Page 46 of Sinfully Yours

LIAM

Ava Bennett is avoiding me.

Not subtly, either. Not in the way most people would—by taking a little longer to respond to texts, missing a call or two, pretending they're too busy. No, she's gone for the nuclear option. Straight-up radio silence.

Which is exactly how I know she's up to something.

Which also explains why I'm here, pulling up outside her apartment.

I kill the engine and grip the steering wheel like it owes me answers. I'd call this a detour, but that would imply that I had a real plan. I didn't. The second she stopped answering, my night narrowed to one objective. Track her down and figure out what ridiculous mess she's landed in this time.

And judging by the tight knot in my gut, I already know I'm about to regret it.

Traffic crawls by, headlights flashing in my periphery. A burst of laughter from the bar up the street. A siren somewhere, distant but creeping closer. The city moves on, indifferent. Meanwhile, I'm about to walk straight into God knows what.

I run a hand through my hair, roll my shoulders, and step out of the car. The autumn air has that crisp, knife's-edge chill that should sharpen my focus, but I'm already running too hot for it to matter.

No point in stalling. I take the stairs two at a time, bracing for impact. Whatever chaos is waiting on the other side, I doubt it's in the mood to go easy on me.

By the time I'm knocking—pounding, really—I have exactly two thoughts.

If she doesn't answer, I'll kick the damn door in.

If she does answer, I might still kick something.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And there she is.

Ava blinks up at me, all wide-eyed innocence, like she didn't just spend the entire day skillfully dodging my calls. As if my sudden appearance is some wild coincidence and not the inevitable result of her terrible stealth skills. Her hair is piled into a messy bun, a sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder in that effortlessly casual way that somehow still looks unfairly good on her. For half a second, I catch the glimmer of surprise in her eyes—then, like magic, she smooths out every damn trace of emotion and levels me with a look that suggests I've personally ruined her evening.

"Liam." Her voice is wary. "What are you?—"

I step inside, shutting the door behind me. "You're avoiding me."

She crosses her arms, tilting her head like she's considering denying it. Then she sighs. "I needed some space."

"Bullshit." My voice comes out rough, but I don't care. I'm done with whatever game she thinks she's playing. "You don't need space, Bennett. You need to explain why you thought it was a good idea to go to Vanessa's gallery alone."

The way her lower lip trembles confirms it. I'd known, the second Vanessa called me, laughing about Ava being in her gallery, that this was a mistake.

For a solid second, I just… process the stupidity of it. I knew she was reckless, but this? This is a new level of self-destructive curiosity.

She presses her lips together, then lifts her chin. "How did you?—"

"I know you." My voice is low, edged with frustration. "And I know the exact look you get when you decide you don't need backup."

Ava shifts, glancing away. "I handled it."

I let out a snort. "You handled it?" My hands find my hips, fingers digging into my sides as I try—really try—not to snap. "You walked straight into her territory, and you think that's handling it?"

She falters for half a second, just long enough to give me hope that maybe, maybe, she realizes how completely unhinged this is. But nope. It's Ava. And when she sets her mind on something, she digs in like a raccoon with a stolen snack.

"I needed answers."

"So you went to her?" I stare at her, waiting for the inevitable punchline that will make this make sense. It never comes. "Are you insane?"

Because honestly, at this point, that's the only explanation left. Either she's lost it or I have. And given the fact that I'm standing here, watching her double down on the worst decision possible, I'm starting to think it's contagious.

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