Page 16 of Sinfully Yours

God help me, this might be fun.

She's ready, and she's honestly dressed to kill. She looks devastating.

The kind of devastating that has nothing to do with knives or weapons and everything to do with the way her dress clings to her, the way her hair tumbles over one shoulder, the way she scowls at me like she's debating whether or not she can legally commit homicide in public.

The second we step through the doors at the event, heads turn. The Riverwalk Foundation's annual charity gala is one of the most well-attended events in Willow Creek, which means we're about five minutes away from being the hottest piece of gossip in the room.

Ava stiffens beside me, her fingers flexing around the clutch in her hand. "I hate you," she mutters under her breath.

I slide an arm around her waist, guiding her deeper into the crowd. "You hate how good I look in this suit," I murmur back, my lips just brushing her ear.

She scoffs. "I hate you," she repeats, but there's something breathy about it. Something less convincing than it should be.

Interesting.

I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her of our agreement. "Smile, Bennett.”

I feel her inhale. Just the smallest, sharpest breath—one I'd bet my last dime she doesn't even realize she's taken. It's quick, fleeting, like her body is still catching up to the fact that I'm this close. That my fingers are resting low on the curve of her back, my lips dangerously near her ear.

And then, because she's Ava, she recovers with record speed.

"Oh, I am," she murmurs, her voice as smooth as the honey-drizzled champagne we were handed earlier. She tilts her head slightly, just enough that a lock of her auburn hair brushes against my shoulder, soft as silk. "Grinning from ear to ear, sweetheart."

I chuckle under my breath, tightening my grip just a fraction. If she's going to play, I'll make sure she feels it.

The gala is in full swing—crystal chandeliers gleaming, jazz murmuring in the background, champagne flutes meeting fine China with a practiced clink. The room is a study in effortless opulence—cool marble underfoot, Art Deco flourishes catching the light, and towering floral arrangements in deep, moody hues.

The guest list is exactly as expected—a curated mix of Willow Creek's elite. Business moguls, socialites, and politicians glide through the space with the kind of polished ease that comes from years of exclusive events and expensive tailoring. Here, networking is an art form. Deals are sealed over vintage Bordeaux, whispered alliances forged between delicate bites of caviar.

And Ava Bennett, in her fitted black dress that's somehow both elegant and unholy, stands out effortlessly among them.

I watch as she offers a smooth smile to an older couple who've just greeted her, her posture straight, her expression poised. But I know her well enough to see the way her fingers twitch at her side, the way she resists the urge to fidget under the weight of so many eyes.

She doesn't belong here. Not in a bad way. Ava could charm the devil himself if she wanted to. But this kind of scene? The artificiality of it? The endless small talk, the power games disguised as casual conversation? It's not her.

And yet, she's here.

Because of me.

That thought settles somewhere deep in my chest, an ache I refuse to examine too closely.

"Liam Carter," a voice drawls from behind me, thick with an easy arrogance I recognize instantly.

James Langley.

I school my features before turning, offering the man a firm handshake. Langley's a big player in Willow Creek real estate—old money, new developments, and an ego so large I'm surprised he doesn't charge it rent.

"James," I greet smoothly. "Didn't expect to see you here."

He lets out a good-natured chuckle, the kind that only sounds natural to people who've spent their entire lives insulated by wealth. "You know me—always where the money is." His gaze flicks briefly to Ava, assessing. "And I see you've brought some rather charming company."

Ava, to her credit, doesn't flinch. She tilts her chin up, meeting his gaze with effortless confidence.

"Ava Bennett," she introduces herself, extending a hand.

Langley takes it, his grip just a little too lingering, his smile a little too knowing. "Ah, the Bennett girl. You've certainly grown up, haven't you?"

My jaw tics.

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