Page 36 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Worse, he thrilled her.
She masked it, as always, with a smile and a quip, but the afternoon stretched on with that memory unspooling in the back of her mind, an uninvited thread of longing she’d thought she’d buried years ago.
Ava forced a light laugh. “Perhaps I was flushed from walking. It was quite warm.”
But Freya only leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting. “Ye two used to be thick as thieves. Everyone knows it. Then one day ye were no’. And now…”
“And now nothing,” Ava cut in again, but this time her voice lacked its usual crisp command.
Poppy tilted her head, watching Ava with the keen perception that made her both delightful and dangerous to confide in. “Ye know, my mother always says the opposite of love is no’ hate, it’s indifference.”
“I dinna hate Gavan,” Ava said primly.
“Exactly.” Poppy's teasing smile felt more like a trap Ava was about to fall into.
Moira clapped her hands, blissfully unaware of the deeper undercurrents. Her naivete was often refreshing. “Oh, how wonderful! I’d love it if ye and my cousin could be friends again. He speaks so highly of ye.”
That caught Ava off guard. “Does he?”
“Constantly.” Moira nodded, her earnestness leaving no room for jesting. In fact, her genuine smile widened. “He says ye’re capable and clever.”
“Capable.” Ava repeated the word, heat pricking at her ears. But rather than play into her embarrassment, she went for boredom. “How verra… thrilling.”
Freya snorted softly, clearly savoring Ava’s discomfort.
Ava reached for her champagne, draining the last sip with a poise she didn’t quite feel. “This conversation is becoming terribly dull. Shall we critique one another’s paintings instead? I should like to see what colors Poppy has managed to spill on the floor this time.”
They laughed and let the subject shift, but Ava could feel their knowing glances linger like shadows at the edge of the golden afternoon.
And worse, when she was honest with herself, she knew why.
Because for all her protestations, for all her carefully layered poise, Gavan Douglas still had the power to make her feel like a young lass again: flustered, uncertain, and one breath away from wanting something she could not name.
Freya’s grin stayed wicked as she dipped her brush in a scandalous shade of red. “Oh, Ava,” she said airily, “ye do put on such a show. But I think ye protest too prettily.”
Poppy hummed in agreement, her smile soft but knowing. “Ye’re flushed, dearest. Whatever ye and Lord Darkwood were, or were no’, discussing, it left quite the impression.”
Ava arched a brow, forcing a languid sip of her refilled champagne. “If ye two are quite finished imagining romance where there is none, perhaps we can discuss something less tedious. Like which of ye is truly the worst painter here.”
They laughed, but Freya’s eyes still sparkled with the quiet satisfaction of a friend who knew she’d struck a nerve.
And Ava, poised, smiling, untouchable, couldn’t quite shake the sting of it.
Ava dabbed her brush into pale blue, trying to ignore the heat prickling at the back of her neck. Let them laugh. Let them imagine whatever ridiculous little story they wanted.
But when the conversation moved on, and Freya and Poppy were debating whether Moira’s painting looked more like a cottage or a lopsided cake, Ava found herself staring at her own painting, seeing nothing but a mess of color.
Her friends’ teasing shouldn’t matter. Gavan Douglas certainly didn’t matter.
And yet, the echo of his dark, steady gaze refused to leave her, clinging like a shadow she couldn’t paint over.
When the women had gone, the gallery felt impossibly quiet. Ava lingered by her easel, studying the blotches of color she’d daubed on the paper. It was meant to be a garden. It looked more or less the way her insides felt.
She dragged her thumb across one corner, smudging the paint until it blurred, a small, impulsive act that mirrored the tangle in her chest. Her friends’ words shouldn’t matter. Gavan Douglas certainly didn’t matter.
And yet, as she stood there in the quiet, she swore she could still hear his voice from the rose path. Low. Unrelenting. Unshakable. Only he was repeating her own statement back to her: Running away, like always.
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