Chapter 5
“Here we are.” The nurse locks the brakes of the wheelchair just as Ivy’s dingy red death mobile comes into view.
She honks three times, then rolls down the window. “Hey there, pookie bear. Are you ready to go home?”
I grit my teeth. I can’t believe this was my solution.
Of all the plans I could’ve come up with, I chose to hand over all my hopes and desires, everything I’d worked my entire life for, to this woman of all people.
I blame the anesthesia for my temporary lapse in judgment and my delusional proposition back there.
It’s too late now. I can either admit that I lied about being in a relationship—which is only made worse, considering everyone already met her—or I can go through with this obscene plan and hope that she can help me sell it as believable … or at the very least not exacerbate things to the point of destruction.
I don’t have the mental energy to consider how badly this could end right now, but I figure what I’ve been doing wasn’t working anyway. Maybe shaking things up and doing the opposite of what I normally do is worth a try.
“Everything okay?” the nurse asks as she looks between me and Ivy, who’s now walking toward me.
“Fine. Just a little groggy still.”
Perhaps I should be more concerned with my own acting.
“What’s wrong, snookums? Do you need help getting in the car?” Ivy offers me a hand, but I swat it away, grunting as I stand.
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Okay, Grandpa, whatever you say,” she says as she runs to the passenger door and opens it, then swipes the parking ticket out from under the windshield wiper and tosses it amid the chaos in her back seat.
I force myself to take a deep breath as I mentally count to ten.
Of course she’s going to push my buttons and take things to the extreme.
I know her type. I am very familiar with her type, and I’d be lying if I said that little spark of brattiness isn’t what piqued my interest in her from the start, but that’s not what this is about right now.
The shadow inside of me doesn’t care about my rules or what’s best for my career. No, the selfish bastard caught a taste of something he liked, and I already know I’m going to be working double time to keep his thirst at bay.
I force myself to remember the pain, playing that tender memory in the back of my mind on repeat, and just like I knew it would, the thoughts fizzle out, and I’m the one who’s back in control.
Good. Now, I just need to keep the reminder front and center. I’m nothing if not an expert at self-torment, so this should be easy enough.
Here’s to hoping anyway.
I clench my jaw as I lower myself into the tight space, my knees painfully pressed into the dash. There is no way this is safe.
She closes her door and puts the car in drive. “All right, where to?”
“Drop me off up here at the bank. I’m going to have my driver pick me up there, and you can follow us.” I pull out my phone to send my location to my driver.
“Now, why would I do that when we’re both going to the same place?” She spins to face me and furrows her brows.
I see disappointment flash across her face, but she quickly masks it with a half smile, and all at once, I feel a heaviness in my chest.
How is it that I’ve hardly known this woman for twenty-four hours and I’m already familiar with her facial expressions?
She needs the money—that much is obvious—and if I were a better man, I’d just give it to her, no strings attached. But I wouldn’t need her help if I wasn’t desperate, and selfishly, I can’t ignore the rush I get from this little power exchange we’ve agreed to. So, I’ll bite my tongue and play along, if only for curiosity’s sake.
I shove my phone in my pocket. “Just forget it. Can you just drive a little safer this time? Use your blinkers and go the speed limit?”
She sucks in a gasp. “You think I’m a bad driver? I was rushing on purpose because I didn’t want you to die, but don’t worry; this time, I promise to obey all traffic laws. I’ll even slow down at yellow lights if you want.”
“It’s not if I want; that’s what you’re supposed to do.” I yank my seat belt across my chest.
She narrows her eyes. “I think it’s more of a situational judgment call.”
“No, it’s not. It’s literally the law?—”
“What’s your address?” she interrupts, swiping open her navigation app.
I suppress the urge to scold her for cutting me off and tell her the address.
I also hold back from commenting on the conditions of her dirty, bug-splattered windshield, clamping my jaw shut and gripping the door handle as she pulls onto the highway.
And to my surprise, she actually uses her blinker before pulling out across two lanes of traffic.
In the short drive from the hospital, I’ve learned a few things about this woman.
The background check I ran on her came back squeaky clean … apart from a few outstanding parking tickets and a small lapse in insurance coverage.
1. She prefers riding with the top down to using the air conditioner—though that might be because her air conditioner doesn’t work. I don’t have enough evidence to support this theory.
2. She can’t listen to an entire song all the way through before switching it, and her playlists are more chaotic than the current state of her back seat … which is really saying a lot.
3. She appears to be fearless—at least behind the wheel of a vehicle, going ten miles over the speed limit, driving like Evel Knievel.
4. She’s only twenty-two.
Yeah, not exactly the best look to be romantically involved with a woman thirteen years my junior—I can’t imagine what people with think about that—but it’s not like we’re really engaged. I don’t have any intentions of sleeping with her, so maybe we’ll be able to sweep that minor detail under the rug.
Who am I kidding? In this town? I think I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than something like that going unnoticed.
Even if I did have the time and energy to devote to being in a relationship—which I absolutely do not—she couldn’t be more wrong for me. She’s too young, too bubbly, and way too much of a mess to fit into my carefully curated life.
A woman like that needs attention … and as much fun as it might seem to be, I’m already stretched too thin. Hell, I can’t even handle the job I have without landing myself in the emergency room from stress.
I learned a long time ago that I can’t have it all, that there’s pain in showing people the real me. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, mistakes I’ll spend the rest of my life paying for, and I’m not naive enough to believe it can be any other way. Not anymore.
Instead, I’ve spent the last decade unattached and focused on creating safety systems so nothing like a manual error can ever cause such devastation ever again. My cause is so much bigger than my desire for love—or whatever the fuck people get from relationships.
Besides, to say that I’m not good with balance is the understatement of the century. I’m not interested in a watered-down vanilla relationship, no matter how badly I wish I were.
So, I’d rather spend my time and energy working toward my goal of becoming CEO because it’s the only way I’ll be able to have complete control. It’s not that I don’t trust other people to take care of our employees—I’m sure Carl would do a fine job—but there’s not a single person who cares as much as me. Probably because they don’t have the blood of sixty-three men on their hands.
There’s nothing that fuels you quite like that, trust me.
That’s why I’ve got to find a way to change my father’s mind. It’s the only way I’ll ever know peace and my only chance at having a halfway-fulfilling life.
Which is why I don’t have time for any distractions.
No matter how beautiful or tempting they might be.
This can never happen, if only for her sake. I might be a selfish bastard, but I won’t make the same mistakes twice.
That much I am absolutely certain of.
So, maybe this is a good thing?
Besides, at thirty-five, I’m sure I’m way too old for her to find me attractive. Hell, she’s already calling me Grandpa. All I’ve got to do is keep my eyes down and remember the bigger picture. That’s easy enough, right?
The thought alone gives me indigestion, but what else is new?
“Wait. This is your house?” Ivy’s mouth drops open as she pulls up to the ornate wrought iron security gate.
“Yes. This is my home. Can you press the call button? I don’t have my key.”
She reaches out and presses the call button, buzzing it several times, making a jingle.
I lean over and grab her arm to stop her, and she sucks in a breath. The clean scent of citrus from her shampoo sends a wave of heat up my spine.
“Once is plenty,” I say, retreating back to my seat.
A moment later, the gate swings open, and I’m greeted by my security officer over the intercom. “Welcome home, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Fancy,” Ivy says as she eases the car up the winding driveway. Her eyes grow wider and wider as she takes in everything on the property. “You live here? Like, this is your house?” she asks as she parks in the small parking lot outside the front door.
“Yes.” I climb out of the death mobile, my shoulders sagging in relief to finally be home after this grueling day, and make my way into the house.
Ivy follows closely on my tail, peppering me with her endless burning questions.
“But … why?”
“Why what?” I say as I open the door, kicking off my shoes and making a beeline to the fridge.
“Why is your house so massive?”
I open my beer and take a long pull, and the ice-cold liquid takes a bit of the edge off my nerves. “Because I’m rich.”
“So, all of this”—she gestures in a circle around her—“is just for you? One person? No one else lives here?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s just me.”
I move past her and make my way to the living room, where I plop down on my leather sofa. I take another sip of my beer, and when I look up, she’s across the living room, inspecting pictures on my bookshelves.
“What are you doing?”
She sniffs the candle in her hand, then pulls away, wearing a look of disgust. “I’m making sure you’re not a murderer, luring me here to kill me … obviously,” she says as she places the candle down on the wrong shelf.
“And you’re going to find that out by digging through my bookshelves and rearranging my stuff?”
Her spine stiffens, and she turns around, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, actually. It was a test.”
“What was a test? Did I pass?” I ask, feeling even more confused.
She walks toward me and takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, then props her dirty white Converse sneakers on my three-thousand-dollar coffee table. “Can I have a beer?”
My eyes catch on the wings she’s doodled on the side of each sneaker in black marker, and I can’t help but wonder what that could mean. I’m slowly collecting little clues that has me forming a better idea about her, whether I mean to or not.
Hell, I certainly don’t want her to scrutinize minor details about me, so it’s best to drop it. It’s none of my business anyway.
I push myself up with a grunt and head to the kitchen. “IPA, milk stout, pilsner …”
“Oh, do you have anything that tastes like apple juice?” She snaps her fingers as she tries to think of the name. “What’s it called?—”
“Cider,” I answer as I place the cold mug in her hand, having already predicted what she’d ask for, which earns me a massive grin of approval.
She crosses her legs on top of each other and gingerly sips her drink, making a loud slurping noise. “Ooh, this is good. It doesn’t taste like alcohol at all?—”
“Exactly. That’s why it’s your only one,” I snap before she can argue.
“Well, somebody’s stingy, aren’t they?”
I grit my teeth, growing more irritated. “Not stingy. Responsible … which seems to be a novel concept to you. Now, get your dirty sneakers off my sofa. Were you raised in a barn?”
“So sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t realize we were supposed to treat our homes like a museum.” She kicks off her shoes and delicately tucks them under the table.
“I’m not the odd one here for wanting to take care of my stuff. Now, I think we need to establish some ground rules if you’re going to stay here.”
I catch sight of her mismatched socks—an ankle and a crew—and I get a wave of full-body shivers. Seriously, how can she stand the feeling of two entirely different-length socks all day? In fact, I don’t know how she functions at all.
“Okay, rules. What do you have in mind?” She taps her finger to her lip and glances around the massive, open space. “Oh, I know this one! I can go everywhere in the castle, except for the west wing—that’s your beastly lair and completely off-limits.”
“Are you done?” I shoot her an annoyed look, to which she just shrugs.
“Anything the light touches is our kingdom?”
“Fuck me.” I shake my head and drain the rest of my beer.
She holds out her arms, crossing her fingers in an X. “Uh-uh. You said sex was off the table. If you want to throw in physical stuff, then I’m going to need to adjust my pricing?—”
I tighten my grip on my pint glass as a fresh wave of irritation boils under my skin. I don’t know how, but she seems to know exactly what to say to press my buttons.
My nostrils flare as I exhale long and slow, willing my blood pressure to come back down.
She’s looking for a reaction, and I need to tread carefully before I show her all my cards, or this little game has the potential to get out of hand—and quickly.
“For Christ’s sake,” I grunt, trying to play it off like I’m unbothered. “You know that’s not what I meant. Will you stop talking about prostitution so casually? I don’t like the idea of you even joking about that.”
The faintest bit of pink tints her cheeks, and she holds up her hands. “Touchy. Okay, fine. I’ll stop.”
I don’t miss her reaction to my little reprimand, and it certainly isn’t helping my cause.
“I just think we need some ground rules to make sure we’re meeting each of our expectations,” I continue, trying to get my mind back on track.
“Calm down. I know what you meant. I’m just giving you a hard time. Maybe I like making you squirm. Do you have a notebook or something? I’ll write down the rules, so we can make this official.”
I point her in the direction of my briefcase, and she skips off to retrieve pen and paper. Am I making a terrible mistake, going through with this? My better judgment tells me I shouldn’t be signing a contract or making any life-altering decisions after everything I’ve been through today. But when I feel the couch dip beside me and look up to meet those brilliant amber eyes, full of enthusiasm and wonder, all my hesitation and worries go right out the window.
There’s something about her energy that’s magnetic, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. When I look into her eyes, I see hope, and for some reason I don’t understand, it makes me feel a little lighter too. Even though it doesn’t make sense, I feel like if there’s anyone who can help me convince my family that I’m enjoying my life and I can handle juggling it all, it’s her.
You can do this, Leo. It’s not like you haven’t been practicing for the last decade.
Leo and Ivy’s Relationship Rules,she scribbles at the top of the page.
“Rule number one, no sex or sexual exchanges … or expectations of sexual favors from either party,” she says as she writes, then looks up, waiting for me to chime in.
I shuffle in my seat and scratch my now-days’ worth of stubble. “We should include an end date.” I think for a moment. “How about September 20? That’s the day of the Phantom Festival, when my dad will officially name his replacement. That should give us enough time to make things feel real. Does that time frame work for you?”
“I’m leaving the country that day, but my flight isn’t until the evening, so it works out perfect. Now, I won’t have to fill in the gaps and find somewhere else to stay before I leave.” She scribbles something on the page, and then without looking up, she reads, “Thirty days to convince your family that you’re not a robot and you do in fact have work-life balance.”
I resist the urge to press her for more information, reminding myself that her personal life is none of my business … no matter how badly I’m starting to wish it were.
With a shake of my head, I bring my attention back to the contract. “Great. You are welcome to stay here until then, but I’ll need you to be available for work and social events. And you’ll need to play the part that we’re engaged, really make them believe I’m happy and ready to settle down.”
“The sugar daddy will pay the sugar baby to be available at his every beck and call,” she says as she writes, and I let out a frustrated groan. “What? What else am I supposed to call you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Leo? Or you seem to be quite fond of Grandpa …” I grab her empty cider glass and take it to the kitchen, feeling the sudden need to busy myself so I don’t talk myself out of this.
“It’s just a name. You’re the one who gives it power. Stop being such a prude, Leo.”She draws out my name with extra emphasis. “I think for clarity purposes, we should keep the language as correct as possible.” She draws a line where the amount should be and looks up in question. “Are you sure you’re okay with paying me one hundred thousand dollars? It feels like highway robbery for what you’re asking of me, even for a billionaire.”
I clench my jaw to suppress the urge to scold her for questioning her worth and finally say, “It’s not your concern whether I’m getting a good deal or not, Ivy. Now, just write the damn number.”
“Fine.” She sets her jaw and meets my eyes. “Anything else?”
I have to sit on my hand to keep from tracing my thumb over her stubborn mouth.
“I think if we’re going to convince my family, coworkers, and everyone else who could be peeping around town, we should be careful. We need to look like a couple when we go out. So, no dating other people during our agreement. I don’t want to go through all this trouble and have a photo getting leaked, only for all this to blow up in my face.”
No dating, she writes. “That isn’t a problem for me.” She lifts a brow in challenge. “Does that apply to you too or?—”
“Of course it does. I obviously wouldn’t be asking you for help like this if it didn’t.” My retort comes out a little too harshly.
She holds up her hands. “Hey, I was just asking, no need to be so sensitive.”
“I’m not being sensitive. I’m just annoyed by pointless questions.” I look down at her list and tap my finger on the paper, then grab the pen and add, House rules: both parties should be fully dressed at home.
“What about in the shower?”
I blow a breath through my nose, gritting my teeth. “Obviously apart from the shower?—”
“What about in my bedroom? I enjoy sleeping in the nude. Are you planning on sneaking in my room to spy on me?”
“No, Ivy. I have no intentions of watching you sleep or spying on you,” I say, pinning her with a stern glare, to which she innocently bats her eyes.
Great. As if I needed any more temptation, now, she’s giving me something to visualize. Fucking hell, this is going to be harder than I thought, and I can already see she’s not going to make this easy for me. No wonder I was so drawn to her …
I bite my cheek and continue, “Quiet hours are between ten p.m. and seven a.m.”
To my surprise, she scribbles down the rule without protest.
“And I shouldn’t have to say this, but I’ve got a hunch you’ll only follow what’s written on this list and nothing more. Clean up after yourself and don’t go snooping around.”
She quirks a brow. “You hiding something illegal around here that you don’t want me snitching about?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “No. Nothing illegal. Believe me, my life couldn’t get any more vanilla … I just don’t want you digging around, getting your sticky fingers all over my nice things. Got it?”
Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t argue, just nods her head slowly and draws two lines at the bottom of the page. She signs her name on the first in big, bubbly letters before handing me the pen.
I quickly scribble my signature and tear the paper out of the notebook. “Come on. Let me show you your room.”
I might be a fool for thinking of this idiotic scheme, but there’s a part of me that’s excited by the challenge. I know trouble when I see it, and Ivy Lane is the most dangerous kind of all.
My favorite kind, if I’m being honest …