I’d love to know her real name, though.
For the next hour, we trade insults at the screen. No questions about Nevin or anything. Only the safety of a plot you can predict from space. The prince threatens to abdicate his throne for the small-town baker without so much as a thought for his Alpine nation. We groan in unison.
And of course, they kiss in the carriage. The grand finale.
Eventually, the house lights flicker on. Harsh and intrusive and way too early. I stay put. She stands and brushes crumbs from her lap with quick movements.
‘Next week is Snow Way Out,’ she says. ‘Supposed to be a delight.’
‘Sounds hellish.’ I scrape a final few crumbs of sugar from the bottom of the bucket. ‘I’ll probably be here.’
‘Probably. Who would want to miss that?’
‘I guess I’ll see you then, Marzipan.’
The ridiculous nickname shouldn’t fit. She’s too clever and too guarded for something sugary. But when she grins, the armour cracks, and I wouldn’t mind being the one who finds the sweet parts underneath.
Wait. What?
She doesn’t say goodbye. She just smiles, slips into the aisle, and vanishes through the double doors.
The space beside me cools, and the silence rushes in, but it feels different. Less like a fortress, more like a waiting room.
Then I spot it.
A pool of red wool coiled under her chair.
Her scarf.
Seeing it sends my heart into a rib-shattering kick. I snatch the wool and bring it to my face. It’s soft and smells of rain and vanilla.
Then I launch myself out of the chair and head for the exit.
Chapter 4
Ava
Nevin’s latest text is nothing but my name with two exclamation marks, which means the clock is ticking. The dashboard reads 19:07, barely five minutes since I walked out of the auditorium with…Bear.
I check the mirror. Even in the dark car, the flush on my face is obvious, and the corners of my mouth are still tipped upward. If I walk into the flat like that, Nevin will know I wasn’t at physio this afternoon. No, I need to look as if the Pilates reformer shredded my spirit, exhausted from hours of intrinsic footwork under Margot’s thumb.
Not beaming from two hours hiding in a cinema, munching popcorn with a stranger.
Nevin’s teammate, no less.
Ugh.
I finished my rehab block in the P-med suite at four and drove back to Stirling, hoping he would be there again.
How am I making an impossible situation even worse? What the hell is wrong with me?
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. It lands face up on the worn fabric. My right wrist aches, but it’s a phantom sensation. I rub the skin there, right where the bone protrudes.
Coming home after the film last Tuesday was a nightmare.
When I got back, Nevin was waiting in the kitchen, polishing a wine glass with a cloth. Without even batting an eyelid, he kept rubbing at a smudge on the rim with calm precision.
‘You’re late.’ The words were level. No inflection at all.
