CHAPTER THREE
IVY
T he sane part of me—the part that isn’t drooling over the self-professed dangerous man who does some sort of undisclosed work with seedy, lost, or deranged people—is screaming that while this could be an enjoyable evening, considering marriage at this early juncture is absolutely absurd.
Considering a relationship with Wells would probably be ill-advised.
But also so fucking hot.
Which is where the other part of me is parking.
The part that recognizes he’s always one step ahead and is challenged and ignited by it.
The part that feels enraged and twisted in knots because he knew the bar manager, wondering the nature of their relationship.
The part that feels more alive than ever, simply by being in his mysterious, electrifying, dominating presence.
It’s as though something inside me is begging to be unlocked and Wells holds the key.
None of that is quite rational though, so I’m following him to his home and panicking. It’s not like we’re getting married tonight. Now, that would be ridiculous.
Seven days from now, as he suggested? Still so fucking ridiculous.
Just because I alluded to being on board doesn’t mean I’m bound to him.
No vows were exchanged. No contracts signed.
I was clear that I needed more to make this decision.
It’s not like he’s in my head, knowing how I think, or aware of how my body seems to be reacting to him.
As far as he knows, I could very well tell him this isn’t going to work at the end of the night.
Maybe the bigger problem is that I don’t want to.
And I think he senses that. Being in his presence is an odd mixture of comfort and exhilaration. Like he’s an old friend who understands me, familiar with all the ways to get under my skin and offer a thrill.
I haven’t dated much. There’s never been anyone who captivates me the way I crave.
Someone who can love me, strengthen me, heighten my voice while also being commanding enough to take control and free the darker side of me—the part I keep hidden.
Maybe that’s asking for the impossible. Maybe I’ll end up alone.
If that’s the case, so be it.
I’m not one to settle. If I can’t have the blaze I desire, I’d rather celebrate a life of ashes than fool myself into believing the warmth of an ember is enough.
Not that this is ashes or embers or any type of flame.
It’s not real. It’s a means to an end for us both.
But there’s something about Wells, something he stirs inside me.
I’ve only felt it once before, a very long time ago, in a surreal five-minute fairy-tale moment.
But while the premise of this possible sham marriage may be anything but authentic, Wells is astoundingly real.
I’m fairly certain he would know exactly how to make stealing my innocence the most euphoric, earth-shattering moment of my life, complete with equal measures of commands and praise.
My thoughts are in a continual loop, slipping between berating myself and inwardly squealing. Lost.
A shooting star.
He turns right, leading us down a quiet country road.
Starlit Hills is almost an hour from my home in Royal Oaks, so I’m not familiar with the area.
Before we left, Wells mentioned that he lives with Ty and two other guys.
I’m assuming a bachelor pad awaits. Not sure how that will work with our arrangement .
We pass a beautiful Tudor set up on a hill and what looks to be a farmhouse on the other side.
Then nothing but trees. If it was daylight, it would surely seem peaceful, but in the dark of night, it’s a bit creepy.
We drive a little farther before his turn signal blinks, and we veer into a driveway to the right.
There’s a wrought iron fence that appears to enclose the property.
A gate slowly swings open, permitting us to pass through, and shuts slowly behind me.
He continues down the long drive toward what is decidedly not a bachelor pad.
The lit-up, stone Gothic Revival home comes into view.
It’s stately, regal—two sharp peaks with windows to what appears to be a third story, copper and wood accents, and arched windows and doors.
The estate is sprawling and dressed in climbing vines. Charm and stature in one.
Wells appears at my door, opening it and greeting me with a modicum of pride. It’s … cute. He reaches for my hand. “Ready?”
My stomach flips as I slip my hand into his and allow him to help me out of my car. “This is absolutely majestic.”
“Thank you.” He winks, and that swift flip of my stomach whips into an all-out tempest. “I hope you like it. The property sits on fifty acres, but we’ll have to wait for daylight to explore that.”
Fifty acres. And from what I can see, they’re all treed. The little girl in me wants to jump up and down. It’s like an enchanted castle.
Stuffing down that girlish giddiness, I remember my manners. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
“I texted Ty, so he and Liam are expecting us. Gage is working.”
Working. Doubtful he’s referring to the evening shift at a bar.
My hand still in his, I let him guide me until we reach the back door near the garage—the twelve-car garage. This place is unbelievable, but that makes sense for four men in finance .
Trekking through the mudroom, which has a door to both the driveway and another to what I’m guessing is the garage, we empty into a dreamy kitchen—matte-black center island, topped with tan-and-gold granite; a matching matte-black hood; cherry-wood cabinets; and peaked cherry-wood beams. The floor, a buttery-tan ceramic tile, coordinates with the backsplash.
Even the chandelier, black with teardrop candlelight bulbs, screams medieval inspired.
Gothic chic.
I’ve always loved my home, but my parents were in their forties when they had me, and their style is stuffy.
Rich and showy. This is over-the-top but inviting.
Wells ushers me from room to room on the main floor.
All of them are similarly decorated. I mutter impressed responses to each space, but when we arrive at a two-story library, complete with a balcony on the second level, I’m almost speechless.
“Books,” I heave, running my fingers over some of the pristine, classic spines, and he chuckles as I continue, “are my favorite destination. I mean, I love to paint. We haven’t talked about that, I guess.
But that’s what I went to school for, and art is definitely a passion, especially as a way of processing deeper emotions, but stories are … home. Characters, family.”
His face is still, watching me with a content, pensive expression, like he knew this would be the room I loved most, and he’s pleased he’s right. But that’s probably my imagination spinning fairy tales.
He strolls along after me. “Do you have a favorite?”
As I soak in the endless, elegant bindings lining the two-story black shelves, the question feels like too much to hold.
“It’s impossible to pick only one. There are, of course, beloved classics, like Pride and Prejudice , Jane Eyre , and Gone with the Wind .
But I also cherish newer epic stories like Twilight and Hunger Games .
” I glance up at him, noticing how he’s hanging on every word, engrossed, and my chest tightens with a pinch of hope.
“Most days,” I elaborate, “it’s nice to curl up with an easy rom-com, like The Hating Game, or a dark romance with lots of angst and twists.
I’m a romantic at heart, so that’s what I read most, but any story with something to fight for holds my attention. ”
He points me toward a shelf, plucking a well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby out to show me.
“My favorite classic, although I also love The Scarlet Letter and A Tale of Two Cities . We have all the classics you mentioned, but I’m afraid the rom-coms and dark romance are lacking.
That can be remedied though.” He gestures toward a shelf with books stacked loosely. “There’s plenty of room.”
My throat dries, nervousness seizing me as I realize how hard I’m trying to swallow.
His proposal to add other books—a grand gesture—unfurls something inside me.
Like he’s not only offering a contract, but also a home.
Maybe I shouldn’t read much into it, but the musty coffee-bean scent of ink and paper and his love of great literature have me a little lightheaded.
“That is incredibly thoughtful,” I say, lowering myself into a leather reading chair, the cool, supple material soothing my jittery arms.
His mouth falls open to respond, but before he can, Ty and another guy—Liam, I suppose—appear in the entryway.
Ty crosses toward me, a bright smile illuminating his face. “Ivy, I was so glad to hear you’d be dropping by tonight. It’s good to see you.”
Standing to greet him, I notice Liam hanging back, a devilish smirk on his face, but I don’t let myself dwell on that. “You too, Ty. Your home is incredible.”
“Thank you. That’s primarily Wells though. Especially this.” He waves his hand in a circle. “A fanatic book collector. But Liam and I can take credit for much of the backyard, which is an adventure in itself. Next time, you’ll have to come during the day.”
“An adventure.” My brows knit with curiosity. “You’ve piqued my interest, so next time it is.”
“Next time, she’ll be sticking around,” Wells declares, searing me with a gaze suggesting it’s been decided as his hand glides over my lower back. “For good. Right, Ivy?”
A tingle runs up my spine from his touch, my breaths accelerating and my mind racing to grasp what he said. No grains. Let the sand be sticky, please . Yes. That was it. Sticking around. “It’s under consideration.”