Page 49 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava’s first instinct was to fight. To storm back to Lachlan and humiliate him in front of every soul at the festival. But that wouldn’t undo the hurt. It wouldn’t erase the way Moira was standing now, looking so small and betrayed.
“Oh, Moira.” Ava’s throat ached. “I am so, so sorry. I thought—” She stopped herself. What had she thought? That she could push Moira toward Lachlan like a pawn on a board, and it would all resolve in a neat happily-ever-after? That her cleverness would keep everyone safe from the sting of heartbreak?
Her pride fractured, sharp and painful.
“This is my fault,” Ava said, voice low. “I encouraged it. I thought… I thought I knew what was best for ye. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Moira blinked, startled by the admission.
“I think,” Ava continued, her tone steadier now, “that ye should forget about Lachlan Ferguson. He’s a cad. And if ye wish it, I can help ye with Asher. He’s kind. He adores ye. And ye deserve someone who sees ye for who ye are, no’ someone who makes a game of ye.”
Moira wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the grass. “I dinna know what I want." Her voice hitched as she wiped gently at her tears. “And I dinna know if I want your help.”
The words stung, but Ava nodded. She was certain that in Moira’s position, she would have felt the same way.
“That’s fair,” she said quietly.
Moira glanced at her, blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes. “I just… need some time.”
“Of course,” Ava said. “Take all the time ye need.”
They stood there for a long moment in the shadow of the basket booth, the bustle of the festival carrying on around them as though nothing had shattered between them.
Somewhere behind them, she could feel him, Gavan, hovering at the edges, giving Moira space but close enough to intervene if she crumbled. Ava didn’t dare turn to confirm her suspicions. It was bad enough to know Moira’s trust in her had cracked. To imagine what Gavan must think of her now, that stung worse than Lachlan’s insult ever could.
Moira excused herself, heading toward the quieter edge of the green. Though Ava wanted to follow, she respected Moira's wish to be alone and stayed rooted in place, staring at nothing.
She’d always prided herself on being clever. On managing things. On knowing how to move people where she thought they needed to be. But today, that pride felt hollow. Moira wasn’t a piece on a board. Her feelings weren't a game to be played. She was a friend. And Ava had hurt her.
For years, Ava had believed matchmaking was a harmless hobby. Just a way to bring happiness and love between two people. But all she’d done was wound someone who trusted her. And Moira wasn't the first. Gavan, too, had been upset with her schemes.
The realization that so much pain could have been avoided if she'd only realized sooner, left Ava feeling profoundly small. If she wanted to repair what she’d broken, she’d need more than charm and cleverness. She’d need humility. And for the first time in a very long time, Ava wasn’t sure she had enough of it to begin.
“Ava.”
Her name stopped her cold. She hadn’t heard him approach, assuming he’d followed his cousin, but of course it was him, Gavan, dark and unyielding as ever, standing against the bright swirl of festivalgoers, watching her. Ava froze, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest. She had avoided him all morning, hadn’t wanted to be around him. Not after everything his steady, unreadable gaze had stirred in her.
But Gavan Douglas never let her run for long.
“A word,” he said, low and clipped, when she tried to pass him.
She kept her chin high. “Now’s hardly the time, my lord. I’m busy?—”
“I dinna care.” He stepped closer, cutting her off from the path. “We’re talking.”
“Gavan,” she hissed, glancing around at the people nearby, “ye’re making a scene.”
“Good,” he said, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it. “Ye’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been occupied,” she snapped. “Some of us have friends to tend to, reputations to?—”
“Reputations,” he bit out, as if the word tasted foul. “Is that what this is? Playing untouchable while Ferguson drapes himself over ye and makes a fool of my cousin?”
Her breath caught. “How dare ye!”
He reached her in three strides. One strong hand caught her elbow, not rough, but firm enough to halt her retreat, and before she could ask what in God’s name, he thought he was doing, his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was heat and impulse, a kiss that stole her breath and scattered every shield she’d so carefully constructed.
