Page 8

Eight

Logan

B avette’s exuded a kind of 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.”

She rolled her eyes. “Forest green. The kind that reminds you of pine trees after it rains—rich, deep, and not the kind that hurts your eyes to look at.”

“Good choice,” I said with a nod. “I’m a blue guy. Navy, specifically.”

She smirked. “Navy? Predictable.”

“Hey, navy goes with everything.”

“Spoken like a true hockey player,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a dig or a compliment. Maybe both.

The conversation stayed light as we moved from colors to foods (hers: spicy, mine: hearty), favorite movies (she refused to admit hers but grilled me mercilessly about mine), and childhood memories. It was easy, natural, the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t require effort—like we’d been doing this forever.

“Come on, Logan,” Ava teased, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “You can’t just say any movie. What’s your go-to, comfort, seen-it-a-hundred-times favorite?”

I exhaled, shaking my head with a grin. “If I tell you, you’re just gonna judge me.”

“Oh, definitely.” She leaned in, eyes alight with mischief. “But that’s half the fun.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real fight behind it. “Fine. Miracle.”

Her groan was immediate. “Ugh, of course it is. A hockey movie. How predictable.”

“You asked!” I defended, laughing. “And it’s a classic.”

“It’s a sports movie.”

“Sports movies can be classics,” I argued, crossing my arms. “What, like your favorite is some deep, artistic indie film?”

Her lips curled at the corner, but she said nothing.

“Oh my God,” I realized, pointing at her. “You’re not telling me yours because it’s embarrassing.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, unbothered. “Maybe.”

“No, that’s not fair. You gave me shit for Miracle, but you won’t even admit yours?”

“Correct.”

I let out an exasperated laugh, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

The banter was easy, flowing as naturally as the drinks in our hands. Somewhere between debating movie genres and sharing our most ridiculous childhood injuries—hers involved a trampoline and questionable judgment, mine a botched backyard hockey shot—I almost forgot this wasn’t a real date.

Almost.

Because sitting across from her, watching the way her lips curled around the rim of her glass, the way her shoulders shook with laughter, the way she met my eyes without hesitation, made it feel real. Made me want it to be real. And that? That was dangerous.

Until we walked outside.

The flash of cameras hit us the second the door opened, bright and blinding. A small group of paparazzi had gathered on the sidewalk, jostling for position as they shouted questions.

“Logan! Who’s the mystery blonde?” “How long have you two been together?” “Is she the reason for your good behavior lately?”

I felt Ava tense beside me, and without thinking, I slipped an arm around her waist. It was instinctive, protective, and I didn’t stop to analyze it. Instead, I flashed my usual easy grin and said, “On and off for a few months. You know how it is.” I waved a hand and started moving us in the direction of the car.

Ava’s head snapped toward me, but she didn’t say anything. Not yet. She smiled for the cameras, letting me guide her to the waiting car. Once we were inside, though, the door barely clicked shut before she turned to me.

“‘On and off’?” she repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “A few months?”

I shrugged, leaning back in the seat. “What? It sounded good.”

“Dude,” she said, throwing her hands up. “How are we supposed to convince anyone we’ve known each other for months without anyone noticing? That doesn’t just sound good—it sounds ridiculous.”

“It’s not that ridiculous,” I said, fighting back a grin. “You're a private person with your personal life, you didn't want my name wrapped up in your articles.”

“It all sounds very calculated,” she repeated flatly. “Logan, if you want this to work, you can’t just make things up on the fly.”

“Relax,” I said, holding up my hands. “We’ll figure it out. I won't just blurt something out without talking to you first about it again.”

She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she stared out the window. I could practically see her brain working overtime, piecing together a plan to clean up my mess. And for some reason, it made me want to smile. I didn’t say anything else. I just let her stew, knowing she’d come up with something brilliant by the time we got back.