Page 72 of The Scot's Perfect Match
The weeks after the banns were called passed in a haze of motion and wonder. Every Sunday for three weeks, Ava stood in church, waiting for someone to object to her marriage to Gavan, but no one did.
If anyone had told Ava a month ago that she would be preparing for her own wedding rather than one she’d orchestrated for someone else, she would have laughed. Or she might have smiled and made some glib remark about love being for other people.
And yet here she was, a permanent smile on her face.
Gavan hadn’t missed a single day of calling on her since their betrothal was announced, even if it was to bring her the smallest gift of a single thistle he’d found while helping one of his crofters. His dedication to her was profound, and Ava fell deeper in love with him with each passing minute. When he had more time, he’d arrive in the morning and they’d ride over the moors, racing until they were both exhausted.
There was no more sharpness between them, no unsaid accusations or brittle words. Just wind in her hair, and laughter surrounding them as she urged her mare forward, knowing full well he’d catch her anyway.
On rainy afternoons, they shared ices in the little shop in the village, her lips going numb from the cold, his large, warm hand covering hers on the table. They attended musicales and balls, staying long enough to be seen but leaving early, when the press of the crowd became too much and the quiet of a carriage ride together was far more appealing. Where Gavan would steal a kiss, and she would enthusiastically let him.
At garden parties, Gavan hovered close enough for her to feel his presence, subtly warding off any gentleman who thought they could woo her away with their charm. At night, she thought of those little moments, the brush of his hand as he helped her from the carriage, the way his low voice softened when he spoke to her in private, and she found herself smiling into her pillow like a lass of sixteen.
The best day, though, came a few days before their wedding.
Going to the loch for a picnic had been Gavan’s idea, a day without spectacle or obligation, just them and the glittering water stretching into the hills. And so, Ava found herself in a rowboat, laughing like a fool as she tried to match Gavan’s sure, steady rowing.
“Ye’re doing that on purpose,” she accused when the boat wobbled beneath them. She nearly dropped her oars, gripping tight to the sides.
“Doing what?” His grin was all infuriating innocence, the tease.
“Rocking it. I can feel it, ye menace.”
“Menace?” he echoed, feigning offense.
“Aye. And if ye tip us over, I’ll haunt ye forever when I drown.”
The words had barely left her lips before the boat gave an alarming lurch. She squealed, clutched at the sides, and pitched too far to one side, only for his arm to loop around her waist, steadying her as the boat wobbled but didn’t capsize.
“Careful.” His breath was warm against her temple.
For one dizzy moment, she forgot how to breathe. His arm stayed there, strong and steady, even as she righted herself.
“Again, ye definitely did that on purpose.” The accusation came out breathless.
“Perhaps,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone.
“Have ye ever been in a rowboat before?” she jested when she could breathe again, clinging to the edge as if the loch might swallow her whole.
“A time or two,” he countered, his arm still firm around her. “The better question is, have I capsized?”
“My goodness, have ye?” She twisted just enough to glare at him over her shoulder, which was a mistake, his face was far too close, and the teasing gleam in his eyes made her heart kick.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Do ye really think I’d let ye drown, sweet lass?”
Ava opened her mouth for some sharp retort, but none came. She couldn’t seem to find the words when his thumb was brushing against her side as if he had no intention of moving his hand. The air between them tightened until the subtle lapping of water on the sides of the hull was the only sound.
They sat like that for a long moment, his arm still around her, her heart thundering loud enough to rival the rush of the loch’s current, and Ava thought, fleetingly, that she could live in this moment forever.
She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this… unmoored. It terrified her, how easy it was to fall into old rhythms with him, how every boundary she had built over the years had crumbled the moment he touched her. Ava hadn’t believed that she needed anyone. And yet, she could not imagine letting him take his arm away, letting him walk away without ever seeing him again, without loving him.
Perhaps this was what love felt like, not the feverish, foolish thing she’d scoffed at for years, but this quiet, steady pull toward someone who saw all her jagged edges and didn’t flinch.
All the restraint they’d held onto for years, all the armor and careful lines, seemed to have slipped away, their chests gaping open and vulnerable.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, she could simply be Ava.
And with him, she was enough.
