CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 9
IVY
The lights are dim when I return to the suite. Candles flicker along the sideboard, and the soft hum of music plays from a speaker somewhere near the kitchenette.
The table’s set.
Cloth napkins. Real silverware. A bottle of wine beside two crystal glasses.
Carter stands near the window, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, shirt half undone like he just stepped off a yacht and into my dreams.
“You did all this?” I ask, my voice soft, uneven.
“I thought we could use a reset,” he replies. “Dinner. Just you and me. No storm. No baggage.”
I want to say something sarcastic. Deflect. But I can’t.
Because this is the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me. I should leave. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”
He pours the wine and hands me a glass. The stem is cool against my fingers, but my skin is already warm.
He pulls out my chair, and when our fingers graze, my pulse stutters.
Dinner starts slow. Too slow. Coconut-glazed shrimp. Charred pineapple salad. Lobster risotto that melts on my tongue.
And Carter? He doesn’t push. Not exactly.
But the heat in his eyes doesn’t let up—not once. He watches me like he’s starving. Compliments the way I bite my lip when something’s good. Tells me I look stunning in this dress even though it’s the same one I shoved into my suitcase three minutes before my flight.
I laugh too loud. Sip too much wine.
We talk about everything and nothing. About a show we both love. About my favorite coffee shop back home. About the best pie he’s ever had in a truck stop diner in Tennessee.
Every now and then, his foot brushes mine. And I don’t move it away.
We’re both pretending we’re not dancing around the edge of something.
When dessert arrives, it’s a plate of delicate pastries shaped like hibiscus flowers, drizzled in mango honey, flaked with edible gold.
“I told the chef to surprise us,” he says, his voice lower now. “But if I’m honest? Nothing tonight has surprised me more than you.”
My stomach tightens. “Carter…”
He leans closer, elbow brushing mine. “You can tell me to back off. But I won’t pretend I don’t want you.”
I swallow hard.
Because I want him, too.
Every time our knees touch under the table, I feel like I’m going to combust.
He stands and holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“Carter—”
“Just one.”
I don’t know why I say yes.
He pulls me close, his hand settling at the small of my back, my chest brushing his with every slow sway. His scent is everything—woodsy, clean, and a little like the wine on his breath. Expensive, masculine temptation.
“You fit against me like this was always the plan,” he murmurs against my ear.
“Carter…”
He doesn’t wait. He dips his head and kisses me.
It starts slow. His lips coax mine open like he has all the time in the world. My hands find the buttons of his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between us.
I feel his length against me. Hard. Thick. Pressed against my stomach as his mouth claims mine, and I shudder with need.
His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me tighter. I gasp when he lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. He carries me to the couch, setting me down as his body covers mine. His mouth trails from my jaw to my collarbone, to the swell of my breasts.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he groans, pushing the hem of my dress up to my hips.
His fingers slide along the lace edge of my panties, stroking me through them until I whimper. “Carter…”
“Ivy,” he growls against my skin, “I can’t get enough of you.”
My breath catches as he pushes the fabric aside. I know we need to stop. We must stop. But I can’t find the words. Not when he’s circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs tremble. Not when he kisses my neck, my chest, my mouth—like he’s trying to memorize the taste of every sound I make.
When his fingers slide inside, I gasp, back arching. His other hand grips my thigh, spreading me wider. I rock against him, hips rolling, heat building in my core so fast I feel like I’m going to snap in half.
His name leaves my mouth.
His groan vibrates against my skin. “You feel so damn sweet, Ivy.”
I want to give in.
To let him strip off his shirt and press his bare chest to mine.
To feel him take me right here, on this stupid, perfect couch, with the candles still flickering and my dress pushed around my waist.
Then it hits me. The sound of his voice. On that call. Whispering “I love you” to someone.
My heart stutters.
“Carter,” I gasp, hands pushing against his chest.
He stops immediately, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes are heavy with need, but his hands are still.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
He waits. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I breathe. “It’s me. I just—can’t.”
“Ivy, just talk to me, please,” he begs but at this point, I can’t even look him in his eyes.
He brushes my hair from my face. “Okay.”
I sit up slowly, smoothing my dress and avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
I stand. My legs are shaky. My entire body still aches for him.
But my mind won’t let me forget that call. It’s not like I’m jealous or anything, but I don’t want to be that girl who sleeps with other people’s men. No matter how impossible it may seem.
“Goodnight, Carter.”
I walk toward the bedroom, my heart pounding, my thighs still trembling from the edge I was so close to falling over.
And I swear I can still feel him between my legs long after I close the door.
***
I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like him.
Vanilla and cedar. Warm skin and a night I almost didn’t walk away from.
Almost.
My body still hums. My thighs are sore, my chest tender. Every inch of me is heavy with the ghost of his touch. The way he kissed me. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a detour, but the damn destination.
And for a moment—God, for a moment—I believed it.
I roll onto my back, eyes fluttering to the ceiling. I don’t want to move. Because if I move, I have to face him. If I get up, I have to look him in the eye and pretend I didn’t almost beg him to—
Nope.
I throw off the blanket and drag myself to the bathroom. Cold water. Deep breaths. A blank expression I can wear like armor.
I pull on a white tank top and linen shorts, run a brush through my hair, and take a moment in the mirror. My skin’s flushed, lips still slightly swollen, and I don’t need to remember why—I feel it.
By the time I step out into the suite, I smell it.
Coffee. Eggs. Butter. Something sweet.
He’s standing at the stove, shirtless, plaid pajama pants riding low on his hips, flipping a golden crepe in the pan like some kind of domestic god. His back is all sculpted muscle and tension. Every line of him is unfair. And I hate that my first thought is, I wonder what he’d look like making me breakfast after sex.
He glances over his shoulder and smiles—soft, unreadable.
“Morning.”
I clear my throat. “Hey.”
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a little of everything,” he says, nodding toward the counter. There’s toast, butter, berries, crepes, scrambled eggs, a bowl of tropical fruit, and the coffee smell fills the entire room.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
I hesitate, hovering like I don’t know where to stand. Because I don’t.
He plates a crepe and slides it onto the table. “Eat. Please.”
I move slowly, taking the chair across from his. He pours coffee into a mug and passes it to me. His fingers brush mine for a second too long.
“I added a little coconut cream. Hope that’s okay.”
I nod. Sip. “It’s perfect.”
Silence stretches. But it’s not peaceful. It’s buzzing—charged with everything that wasn’t said last night.
Carter breaks it.
“Did I do something wrong?”
I look up from my plate. “Nope.”
“I didn’t want to push you.”
“You didn’t.”
He waits. Patient. Steady. That should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
I pick at my eggs and force a smile. “Last night was… a lot.”
He nods. “It was.”
I don’t explain. And he doesn’t ask.
It’s a truce made of unfinished sentences and burning glances.
His voice is low when he says, “You left for bed last night like you were running from something.” He steps closer to me and softly holds my chin up so I’m looking right into his freaking gorgeous bluish-green eyes.
I should tell him.
Right now. Just say it: I heard you on the phone. I know you told someone you love them. I know you’re not mine.
But the words stick in my throat like glass.
Because what if I’m wrong?
It was early, I was sleepy. Maybe I misheard? Now I’m just lying to myself. I know what I heard.
He’s still watching me. Not with suspicion, but with concern—gentle, quiet concern that makes my chest ache.
“Ivy,” he says, softer now, “if there’s something you’re not saying… you can.”
My pulse jumps.
“I’m okay,” I lie, forcing a smile. “I just… overthink everything. It’s a gift and a curse.”
He chuckles under his breath, but he doesn’t let me off the hook.
His fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to lean into that simple touch.
“You don’t have to fake it with me,” he says. “You don’t have to be fine.”
God.
Why does he have to say the right things?
Why does he have to look at me like I’m not just another woman passing through, like I’m worth unraveling slowly?
I swallow, blinking fast. “I just needed a little space.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t flinch.
“I can give you that.”
And somehow, that only makes me want to tell him more.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, it won’t just be this bubble that bursts. It’ll be everything. We’ll still be stuck together in this room for lord knows how long and be miserable. I just need to keep this to myself and most importantly… don’t sleep with that chick’s man. Whoever she is.
So I stay quiet.
He finishes his coffee, sets the mug down gently, and leans back in his chair. “If I crossed a line—”
“You didn’t,” I interrupt, voice sharper than I mean. “You were perfect.”
His brows lift, just slightly.
I curse under my breath and look away. “I mean—never mind.”
But the damage is done.
His eyes darken just a bit. Not with anger.
With heat.
He stands, comes around the table, and leans down beside me, his hand brushing the back of my neck as he whispers, “Good to know I wasn’t the only one who didn’t sleep.”
I freeze.
He’s too close. Too warm. Too Carter.
Then he pulls back, grabs his plate, and walks to the sink.
Like he didn’t just wreck me with one line.
I sit there for a long time after that, heart hammering, body on fire, staring at the food I can’t taste.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall.
But it’s already happening.
I need to figure out how to stop it fast.