” The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s close enough that Sloane fails to notice.
We finish dinner as the last light fades, then Sloane stretches and starts gathering plates. Avah moves to help as I carry the serving dishes inside, thinking about how underrated normal is.
“I’ll go grab the cookies.” Sloane stacks the plates in the sink and heads for the front door.
The moment I hear it close behind her, I pin Avah against the counter, my arms bracketing her body, caging her in without actually touching her. She could duck under my arm and escape if she wanted. She could tell me to back off, and I would. Instead, her hands come to my chest, not pushing me away, pressing hard, like she needs the contact as much as I do.
“Not on the mouth,” she whispers.
I lean in and nuzzle the underside of her jaw, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the faint sugar-sweetness that seems to cling to her skin. Her pulse flutters against my lips.
“What kind of game are you playing?”
“I’m not playing anything.” Her voice is shaky. “But I still feel like I owe you, and you know how I feel about that.”
“I like having you in my debt.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
