Chapter 9
9
Twenty minutes earlier…
Fucking wonderful.
I should have known this would happen. The girl who won’t give her last name—if Ivy is even her real first name—and who’s already pocketed my quarter of a mil is now a no-show.
I’m not worried about the fucking money. As annoying as Cleo may be, she does happen to be one of the most reliable people Noah has ever hired, according to him. Which means she can reliably make sure the money is returned. She can keep the money for all I care.
Of course it’s better this way.
It would never have worked. Staging being in love with someone would be impossible, now that I think about it. It was a monumentally terrible idea.
It’s 5:12.
I don’t wait for people. Ever. Especially Gen Z airheads who don’t know how to stick to a goddamn timetable.
Taking my phone out of my pocket, I bring up her photo once more, getting ready to delete it.
I’ll admit I’ve spent some time looking at it. Because it’s a good photo. She looks sort of…dreamy. Her eyes are inky, her expression calm and somehow wise beyond her years.
Would you listen to yourself?
Something about the photo makes me feel a fraction less cynical about life in general. Which is unusual for me. The girl is stunningly, painfully beautiful.
It’s probably just one of those filters people use. No doubt that’s some app-developer’s intention: to make you practically fall in love with people, just because they look so fucking perfect.
Not people. Just her.
Whatever.
I knock on the window, signaling to the pilot. I’m not waiting any longer.
I’ll just have to cowboy the fuck up and tell Margot she can fuck off. Again.
What the hell was I even thinking? Noah and Cleo of all people somehow managed to talk me into something I would never usually consider.
All because of this photograph. Which is probably A.I.-generated anyway.
Still, I still can’t quite bring myself to delete it.
Damn it.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and take one more look at my watch.
5:16.
The helicopter blades start to slowly spin and I’m about to open the door and climb in when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye.
The doorman has opened the door that leads to the main elevator. He’s wheeling a small bag and he holds the door open.
The girl steps through it.
Well, look who finally decided to show up.
But my annoyance fades out almost immediately as I watch her walk toward me.
Holy hell.
I might have expected cute…but not this.
Okay, so it wasn’t an A.I.-generated photograph.
In fact the photo doesn’t even come close to capturing how stunning the girl actually is.
She’s cute as fuck but also sexy in a way she doesn’t even seem to be aware of.
She’s wearing a little pink dress that barely covers the tops of her thighs. It’s low-cut but not scandalously so. The lacy top part of it looks like it has one of those built-in wonder bras because her tits—holy fuck—are just…unreal. Very faintly, I can see the outline of her nipples, which are high and so fucking sweet, my cock, which is not at all happy about my extended dry spell, thickens hotly.
Her long hair is dark but has highlights of reddish-blond at the ends. It lifts gently in the breeze that’s being kicked up by the helicopter, like she’s a supermodel on the catwalk. Her bare legs are lightly tanned, like the rest of her. Her skin is golden, glittery and so flawless it makes my chest weirdly ache. She’s wearing high-heeled sandals and her toenails are painted pink.
Jesus.
And her face.
Holy hell, her face.
She’s devastatingly, jaw-droppingly beautiful. And there’s more to it than that. Like the photograph, she has this sassy but at the same time soulful look on her face. Her expression is somehow both kind and determined. It’s hard to describe, but something about the directness of her gaze slays me.
Okay, so she’s not an airhead.
She’s an absolute knock-out is what she is.
She stands in front of me and it takes me a second to snap out of the trance I seem to be mired in. Against all odds, I’m momentarily starstruck by her blinding, over-the-top beauty.
Get it together, Maddox. What the fuck.
I hold out my hand. “You must be Ivy.”
It’s a few seconds before she offers me her hand, like she still isn’t entirely sure she’ll go through with this. When she finally does, I take it carefully. She’s so small, her skin cool and as soft as silk.
“Alexander Maddox.”
“Nice to meet you, Alexander. I’m sorry I’m late.” Her voice is angelic. It’s sweet and soft, with the lightest smoky husk to it. I can’t help but notice there’s an innocence to her, but one that’s seen the harder edges of life. I might be losing my mind, but her voice is the most alluring sound I’ve ever fucking heard in my life. It makes me want to protect her—savagely, like a knuckle-dragging caveman—and it also makes me wonder if she’s got a good singing voice. I bet she does.
Are you losing your marbles, asshole?
It’s the sassy little attitude that’s getting me hotter than anything else. She’s not intimidated by me in the slightest—or she’s masking it very well.
Most people I meet are intimidated by me. I’m big, I’m powerful, I’m bad-tempered and I’m rich as fuck. More often than not, people are daunted by the combination.
But not this one. She’s feisty. Self-assured. Not remorseful in the least about keeping me waiting.
Her insolence is politely delivered, even if she chooses to call me by my first name, which hardly anyone I see on a daily basis does. Because I’m the boss. Her attitude makes me suddenly feel downright depraved. I have the raging urge to bring it down a notch in the most primal way imaginable. By stuffing my big cock between those ridiculously luscious lips. By making her moan until she fucking begs.
Okay, I really am losing it.
“I’ll forgive you.” But I want to rile her. To get a reaction. To ruffle that calm facade. “Once,” I add.
Her gaze lingers on mine. She bites her bottom lip gently and I watch her girlish white teeth barely sink into it. My cock hardens even more. Damn it.
She’s so damn beautiful.
Her eyes are amber-colored, framed by long, sweeping lashes. Warmth colors her cheeks but she doesn’t look away.
Good girl.
The wind is starting to pick up. I don’t want her to get too windblown. She’s too perfect for that. “Are you ready?” I open the door of the helicopter.
“Yes,” she says, and we both hold each other’s gaze, locked in a mutual fascination.
I help her climb in, fastening her seatbelt before taking my own seat.
Cleo deserves a goddamn promotion.
The pilot gets out to check that the doors are securely locked before climbing back in. Immediately the noise level drops. The Maddox helicopter was one of the last things my father bought before he died and it’s a no-expenses-spared piece of machinery. There are eight roomy seats and two tables in what looks like a swanky, upmarket lounge. A bottle of champagne has already been popped and sits in a refrigerated, see-through chiller.
I pour two glasses and hand her one. She takes it, and her fingers graze mine, causing those light flags of pink to warm her cheeks again.
“This wedding might be easier to deal with when inebriated rather than stone cold sober,” I warn her. Although—and the thought is an unfamiliar one—I suddenly find myself almost looking forward to the weekend.
“Whose wedding is it?” She takes a sip.
It’s impossible not to notice the contours of her body in that dress. The way the silk glides against her sweet, lush curves. I make a point of not staring but it takes effort. Her beauty is clean-looking, like she’s glowing from within with freshness and health. She’s absolutely gorgeous. “A friend from Harvard Business School. His name is Blake Anderson. His fiancee’s name is Leah Preston. I’ve known both of them for years. Blake asked me to be his best man.”
“Cleo said your ex is the wedding planner.” Her amber eyes are earnest. There’s no awkwardness in the mention of my “ex,” but it annoys me—not that Ivy has asked, but that she’s going to have to put up with Margot Russo for two entire days. I have the sudden urge to protect this exquisite girl from the hurricane of melodrama that always surrounds Margot.
“Yes. I’d hardly even call her my ex though.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to clarify this, but I do. “We dated for a short time and it was…well, it was a living hell, if you really want to know.”
She’s watching me, like she’s not sure if she believes me or not, or why I would be telling her that.
“I’m not sure how I let Noah and Cleo talk me into this,” I admit. “But thank you for being here. I’m going to apologize in advance for the scrutiny you’ll be under. People are going to be curious about the date I’m bringing.”
“It’s fine. I’ll put on a good show. That’s what you’re paying me for, right? And thank you, by the way. It’s very generous. I promise I’ll be worth the money.”
She’s already worth the money. And there’s an unrecognizable corner of me that wishes this wasn’t about money.
Ivy tucks a strand of her hair behind one ear and I notice the sprinkling of tiny tattoos on her arms. There’s the musical note on her wrist, the one I noticed in the photo. One of a feather on the delicate skin of her inner arm. A dragonfly. And, further up, a tiny dove.
She’ll definitely get attention in the Hamptons, for many reasons, including her Bohemian, artistic style. Most of the people who will be attending this wedding all have the same personal shoppers, or might as well, who source their clothing from some overpriced store that only stocks linen.
And she’s young. Really fucking young. Cleo mentioned she’s 23 but she looks younger. Cleo also mentioned she’s “talented” and I’m curious. “What’s the significance of the musical note? Are you a musician?”
She blinks those long lashes at me, clearly hesitant about giving me too much information. “Good guess.”
I don’t want to find out more about her just because I’m paying her to be my fake date. I genuinely want to know. “What kind of musician?”
“I’m a singer and a songwriter.”
“Anything I would have heard?”
“I guess it depends on what kind of stuff you listen to. We should probably get our stories straight, if we’re going to be convincing.” Her abrupt change of the subject almost makes me smile. Not a lot of people surprise me. She’s not at all what I was expecting. “People might ask us how we met. How long we’ve been dating. What would you like me to say?”
It’s a good point. “How about we say we met at a party at Invested Enterprises. At the Sky Bar, on their top floor. Have you been to their offices with Cleo?”
“Yes, once.”
“Let’s say…two months ago.”
“Okay.” There’s a shyness to her, but one she’s practiced at overcoming. Something gives me the feeling she’s used to performing and I find myself not just wanting to know more about this detail of her, but every detail of her. I know for a fact I’ve never been more beguiled by a woman in my life.
“You should probably tell me your last name,” I suggest, “so I can introduce you to people. Or you can make one up if you prefer.”
She fixes me with those eyes the color of cognac that’s been warmed to the perfect temperature. “Jones,” she finally says.
“Jones?”
“Yes.”
I almost laugh and it’s an unfamiliar feeling. “You can’t do any better than Jones? Really?”
She laughs lightly, against her will. And if I thought she was pretty with the sassy pout and the I-can-do-this determination to make light of what’s bound to be an awkward situation—us—her smile and her angelic little burst of laughter literally tilts my world off its fucking axis. I don’t know why. Okay, I do know why. Because she’s the most enchanting, beautiful creature I have ever, ever seen.
“Okay,” she admits. “It’s not Jones but I’d prefer to keep a degree of separation, if you don’t mind.”
“Up to you,” I adjust my jacket to—hopefully—disguise the fact that my cock is really fucking hard at this point. And I do mind. “I’d rather you found me to be trustworthy with information like that, but I like a challenge. I’ll just have to try to convince you I’m not a stalker or the devil by Sunday afternoon.”
Another coy smile and it hits me somewhere in the middle of my chest. Her mouth is so damn perfect. Her lips are pink and plump and lightly shiny. The whole effect is doing things to me that are new. I can feel my fascination digging deeper in a way I can’t control. Which is fucked up. I control everything in my life.
She twirls a coiled strand of her long hair around a finger. The sassy attitude is back.
Which makes my cock throb. “It might make the act more believable if I can answer questions when people ask. And they will.”
She relents, but barely. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me.”
“I just turned twenty-three. I live in Soho. I have one brother who’s almost eighteen. I’m a musician and an influencer.”
“An influencer?”
“Yes.”
“I know what it means, but I’ve never really thought about what someone who ‘influences’ actually does.”
“I create content. And advertise products on my clients’ behalf through my platform, mainly on Instagram and TikTok.”
“And they pay you to do that.”
“Yes.”
“To be honest, I’ve never actually looked at Instagram or TikTok,” I admit.
She smiles and shakes her head a little, like she finds this unbelievable, and maybe it is. I read somewhere that American teenagers spend an average of five hours a day looking at social media. “I figured that. I googled you. I know you don’t do social media. But it can be very lucrative. So I try to make the most of it.”
I top up her glass, then my own. “It’s hardly fair that you googled me but I can’t google Ivy Jones.”
She giggles and takes another sip of her drink, but dismisses my complaint. “What else do you want to know?”
“What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
She thinks about this for a few seconds. “That’s way too hard.”
“Name one.”
She gets that dreamy look again and this downright fucking charms me—and I can’t ever remember being charmed—because it’s a look I recognize, from the photo, and it makes me feel like I know her, even though we’ve only just met. “I like the classic rom-coms. You know, the ones you can watch over and over and they never get old because by the end, you always feel good that they got their happy ever after that was meant to be all along.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a movie like that. “Like what?”
“You know, like Sweet Home Alabama, Sleepless in Seattle, The Holiday. They’re fantasies, but they make me feel…I don’t know…hopeful.”
“Hopeful?” My question almost makes it sound like the word is foreign to me. Come to think of it, it basically is.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to watch them sometime.”
“You’ve never seen them?”
“No.”
“Any of them?”
“No.”
She’s shocked by this. “What kind of movies do you watch?”
“I don’t know. Mainly war movies. Occasionally the movies of premiers I get invited to or the ones made by the studios I own a share of. I don’t really have a lot of time to watch movies.”
Her mouth quirks empathetically. “Well, that’s too bad. Escapism can be good for the soul.”
“Really?”
My question is funny to her. “Yes. Sometimes unplugging from the harshness of reality for a few hours and just having a little bit of mindless fun can be healthy.”
“As I said, I don’t really have time.”
She bites her lip again and—goddamn it, her mouth. “You don’t have time to be happy?”
I consider the question. “No. Not usually.”
A little huff of laughter escapes her. “No wonder you’re grumpy,” she teases, but she follows it up quickly. “That’s what they told me, that you’re grumpy. But I get it. I didn’t used to have time either. But it helps. I’ll show you if we have time. Maybe we could watch a movie together, since we’ve got the whole weekend. You can tell me what you think.”
“Okay,” I’m surprised to hear myself saying. I can hardly get offended that Cleo thinks I’m grumpy. I am grumpy, especially around Cleo. And I want nothing more in this moment than to be given lessons in escapism by this gorgeous, fresh-faced little nymphette.
It feels connective, that we’ve made this plan together. That we have this thing we’re going to do together that no one else knows about.
The helicopter starts to descend and the estates of Southampton are dotted around the landscape below us.
I watch Ivy’s face, reflected in the glass and illuminated by the low sun, which hovers at the horizon line, painting the water with an orange glow. She’s taking in the view of the green of the trees and the manicured lawns, the stripe of the beach and the blue water of the Sound.
I’m relieved to have a minute to just stare at her beauty. Her full, pink lips barely parted, her eyes that are light gold in the sunlight.
For the first time in a long time, I allow myself to savor the moment.
The girl is a unicorn. I’ve smiled more in the past forty-five minutes than I have in the past ten years.
She’s here, she’s gorgeous and she’s mine for the entire weekend.
It takes me a few seconds to identify the emotion I’m feeling.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt it.
Too long, is what I’m realizing.
I feel hot and spellbound and fully alive, but most of all what I fucking feel is happiness.