Page 41 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Winner chooses their next partner,” Poppy declared. “Rules are rules.”
Ava expected Gavan to choose Moira, or Freya, or anyone else. But when Gavan’s gaze swept the circle and landed on her, she felt the moment lodge deep in her chest.
“Lady Ava,” he said evenly. “If ye’ll join me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Her breath caught. “Me?”
“Ye were spirited in your performance,” he said, almost deadpan, but she caught the faintest glimmer in his dark eyes.
Ferguson gave a good-natured bow and stepped aside. Ava, suddenly far more aware of herself than she liked, crossed the circle to stand beside Gavan.
“Try no’ to ruin my winning streak,” he murmured, low enough only she could hear.
“Try no’ to make me regret this,” she returned, her voice steadier than she felt, her smile more confident.
They took their place in the center as Poppy whispered their word, a historical figure. Ava nearly groaned.
“Dinna think too hard,” Gavan said under his breath.
“I never do when ye’re around,” she snapped back automatically, then regretted it the moment his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile.
They started. Ava mimed a crown, then a sword. Gavan followed her lead, drawing laughter with his deliberately stiff, regal posturing. When she mimed an execution, he fell to one knee with such mock-tragic grace that the room erupted.
“King Charles!” someone shouted.
“No, Henry!”
“Mary, Queen of Scots!” Freya finally called, and Poppy clapped in delight.
“Correct!”
The room applauded, but Ava barely heard them. She was too aware of the press of Gavan’s shoulder against hers, the faint warmth of his hand brushing hers when they both reached for an imaginary prop at the same time.
“Well played,” he said softly, meeting her gaze.
She meant to say something flippant, but all she managed was, “I did no’ want to ruin your streak.”
His answering look, steady, unreadable, too much, made her want to look away and hold his gaze all at once.
“Next round!” Poppy trilled, dragging the attention back to herself and breaking the spell.
Ava stepped back, smoothing her skirts with a practiced hand, pretending the tremor in her pulse was from the game.
But she could still feel him beside her. Still feel his eyes on her.
And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if winning was truly the point of the game, or if it had simply become an excuse to stand this close to him again.
Ava had known from the start that she and Ferguson would lose their round. He was far too confident in his ability to read her gestures, and she, well, she was no actress. What began as an attempt to pantomime a fox hunt quickly devolved into Ferguson making increasingly absurd guesses that had the room in stitches.
“Ye’re clearly an ostrich,” he declared, as she crouched low, miming the sighting of game.
“Do ye often see ostriches in the Highlands?” Ava said through laughter, pausing her movements just long enough to give him a withering look.
“No’ often, but I can dream,” he quipped, to the delight of their audience.
The allotted time ran out in a chorus of good-natured groans, and Poppy waved them back to their seats with mock despair. “Terrible! Positively abysmal! I’ve never seen a fox look less like a fox.”
