Page 75 of The Heiress's First Date

She huffs a sigh. “I’ll say.”

Then she hands me a bowl so I’ll eat like a civilized person instead of a college kid and scoops heaping spoonfuls of all my favorites. I snag some chopsticks. “Start talking.”

Balancing the bowl on my knee, I reach for my water glass. Yeah, I’m still buying time because I’m not sure I can form full sentences at the moment. It’s all a jumble in my brain.

“Okay,” she says when I don’t say anything. “Why do you think she’s fallen for them? It’s been what, a week since the auction? Did she say something?”

“Because I see it in the way she looks at them, and I can hear it in her voice. It’s everywhere. From the time she spends with them to the way she’s rearranged her life to be with them. It’s just... obvious.”

And it burns me like the world’s worst bout of indigestion.

“You’ve seen her with them?”

I nod. “The other day, I cooked pasta and Gabe and I were in the kitchen doing the dishes, but she and Alex were at the table holding hands, talking. She’s comfortable with him.”

“More comfortable than with you?”

I nibble at my food. Is she more comfortable with Alex? Maybe. Maybe it’s different.

I really don’t know how to feel about that. I’ve been her ride-or-die for years. She’s always been able to come to me, to lean on me. That hasn’t changed.

For me anyway.

But it’s obviously changed for her.

A hunk of carrot hits the back of my throat wrong, and I cough. Ava smacks me on the back, immediately changing the subject.

“And can we circle back to the four of you eating together?”

“Do we have to?” I force a smile. She matches it with one of her own.

Rolling my eyes, I push to my feet and grab my glass before heading into the kitchen for a refill. I snag her bottle of Chardonnay, likely a selection from her travels. As I pour her another glass of wine, the story of the past week pours out, too.

I can’t sit down. No. I pace. Like a panther stuck behind a fence.

My arrival in the Hamptons. Our trip back to the city. I leave out the more salacious details, of course. She saw the picture, and I told her about cooking dinner.

Ava sits back against the arm of the sofa, her warm brown eyes widening with every sentence that falls from my lips. Her chopsticks hover in the air.

“So you’re poly.”

I pause, take a sip, then sigh. “Yes.”

The corners of her mouth turn up in a pleased smile. Soft, knowing. But she’s not screaming or crying or any of the other worst-case scenarios that have clogged my brain like a death spiral.

“You don’t sound happy.”

“How can I be happy when she’s halfway around the world and Gabe won’t talk to me?”

“Come here.” She pats the cushion next to her.

My muscles are stiffer than they should be as I circle the coffee table and settle next to her.

“Why won’t Gabe talk to you?”

Of course, she’d pick up on that.

I shrug. “No idea.”

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