Page 11 of Off the Ice

Oh, this should be good.

We need to look convincing. That means public appearances, actual dates, charity events…none of this hiding-in-the-shadows stuff. And you have to trust me to play my part.

Trust you? That’s rich.

Hey, this is a partnership. Mutual benefits, remember?

First date night is this weekend. Bavette’s. 8pm. I'll pick you up

Fine. But if you mess this up, I’ll make sure every paper in Chicago knows it.

Noted. You’re terrifying, by the way.

Eight

Logan

Bavette’sexudedakindof effortless sophistication that made you straighten your posture the second you walked in. The air was thick with the scent of seared steak and rich butter, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the clink of crystal glasses. The dim lighting cast everything in warm, golden hues, from the polished leather booths to the dark wood paneling that lined the walls.

A couple at the far end of the room leaned in close, their laughter muted but their designer outfits screaming money. A waiter moved like a ghost between tables, balancing a tray of martinis that glinted under the soft glow of the chandeliers. And at the center of it all, there was this quiet, unspoken rule: you could look, but you couldn’t stare. Not even at the celebrities scattered among the tables, their faces partially obscured by the flickering candlelight.

I hadn’t picked Bavette’s for the vibe, though. I’d picked it because it was the kind of place where being seen mattered. Where a well-placed camera and a few whispers from the right people could turn a meal into a headline. And if we were going to sell this whole couple thing, we had to start somewhere that would make people talk.

Ava sat across from me, her platinum blonde bob catching the warm glow of the candle on the table. She was studying the menu like it was a contract negotiation, her hazel eyes flicking over the items with laser focus. The fitted sweater she wore curved perfectly along her frame, and the leather pants hugged her hips in a way that was impossible not to notice.

She didn’t seem to care about the attention she drew, though. She was focused, cool, and completely in her element, like the chaos of the world outside didn’t touch her.

“You look like you’re planning a heist,” I teased, leaning back in my seat.

“Just trying to find something I can pronounce,” she shot back, not even glancing up.

I laughed softly, shaking my head. She was already in full Ava mode, no-nonsense, and not the least bit impressed by the setting. It was refreshing, honestly. Most people I’d brought here acted like they were auditioning for a role, but Ava? She was exactly herself.

“Let me guess,” I said, folding my menu. “You’re going to pick the steak.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, narrowing slightly. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because you strike me as a steak-and-red-wine kind of girl. Simple, classic, no bullshit.”

She blinked, then set her menu down. “Okay, points for accuracy. But don’t get cocky.” She points as me, picking up her glass and taking a sip.

“Too late.”

The dinner started stiff, but a bottle of wine and two perfectly cooked steaks loosened things up. By the time dessert rolled around, a chocolate cream pie neither of us had room for but ordered anyway, we were deep into the kind of conversation that felt more natural than I’d expected.

“So, favorite color?” I asked, spearing a bite of pie with my fork.

She gave me a skeptical look. “You’re asking me my favorite color?”

“Yeah, why not? Consider it part of the whole getting to know you process.”

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Fine. Green.”

“Green, huh? Like forest green or neon green?”

“Why does it matter?” she asked, laughing.

“Details are important.”

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