Page 8 of Sinfully Yours

Her lips twitch. "Not regret."

I smirk. "I don't know. A good biscuit might change your mind."

The waitress approaches, and before Ava can protest, I order for both of us—fluffy biscuits drenched in honey butter, thick-cut bacon, perfectly crisped hash browns, and scrambled eggs cooked soft. Ava quirks a brow but doesn't argue.

When the food arrives, her eyes light up. "Okay. This does smell like an apology meal."

I hand her a fork. "Who says I'm apologizing?"

She rolls her eyes but takes a bite of biscuit anyway. The moment she does, her shoulders drop slightly and a quiet moan slips out. I nearly drop my coffee.

She points at me with her fork, mouth still full. "Okay. Fine. You might have been right about this."

I grin, pleased. "Told you."

The meal stretches longer than it should. We talk—banter, really. She teases me about my need for control, and I call her a menace. There's something so easy about it, so familiar, that for a moment, I forget why this is a bad idea.

By the time the plates are empty, I feel settled in a way I haven't all day.

Then the check arrives, and Ava reaches for it immediately.

"I've got it," she says.

I don't argue. If I tell her no, she'll dig her heels in harder. Instead, I stretch my arm along the back of the chair, watching with amusement as she hands the waitress her card. "Emily teach you that trick?"

Ava bobs her head, signing the receipt. "She calls it taking the power back."

I chuckle. "Sounds like her."

She stands, slipping on her jacket. "I should go. I'm meeting her in a bit."

I nod, pushing back my chair. "I'll walk you out."

The sun is lower now, casting long, golden streaks across the cobblestones outside the café. We stop near the curb, where my car is parked.

Ava hesitates, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. "Well. That wasn't awful."

My lips twitch. "High praise."

She grins. "See you around, Carter."

I watch her go, her auburn hair catching in the afternoon light, and tell myself this was the right call.

Then I slide into my car, and my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.

Unknown Number: You really shouldn't kiss people in public if you want to keep secrets.

My blood turns cold at what I see next. Attached to the message is a blurry photo. The setting is incredibly familiar—it's a dark vineyard. Two figures are locked together, mouths pressed, hands fisted in fabric.

That can't be good.

3

AVA

Itell myself I don't care as I walk back to my apartment.

The city is buzzing with the kind of restless energy that only exists in the late afternoon—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks, the scents of roasted coffee and hot, salty fries teasing the air. It's too nice of a day to be brooding, and yet, here I am, brooding like my life depends on it.

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