Three Grumpy Groomsmen

22. Ivy

CHAPTER 22

Ivy

I’ve been to Brad’s offshoot of Raw in L.A. a few times for obvious reasons, but it’s in Malibu and I hate the traffic on a good day, despise it on a bad day. It’s also what I consider a typical restaurant, pleasant and upscale, with excellent food, but it’s lacking in any sort of distinctive atmosphere.

Not that I ever told Brad that.

Raw in Charleston is a totally different vibe.

Maybe it’s the diners, who are in general, older and yet more boisterous than the L.A. crowd that frequents the Malibu location. Everyone seems to know everyone and there are a lot of diners stopping at other tables to chat and miraculously that doesn’t seem to piss off the wait staff. That behavior in L.A. would garner death stares from the staff, and fair enough. L.A. isn’t the kind of city that generates a lot of patience. Sunshine, great shopping, celebrity spotting, and fantastic hillside housing with views it has in abundance, but patience? Not so much.

Or maybe it’s watching Ford and Harrison in their element that gives Raw such a personal atmosphere.

Liam and I are seated at the large circular bar so that we don’t steal a table from a regular and so that the guys can pop over and chat whenever they have a free minute.

“This is my kind of place,” Liam says with appreciation as he runs his hand over the walnut bartop. “You know I like wood.”

I laugh. “Good thing I wasn’t drinking anything when you said that. Because yes, I know how much you like wood.” I squeeze his forearm and smile at him.

Liam grins back. “You’ve seen all the ways I appreciate wood, haven’t you? But I actually meant I like the decor. I’m so tired of everything being designed for a social media moment. This place is built around the concept of conversation. Great acoustics, comfortable chairs, ample spacing between tables. I like it.”

“I do too. You know what else I like? Being here with you.”

Liam is different in South Carolina. He’s more relaxed, more chatty.

Maybe it’s all the sex he’s getting or maybe it’s the slow pace of life in Honeysuckle Harbor.

Maybe it’s how fun and easy it has been being with Harrison and Ford. It’s been amazing to watch him find common ground with Ford and to see his relationship with Harrison deepen, whether he realizes it has or not.

Whatever it is, I like this for him. He’s clearly happy.

Liam’s gaze softens. “I like that too. This has been incredible, Ivy. I’m so damn in love with you.”

“And me,” Harrison says, walking up to us.

The corner of Liam’s mouth turns up ever so slightly. “Almost. Not quite. But I’m considering it.”

Harrison chucks Liam on the chin. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re in denial, William.”

I don’t always understand their teasing—it definitely wouldn’t work for me—but they have their own thing and it clearly is working for them. Watching the passion they share is sexy as hell to me and I’m learning they enjoy what I think of as a fake hate fuck.

The real surprise?

My own spark with Harrison.

I didn’t anticipate that at all.

But over these last few days of hanging out, he’s made me laugh so hard I’ve snorted. He’s much smarter than even he gives himself credit for, and he barely touched me on the Ferris wheel and I was having an orgasm.

Okay, so not barely touched me.

It didn’t take long, though.

Harrison turns and gives me a smile, flipping my hair over my shoulder and massaging my neck lightly. “Did you order a drink? They make an excellent martini here, and I know how much you like your vodka.”

“We haven’t ordered anything yet.”

“This menu was developed by our new Head Chef after Brad left for the show,” Harrison says. “Don’t tell him, but I think it’s better.” He gives me a wink.

“As if I’ll be telling Brad anything,” I say wryly. “We’ve been studying the menu and taking in the atmosphere. You guys should be very proud of Raw, Harrison. It’s really relaxed and elegant in here. Like you.”

He’s wearing a tailored blue suit that fits him to perfection and while he’s always crisp and tidy, he’s in his element at the restaurant, talking to all the patrons and encouraging the staff and building them up.

Harrison almost looks embarrassed by the compliment. He leans in, crowding us both with his muscular frame. “I’m going to make you call me elegant later. ‘That’s an elegant way to suck Liam’s cock, Harrison. You look so elegant fucking me, Harrison. You have incredibly elegant orgasms, Harrison.’”

The image makes me laugh, a high full laugh that is definitely not elegant. “I cannot say any of that with a straight face.”

“Sex is no time for laughing,” Liam says.

“Well said, William.”

Harrison acknowledges someone who is trying to get his attention with a lift of his chin. “Gotta go. Daddy needs to keep the lights on.”

With that, he’s gone and Liam watches him stroll away, confident and damn it, elegant. Whether he likes it or not.

“You get it, don’t you?” Liam asks, turning to face me, his knee bumping mine. “Why I’m so…enamored.”

“I do. He’s fun, but much more than that. He’s smart, socially adept, arrogant yet vulnerable. He cares deeply about his people. He’s the full package.”

Liam rubs his jaw. “Full package, indeed. God, what the fuck are we doing, Ivy?”

“I don’t know,” I say, happily. “But I don’t care. I just want to enjoy our time here. Now let’s order a cocktail.”

Liam nods and raises his hand for the bartender. We request two martinis, and the bartender tells us Ford has ordered a sampling of the restaurant’s signature dishes to be sent out to us.

Ford .

I have no idea what I’m going to do about Ford, who is sweet and caring and oh-so-attentive. If he’s any more attentive, my vagina is going to implode.

Just the thought of what he can do to me with his tongue has me wanting to fan myself with a cocktail napkin. Plus, he’s the most protective and competent man I’ve ever met.

Case in point, two small bowls appear in front of us. “Blue crab bisque,” the bartender says, sliding two black cloth napkins with soup spoons tucked in them toward us. “Ford wanted you to start with this.”

Maybe Liam is right. What are we doing? We might be in over our heads.

It’s a question I can’t answer. All I know is that I’m falling in love with Ford.

It’s the first time I’m acknowledging that to myself and as I take my spoon and dip it into the bisque, I marvel that it’s possible to love two guys at once. I would have never thought that could be real, but I can’t deny it’s happening.

But it’s complicated. For so many reasons. I’m with Liam. We live in L.A. How would any of that work? I don’t even know how Ford and Harrison feel beyond we’re all having fun.

“Holy shit, this is really good,” Liam says, sinking his spoon back into his bowl for another taste.

I take a spoonful in and immediately relax my shoulders. “Mmm, oh my God.” I’m not a person who normally gets orgasmic over food, but it’s creamy and salty and absolutely delicious.

“I could eat a gallon of this,” Liam says.

“Save room,” Ford says, appearing behind us as I take a sip of my martini. “I asked Chef to make you fried green tomatoes, a low-country bouillabaisse, braised short ribs, and bourbon butter oysters.”

“Holy shit,” Liam repeats, immediately putting his spoon down on his saucer. “I want everything you just mentioned twice.”

The menu is different from the Malibu Raw, which is almost exclusively seafood and salads. “I’ve never had fried green tomatoes,” I say.

“What?” Ford looks scandalized. “And you being a food stylist. I’m shocked and appalled, Ivy.” He gives me a smile to let me know he’s teasing. “Prepare to be blown away.”

“I already am,” I say, softly.

He stills and his eyes darken. His jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. He wants to kiss me.

But he doesn’t.

A little disappointed, I add, “I don’t eat the food. I make it look pretty.”

“They’re going to miss you on the show.”

That makes me shrug. “They’ve already replaced me.” Then, because I don’t want to think about my current unemployed status, I add, “So Harrison is front of house and you’re back of house? What’s your favorite part of what you do?”

“Having happy staff and diners. That’s what I love. Knowing we’ve created a well-oiled machine but one that has the highest food standards and an exemplary customer experience. People come here to celebrate and share time with friends and family, as well as to enjoy the food. I love when they leave full and happy.” He grins. “And maybe even a little drunk. We have great cocktails.”

“You do.” I lift my glass in salute. “Cheers.”

A woman comes out of the kitchen wearing a pastry coat. “Don’t get too drunk,” she says. “I want you to try my famous coconut cake.”

Her smile looks familiar and I’m wracking my brain trying to remember where I met her. The diner? The boardwalk?

“This is my sister, Frannie,” Ford says. “And she does indeed make amazing coconut cake. Frannie, this is Ivy and Liam.”

That’s why her smile sparked something in me. It’s a carbon copy of Ford’s. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you! I see the resemblance between you and your brother.”

“God help her,” Ford jokes.

“Seriously.” Frannie gives her brother a faux wince. “But I look more like my sisters.”

“Well, two of you are identical,” Ford points out.

Frannie laughs. “Exactly.”

“Wait, triplets?” Liam exclaims. “Wow. That’s…wow. I’m an only child.”

“It’s actually awesome,” Frannie says. “I always had clothes to borrow and someone to play with. My twin, Fiona, is a pastry chef here too. I’m sure you’ll meet her sooner or later if you’re in town for a while.” She turns back to me. “I hear you have a house to sell?”

That gives me a weird pang. “Yes.”

“Good luck with that. Nice to meet you both.” She waves and heads back to the kitchen.

She’s sweet, like Ford. His parents must be good people.

“Here are the tomatoes.” Ford claps Liam on the shoulder. “What’s with the face?”

“I don’t like tomatoes,” Liam says, eyeing our two appetizer plates with trepidation. “I had a childhood incident with tomatoes.”

Ford laughs. “That sounds like a story for never.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and frowns when he reads whatever is on the screen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He hesitates, then he asks, “Has anyone from the FBI contacted you asking questions about Brad?”

I set my martini glass down so hard vodka splashes over the rim onto my hand. Liam hands me a napkin as I sputter, “What? No. Why? Are they contacting you?”

Brad is not someone I want to actually think about. All week I’ve assumed he’s sitting on a beach somewhere doing yoga and feeling intense relief that he didn’t marry me. A feeling I share.

The FBI and Brad are not two things I would put together in one sentence. I don’t even know what to think about that.

“Yes. This is the second message. This one sounds more urgent. They don’t give any details. They just ask me to call them back.”

“You probably should,” Liam says, edging the tomatoes away from him and pulling the bisque back in front. “Ivy, are you sure they haven’t reached out to you?”

“I think so.” But I’ve also been studiously avoiding my phone for huge chunks of time, not wanting to deal with the flurry of texts and social media messages asking if I’m okay after being jilted on the day of my wedding.

Not just because it’s embarrassing to have been publicly dumped, but because how do I adequately explain to everyone that I’m more than fine? That I’m actually quite fucking awesome, thank you very much, in love with two guys, and getting well fucked by three?

That won’t go over well in a text to literally anyone I know except Patrice.

So I’ve been avoiding. And if I get one more inspirational quote from my mother, I might toss my phone into the Atlantic.

Digging it out of my purse, my frown immediately matches Ford’s. “Oh wait, I have a voicemail.” I open it to read it as a text and yep, it’s the FBI. “Why the hell is the FBI asking about Brad?”

“That’s what I would really like to know. I’ll return the call tomorrow.” He tucks his phone away. “Liam, if I give you first dibs on eating Ivy’s pussy, will you try the tomatoes?”

I don’t even blush. I love having them talk about me like this.

Liam scoffs. “You act like I wasn’t going to have her pussy first, anyway.”

“We’ll just have to see who gets there first.” Then Ford runs a hand over my knee and, ever-so-slightly and very briefly, brushes his fingers between my thighs.

I gasp.

But then he’s gone with a wave. “Make sure you feed each other the oysters. Give me and Harrison a real show.”

Forgetting all about Brad, I shiver. “Ooh, I love that idea.”