Chapter 10
10
We start to descend into Southampton, giving us a better view of the grand houses surrounded by lawns so manicured, checkerboard patterns have been mowed into the neon-green grass. The wide strip of sugar-sand beach and the blue water just adds to the perfection. Who lives like this?
The scene is surreal and hyper-fantastic, like something out of a fairytale instead of real life.
Alexander doesn’t seem interested in the view. I guess he’s used to it. He’s watching me, as he’s been doing the entire trip, and a smile almost touches his lips, like he’s amused by my wide-eyed awe.
“It’s been way too long since I left the city.” I try not to stare at the little dimple that appears then disappears on his cheek. The man even has a dimple. Billionaires shouldn’t have dimples. Especially not sexy, built ones with wide shoulders and muscular arms that look like they’re testing the limits of Armani’s stitching capabilities.
It’s unfair that every single detail of him is somehow ideal. It’s easier to take in one thing at a time. The combination of all of it—the handsome face, the thick hair, the big, outrageous body—is dazzling me. It’s like staring at the sun.
“Have you traveled much?” His low, husky drawl makes me aware of a warm, light pulse in…an incredibly intimate place. Yikes.
“I’ve been to New Jersey a few times. Philadelphia. And once to Virginia.” To perform, but I don’t mention that part. “Other than that, I’ve lived most of my life within a two mile radius.”
I’ve had plenty of invitations, from all over the country. Austin. L.A. Seattle. Even London. But of course I’ve always been worried about leaving Josh for too long. I figured I’d get a chance to travel later.
Now, it feels both exciting and daunting that my life is about to change so dramatically.
In fact, it already has changed. It’s changing right now. I’m on the arm of a hot billionaire, ready to take the Hamptons by storm. Okay, maybe not by storm, but a small corner of me is excited by the newness of this weekend’s adventure.
And my personal fake-date-for-the-weekend matches the fairytale. He’s ridiculously beautiful and not at all what I was expecting.
He’s definitely grumpy, as Cleo promised, but it’s more of a hardened cynicism than actual meanness. Like he’s lived his entire life being thrown into the deep end of corporate hell and has no time to be anything but laser-focused. Which I guess comes with the territory of running your family’s four-generation multi-billion dollar empire.
“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” His question catches me off-guard. It’s genuine. It feels weirdly personal.
And it’s easy to answer. “Tahiti or Bora Bora or one of those places where they have those little huts that sit above the water and it’s so blue and clear it doesn’t look real. The hut has a glass floor so you can see the colorful tropical fish swimming around underneath. There’s a deck off the front of the hut and you can dive straight into the turquoise ocean that’s as warm as the air. I have a picture of one of those huts on my screensaver. I think about it all the time.”
He smiles at my description. A real smile—and wow. He reminds me of one of those mythical gods that flies down from Mount Olympus every now and then to mix with us mere mortals. “I’ll see if I can get us a couple of tickets.”
“Maybe for our next fake date,” I joke.
His five o’clock shadow seems to have darkened. His mouth is full and masculine and lightly sneering. His dark hair has that barely-there wave to it and makes me wonder what it might feel like to run my fingers through it.
He might let me, is what I’m thinking—as part of the show we’re putting on. The man is practically dripping with sex appeal.
But this is purely a business arrangement, of course. I try to ignore the fact that his closeness is having a physical effect on me. My body feels warm and flushed and reckless in a way that’s new to me.
We land on a huge stretch of immaculate lawn that’s a short distance away from a cluster of large saltbox buildings. Clearly the wedding venue.
It’s just beginning to get dark now.
The pilot jumps out and comes around to open the door for us.
“Are you ready?” Alexander asks me.
This is it. Show time. “How do you want to do this?” I ask him. “Should I…hold your hand?”
Those little crinkles around the edges of his eyes as he smiles are unfairly…endearing. “How about I hold yours. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of you.”
It’s a heavier offer than I was expecting and it touches some deeply-rooted emotion in me that I can’t name. No one’s ever said those words to me before. Not once.
He unfastens my seat belt and helps me climb down from the helicopter. Alexander’s hand, as he takes mine, is warm, his grip sure and strong.
I’m a little nervous, but I’m used to being stared at. I’ve spent a lot of time on stages and I live my life in the public eye.
Still, this is different. This role is new. I’m fending off Alexander Maddox’s rabid admirers, and one in particular. I’m the enemy in this situation. Or at the very least, the rival.
I psyche myself up for the performance I’m about to give. Whenever I’m about to go on stage, I visualize a glowing orb of power inside my chest that radiates warm stars of energy that charm everyone they touch. It sounds crazy when I describe it, but it works. An old jazz pianist who I happened to meet the night I had my debut solo performance at a little venue in the West Village called Eva’s gave me that advice. His name was Rocky and he told me it’s what he always does when he plays; he pictures every musical note he’s playing as “a firefly of magical resonance that charms everyone who hears it.” I loved that. The words stuck with me and I’ve used Rocky’s method ever since.
So I do it now.
Alexander squeezes my hand, glancing down at me from his six-foot-whatever, and his expression is sort of beguiled, like he can feel my little fireflies. “I’ve got you,” he says.
And there he goes again with these intense little promises that are basically the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.
I’ve got you?
No one’s ever had me. Not really. Not my mother, who handled her imploding marriage, her bitter divorce, her sudden and very solo parenting gig and her illness as well as it could all be handled. But she was understandably overwhelmed. Distracted. Heart-broken. And because of all of that, profoundly disengaged from having my back. It became too much to ask and so I never expected it.
Not my father, of course.
Not my brother, who always saw me as a guide, a provider but also as an annoyance, at least some of the time, cramping his style, like a typical teenager does.
So the words hit me harder than maybe they should. Tiny pieces of my soul react to them like parched earth that’s just received its first drop of rain. I want to drink them in.
I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.
Not only is my soul reacting to Alexander Maddox in a way I can’t quite control, so is my body. It’s an intimate thing, holding hands. His grip is firm and sure. The contact causes my heart to beat faster. I’m aware, again, of a pulsing warmth between my legs. A light, tingling ache and a low excitement that’s needy and slippery and restless.
Wow.
Fairy lights and lanterns are everywhere, and carefully-placed spotlights illuminate statues and trees around the expansive lawn area. Under a grapevine-laden pergola, tables have been set, decorated with flowers and dozens of candles. There’s a stage, where instruments and a sound system have already been set up and a lone harp player is playing Mozart.
There’s a dance floor. A stonework path leads toward an arch, covered in roses, looking out over the beach. Rows of chairs have been set up for tomorrow’s ceremony.
The hotel is stately and picturesque, Cape Cod-style but with white columns and a modern, luxury flair.
Clearly no expense has been spared. Every single detail screams this cost a boatload of money!
We walk toward the small crowd of people who are all watching us approach.
A gorgeous blonde woman in a light green dress comes running over to us on sky-high heels. She’s followed closely by a good-looking man dressed in an outfit that could be straight out of a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue.
“You made it!” the woman exclaims. “And you’re only half an hour late! Just joking.”
“My fault,” I confess. “I’m so sorry.”
“Leah,” says Alexander, “meet Ivy. Ivy, this is Leah, the blushing bride. And Blake, her lucky groom.”
Blake shakes Alexander’s hand and pats him on the back. “Ivy, it’s a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you both.”
Leah glances at our hands, noticing how Alexander’s is still tightly clasped around mine. “Blake and I have been dying to know who this mystery date is! Anyone who can make Alexander late for anything must mean it’s serious,” she laughs. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
She seems nice, and I internally breathe a sigh of relief. But then she gasps. “Wait a minute. You’re Ivy Laine!”
Shit. “Um…yes.”
Alexander catches my eye.
Damn it, my cover is already blown.
“What? Oh my god! Alexander, you never told me you’re dating Ivy Laine!”
“So it would seem,” Alexander murmurs.
Leah is overcome. “I am such a huge fan. I’ve been listening to your newest album on repeat for months.”
“Can confirm,” says Blake.
“I absolutely love your music,” Leah gushes. “That song called Dreaming of You, oh my god, it just hits me where I live every single time. You’re so talented.”
“Thank you so much.” It’s always nice to hear.
Alexander is watching me slyly. I should have known this would happen. It’s getting harder for me to go out in public without someone recognizing me.
Leah chides him. “Alexander, I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you’re dating Ivy Laine! How did you two meet? How long have you been dating?”
I answer without missing a beat. “We met at a party in the Sky Bar at Invested Enterprises. My best friend Cleo works there and Alexander’s brothers, of course, own the company. We started talking and we just sort of clicked. I guess it was around two months ago, wasn’t it, honey?”
His eyes are blue with intensity. “Yes, sweetie, it’s been exactly two months.”
“Alexander, you sly dog, keeping this from me for two whole months!”
“I knew you’d demand to come over and meet her,” Alexander replies smoothly. “And we’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?” asks another woman sharply, who’s just joined our circle.
I guess immediately that she’s the infamous ex. She has a dark brown bob and she’s wearing statement tortoise-shell glasses. She’s slim, with impeccable posture. She’s carrying an iPad and is dressed in a beige linen jumpsuit with a beige belt and beige shoes. Her look is very…beige. She’s beautiful, in a severe, in-control, one-too-many-fillers, Hamptons kind of way, but my first impression is that she’s just...completely wrong for him.
Alexander immediately tenses. His expression changes, to the grouchy glower I recognize from the photo I saw online of the two of them. He’s suddenly morphed into the the grumpy workaholic Cleo described, and I find myself missing…him. The softer, playful version of his personality that shone through when we were alone together.
“This must be the highly-anticipated plus one,” the woman says, her voice full of authority and self-importance, but with an edge. There’s a longing behind her expression that’s hard to miss. It’s easy to see she’s still pining for Alexander.
“Margot, this is Ivy J—Laine,” Alexander quickly corrects himself. “Ivy, meet Margot Russo, the wedding planner.”
Margot scowls at the job title, like she would have preferred being introduced as The One That Got Away.
All the humor in him is suddenly, completely gone and I remember what Cleo told me, about how Alexander’s brothers were discussing how miserable he’s been lately. It was one of the reasons I agreed to do this fake date in the first place.
Margot’s checking out my outfit, my hair, the fit of my dress. My tattoos. I’m here to play a role and this is my moment. But I also want to ease the obvious tension that’s now radiating off Alexander. I slide my arm around his waist under his jacket, like it’s second nature. His body is unbelievably hard and so warm I instinctively lean in. “Alexander was telling me how in-demand you are. And how you’re the most sought-after wedding planner in New York.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t expecting me to compliment her. She watches as Alexander wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer, playing his role perfectly.
God, he smells good. That woodsmoke and whiskey spice. So incredibly masculine.
Leah is still beaming. “Margot, are you familiar with Ivy’s music? She’s amazing. She writes all her own songs and has literally millions of followers.” Leah pauses. “I mean, only if you’d agree to it of course, Ivy, but maybe you’d consider…singing a song at our wedding? Can you imagine, Blake?” She places a hand on my arm. “But no pressure. You’re here to enjoy a weekend away. I would only want you to do it if you wanted to. But we would be so honored.”
Margot looks highly pissed off by the suggestion. “The wedding is already planned, down to the minute. I’m afraid it would be too difficult to try to squeeze that in, especially since it’s so last minute.”
Leah’s persistent. “How about tonight then? At our rehearsal dinner?”
Blake smiles at his fiancée. “Honey, I’m sure Ivy would prefer to just enjoy the evening as our guest.”
“Of course she would,” Margot agrees.
Leah bites her lip, blinking expensively-enhanced eyelashes. “Maybe…one song?”
I glance at their faces, all of which have very different expressions. “I mean…I wouldn’t mind at all, but only if you’re sure it wouldn’t disrupt the schedule.”
“Really?” Leah clasps her hands together gleefully. “Oh my god, are you kidding? You definitely would not be disrupting the schedule. When do you want to do it? Like…now? Can you sing Dreaming of You?”
Blake chuckles. “Leah, honey, Ivy just got here. Let’s give her and Alexander a chance to get a drink and find their table. Are you sure you don’t mind, Ivy? Don’t let my almost-wife bulldoze you into it.”
“I’d be happy to do it for such a special occasion.”
“I can’t believe Ivy Laine is at my wedding!” Leah exclaims. “And she’s going to sing! This is unreal. It’s such a good omen, I can feel it.”
Even Margot can’t argue with that. Staging as many good omens as possible is part of a wedding planner’s job description. She begrudgingly types something into her iPad as she watches Alexander’s thumb gently grazing my neck, almost absent-mindedly but in a way that’s surprisingly intimate.
I wasn’t expecting his warmth to be so…comforting. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says. “My girl needs more champagne.”
My girl.
Margot scowls at his endearment, a flicker of real heartbreak behind her eyes. But then she’s temporarily distracted by the caterer, who approaches her with some issue from the kitchen.
More people are arriving, diverting the attention of our hosts, which gives us a chance to escape. A passing waiter offers a tray of champagne flutes and Alexander takes two, handing me one. He leads me over to the area where the tables are set up and we find our seats.
Decorative place cards have our names stenciled into them, and I notice that Leah has seated Alexander next to her. Someone named Ethan has been allocated the seat on my left.
Alexander pulls my chair out for me and we both sit. “Ivy Laine, huh.”
“Guilty as charged,” I admit.
“Cleo didn’t mention the part where you’re a famous musician.”
“I’m not that famous.”
As we take our seats, Alexander takes his phone out of his pocket. “L-A-N-E?”
“L-A-I-N-E. Please don’t google me.”
“Oh I’m googling you, sweetheart.”
But I gently take his phone from his hands and he lets me do this. I put it face-down on the table. “Just ask me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“I already tried that. In the helicopter.”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want it to get in the way.”
“In the way of what?”
“I thought maybe I could fly under the radar for the weekend.”
“No such luck.” He’s doing that thing again where he studies my face sort of raptly. His eyes linger on my mouth. “It would be impossible for you to fly under any radar, Jones.”
I smile at the nickname. “If I didn’t know better, Maddox, I might have mistaken that for a compliment.”
He pulls my chair closer so my knees are in between his. The pendant lights cast a halo over his dark hair and his strong features. His blue eyes burn with that ever-present challenge that seems to have the power to plant a tiny pulse inside me. I can feel my heartbeat between my legs and my panties feel…wet.
Help.
The harp player bows to some light applause as she leaves the stage.
“I hope you don’t mind that they want me to sing,” I say. “It wasn’t really part of our…deal.”
He’s relaxed now, still holding my hand. His thumb lightly caresses my palm. “Clearly it would break Leah’s heart if you refused. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“It’s fine.”
Margot is hovering near three members of a band, who are preparing to take the stage. She points in the general direction of where Alexander and I are sitting, her eagle-eyed gaze lingering. On how close we’re sitting. On the way Alexander is holding my hand.
So I do what I’m being paid to do. And I find myself…not hating the thought of it. I mean, this isn’t difficult. The grumpy billionaire is turning out to be more than a little irresistible. I’ve been quietly wondering what that thick black hair would feel like between my fingers since the minute I saw him.
“Cleo told me to…play with your hair,” I murmur, almost breathless with the heady cocktail of his man-scent, his warmth and the anticipation of what I’m about to do.
“She did, did she?”
“Do you want me to?” I’m pretty sure he’s okay with it. Not only because he paid me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to do exactly that, but also because his eyes are glowing like blue embers, with a danger-edged challenge behind them.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Watching his eyes, I lean closer and I slowly, carefully smooth back an unruly lock of it.
He smells like warm sun and late nights. Like whiskey and smoke on a fall afternoon, Upstate. Not that I know what an Upstate fall afternoon actually smells like, but I can imagine it. Laughter on a crisp sunny day with low golden sun and the reds and oranges of the falling leaves. I crave him with a deeply romantic side of myself I’m just beginning to discover. It’s a part of myself I’ve never really had a chance to indulge. I let my fingers weave into the course silk. “She’s watching,” I whisper.
“I don’t care what she’s doing. I only care about what you’re doing.”
He doesn’t like the mention of her, I can see this. And I suddenly feel the desire to free him from whatever grasp she feels she has on him. “Do you want me to…”
“To...?”
“To kiss you?”
His dark amusement makes him look even more handsome, if that’s possible. I can feel the heat rise to my face. He pulls me onto his lap, his burly arms supporting me. “Make it good, Jones.”
God. The huge ridge of him underneath me is rock-hard. He’s…holy shit…is that his…?
I can practically hear Cleo’s voice through the airwaves. Of course it is, girl! What else would it be?
He’s…freaking…huge. I mean, I’ve never sat on a man’s lap before. Not once. I didn’t have a father or uncles and both my mother and my aunt had been so badly burned by men, they completely gave up on trying to find someone who wouldn’t smash their hearts once again into smithereens. Of course I have friends and acquaintances and fans, but I’ve been distracted by work and by Josh. I’ve also been wary, because of my trust issues. I really haven’t had a lot of time for…exploration. Right now I’m learning more about the anatomy of a fully adult and very virile male body in the prime of its life than I ever have.
I’m also learning what a fully adult and very virile male body in the prime of its life does when it’s pressed up against an incredibly intimate part of me in all its gigantic, rock-hard glory.
It cranks a mild curiosity and a half-baked craving into something else altogether. A wild need courses through my veins in hot pulses. The silk of my dress is very fine and my panties are nothing more than a shred of barely-there lace. I can feel every ridge of him as the throbbing heat of his massive hard-on presses against my pussy, which feels soft and slippery, cradling the huge, rigid shape of him invitingly.
Holy shit.
Not only that, but a warm, sweet ache centers in my clit, making me squirm against him.
Oh my god.
If I kept doing that, if I kept squirming just like that, I think I could...I know I could…come. Something I’ve never, ever done before. The elusive orgasm, which all of humanity is having thousands of, if the internet has any truth to it, every chance they get. Except for little old me, who’s been my brother’s caretaker for as long as I can remember—and if you want to know if sharing a bedroom with your baby brother when you’re going through puberty, or how living in the same apartment with him as he’s going through puberty might dampen your sex drive, I can tell you it really does. Because I know all about it.
And right now, I’m much, much more turned on than I’ve ever been. I so badly want to…get there. I want to feel, so desperately.
“How many times has Ivy Laine been kissed?” comes the low growl, like he can guess that I’m inexperienced.
I don’t know why I feel compelled to be honest with him. “Twice,” I admit. “Once in middle school and once at a party in high school. I can’t remember either of their names.”
“Seriously?” A half-incredulous, half-sincere smile touches his lips. “Middle school counts for half of your kisses?”
“I know. It’s a little sad but it is what it is. I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“You really want my life story right now? I’m supposed to be kissing you.”
The humor in him is back, inked with heat. “You can tell me all about it when we’re watching the movie.”
“Movie?”
“The rom-com.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
“I guess it’s going to be a serious case of third time lucky for Ivy Laine, then.”
I stare into his midnight-dark eyes as his head barely tilts. “You think so?”
“I know so.” His voice is dark. Commanding. His CEO’s voice. “Do it.”
A newly-discovered piece of me—the one I discovered as soon as I sat down onto his massive erection—wants to obey him. It wants to please him and turn him on. It wants to drive him crazy with lust.
Girl, who are you?
Most of all it wants to taste his sneering, perfect mouth.
So I place my hand gently on his square jaw, letting my fingers explore. It’s rough with his stubble. The scratchy, swarthy textures of a man are so foreign to me, it’s almost daunting. But my new craving has a restless edge. I lean closer and I slowly, slowly brush my lips against his.
Alexander goes very still, letting me softly kiss his mouth. But the ridge underneath me rears up, hardening even more, pressing more strongly against my clit.
Oh my god, that feels good.
He makes a low, savage sound and it’s basically the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard in my life. I go shamelessly wet, my practically nonexistent panties clinging to my pussy, making the writhing squirm of my body feel so good I think I’m…god, I’m so close.
Alexander grips my hip in one hand and my jaw in the other, holding me in place. And he kisses me back.
He tastes like champagne and mint and something darker—something almost unbearably appealing. His hand moves, wrapping around my hair, pulling me closer until my breasts are pressed against his broad chest and I’m pliant against him.
His mouth opens mine, and as soon as he gains entry, his tongue slides into my mouth, tangling with mine, sending warm currents of warmth directly to my softening pussy. He tastes so freaking good. Wanting more, I gently suck on his tongue, which makes him groan.
Oh my god.
This is supposed to be a performance. It’s not even close to that. The need in me to get closer to him feels greedy and primal. He tastes like lust. He tastes like dreams coming true.
Both my hands are in his hair now and I hold soft fistfuls of it as his tongue thrusts and his kiss deepens.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise for you this evening,” a strident voice comes through the microphone, jarring me a little. Margot, of course. “Turns out we have a superstar amongst us who has generously agreed to perform a song for us this evening. Please find your seats. Ivy Laine, please come to the stage now.”
We break the kiss slowly, like we’re drugged from each other’s effect. His eyes are an unholy blue, his black hair ruffled now from my hands. I gently smooth it a little.
The timing isn’t ideal. I’m flushed. I’m wet. I’m crazily turned on.
There’s the low commotion of people murmuring. They all turn to look at me.
Alexander reluctantly lets me go. I climb off of his lap, doing my best to inconspicuously smooth my dress. “I-I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Gruffly. Like he’s pissed off now that I agreed to Leah’s request.
I make my way up to the stage. One of the guys in the band hands me an acoustic guitar. “I’m a fan,” he grins.
“Thank you.”
I sling the guitar across my body, grateful for the small shield it provides, and I make a point of visualizing my inner glow. Rocky’s rock-solid advice that never fails me. It’s easy to do tonight, like it’s tuning into another glow. The new one, that’s hot and wet and just discovered what it feels like to almost come from a single kiss.
I send a few imaginary fireflies into the crowd. I send the brightest one to Alexander, who’s watching from his seat.
The other people at our table are taking their seats now and he shakes someone’s hand but doesn’t get up.
I strum a few chords. And I start to sing.