Chapter 14
Ivy
Our family has never had a lot of money. Other than Aunt Sherry, who married the heir to a prolific whiskey company in her twenties, the rest of us have lived our life sans luxuries.
As a little girl, I played outside with a bit too much enthusiasm, which meant holes in my clothes weren’t a strange occurrence.
Instead of buying me new pants I would tear up again the following week, Mom would get some flower, dinosaur, or heart patches from Sunny Stitches and cover the holes with them.
It was about saving money, I see that now, but back then I only thought that patches were the coolest.
It feels like I’ve come full circle as I patch up a child’s ripped jeans with a cartoon cat this morning, in Sunny Stitches of all places.
My throat unexpectedly closes as I get the sewing machine ready. After ten years, I’ve learned to live without Mom. The pain of her passing never goes away, not truly, but she would’ve liked Joe and me to be happy, even if she isn’t here to see it.
The backs of my eyes start to sting. I miss her every single day, but I don’t remember the last time I cried over her—or cried at all—so I take a deep breath through my mouth and keep those tears at bay. My period must be about to come knocking.
I take it as a personal win when I manage to patch the jeans without tearing up, then practically jump out of my seat when Fran storms into the back of the shop.
“Jesus, Fran. You scared the shit out of me,” I breathe out, taking my headphones off.
“Sorry, sweetie. Ford is asking for you.”
I blink. “Ford? My neighbor?”
“The hot firefighter? I don’t know if he’s your neighbor.”
“Fran,” I hiss. “Don’t call him that. He’ll hear you”
“Call him what? Hot? Look at you, turning all red.”
“I’m not,” I argue, knowing damn well my cheeks are getting warmer.
“If I were your age, I wouldn’t think twice. You climb that man for all of us who can’t,” the heathen I call my boss and my grandma’s best friend says.
“I’m tuning out of this conversation,” I warn her as I walk past her, hoping Ford didn’t hear a single word we’ve just said.
Climb him. Right. Like that isn’t an insane thought.
Even if Ford had given me any indication that he’s interested in a relationship, there’s no way he would want me of all people to climb anything of his. He did nothing but ignore and dismiss me when he thought I was flirting with him; if that doesn’t scream uninterested, I don’t know what does.
Also, why am I even thinking about this? Ford is an attractive man—tall, muscular, pretty face in a roughened way, strong hands. There’s no point in lying about that. But, unlike my own brother insinuated, I don’t have a crush on him. If it’s a crime to find him hot, then lock me up.
I push Fran’s words aside as I head to the front. And sure enough, Ford is waiting on the other side of the counter.
“Hey, neighbor. What’s up?”
I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Trying to force casual when my cheeks are probably redder than the flames he puts out doesn’t feel right, but what am I supposed to do? Become a blabbering mess in front of him just because Fran suggested something crazy?
If his smile is any indication, though, it doesn’t look like he’s heard anything. Or, if he has, he isn’t upset.
“Not much. Just came by to ask if you’re free for lunch.”
Why the hell is my heart pitter-pattering at his request like I’m some teenager who can’t control herself?
“I wanted to talk business if you have a moment. Lunch’s on me,” he explains.
Of course that’s what he wants to discuss. What did I expect?
“Well, consider my interest piqued. My lunch break starts in half an hour. We could—”
“Oh, that’s okay. You can leave now,” Fran cuts me off, appearing behind me. I don’t know what to make of her smile when she glances between Ford and me. “It’s a slow day anyway. You go on your lunch date.”
I control the muscles on my face like my life depends on it, trying my hardest not to react at the word “date.” The last thing I want is for Ford to think we’ve gone back to square one.
But he looks and sounds totally normal when he asks me, “Does Jill’s Café sound good? My brother and his crew at the sheriff’s station swear by their Caesar wrap.”
Do I want to eat lunch with Ford? Hell yes.
Do I trust myself not to make a fool of myself during said lunch, given that I’m probably still blushing from Fran’s words, and I don’t know what kind of business he could possibly want to discuss? Well….
“You can say no if you’re busy, or just don’t want to,” Ford quickly adds, possibly because I’m taking too long to answer. “No pressure.”
“Lunch sounds good. Sorry, I’m just a little distracted today,” I reassure him. “We can go now if Fran is sure.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure. You two go and have fun,” she says, shooing me away.
It only takes us a couple of minutes to cross the street to Jill’s and grab a table by the big windows. As we order, I try not to overthink how this table is too small and our knees are touching or what people might think of us hanging out together.
“So,” I start, trying to play it cool. There’s no reason to freak out about this. “Business, huh? I hope you’re not about to suit me up and throw me into a burning building.”
“If you want me to have a heart attack, then, sure, we can do that.”
He’s only saying that to be friendly.
“But no, that’s not the kind of business I’m talking about. Thank you,” he adds to the server when she brings us a pitcher of water and two glasses. He pours water in my glass first.
“Thanks.” I hate how shy I sound, so I clear my throat. “I’m intrigued.”
His apologetic smile catches me off guard. “I’m not sure you’ll want to do it.”
“Shoot.”
He sets both of his hands on the table, and I try my hardest not to focus on how big they are, or how rough they look from working such a demanding job, or how they would be strong enough to pick me up with little to no effort.
I fail catastrophically.
“Remember the firefighter calendars?” he starts.
“Like I could ever forget.”
“Ha.” He leans back casually, keeping one hand over the table and the other resting in his lap.
“Well, we just got back the merchandise sales report, and numbers haven’t been this low in a while.
T-shirts and hoodies aren’t cutting it, I’m afraid.
They want us to do another sexy calendar. Stop laughing.”
“I’m not laughing,” I lie, knowing damn well I’m smiling from ear to ear.
He points a finger at me, trying to be menacing, and it becomes even harder to contain my laughter. “I have a proposition for you.”
The serious way in which he says it makes me sober up a little.
The waitress comes back with our Caesar wraps, but neither of us make a move to eat them. Ford’s eyes are on me, so intense, I want to squirm.
“I talked to the guys and the team in charge of the merchandise and gave them an alternate option for the calendars. Hot firemen—but illustrated.”
Oh.
Oh.
My throat has turned to sand. “Ford….”
“And I thought you could do the twelve illustrations,” he finishes, saying exactly what I suspected he would.
All traces of laughter must be gone from my face, because he nudges his knee against mine under the table. “What do you think?”
“You want me to draw half-naked firemen for a calendar?”
“It sounds a little weird when you say it out loud, but yeah.”
“I don’t know, Ford.”
He leans his body over the table. “Ivy, I’ve seen your drawings, and they’re out of this world. We would be honored to have you illustrate our calendar, and I’m not just saying it because I don’t want to pose naked in front of a camera again. You’re beyond talented.”
Is it me, or is the oxygen running out in here?
“The department will pay for the illustrations, of course. This isn’t a free gig; you deserve to be compensated,” he adds.
I put my sweaty hands in my lap, fidgeting with my fingers.
“What are you worried about?” he asks gently.
“I haven’t been able to draw anything in months, and now you want me to do a whole calendar for you guys. I just… I don’t know. I’m assuming you’ll need it this month to start selling them in December, which only adds more pressure.”
“I understand. And you’re right, it’s very last-minute, and I’m sorry about that.
We didn’t settle on the calendar until now,” he concedes.
“You can say no. I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel uncomfortable.
I just thought of you because your art is fucking incredible, and I think you would do a great job.
And, sure, because I don’t want to pose for the calendar, but I will if I have to. ”
I believe him when he says that—except that my art is fucking incredible, because it’s not; it’s average at best. Unfortunately, or fortunately, people’s praise isn’t enough to lift me up. If I don’t think it’s good enough, there’s no amount of convincing that can change my mind.
“When would you need the illustrations by?” is the question that leaves my mouth instead of the “I can’t do it, but thanks for thinking of me” that my fear-induced brain is begging me to say.
“First week of December, at the latest.”
It’s late October now, so not totally undoable. I’ve done entire portraits in a few hours back in the day. I don’t think I could do that anymore, but…
“We would need twelve different firemen illustrations. Half naked; you know how it goes. Colored too. Different poses and all that,” he says. “I know you’re busy with two jobs, so really, you don’t have to accept.”
Am I really considering saying yes? This isn’t something I can back out of if I get cold feet in a few days.
I eye my Caesar wrap as if it contains all the answers I’m looking for.
If I say yes and they pay me for the calendar, what if they hate it? What if I can’t unblock this part of me that is so scared of picking up a pencil again?
“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” Ford says, more understanding than I deserve. Why can’t I just make up my mind like an adult person? “Come on, let’s eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Ford freezes with the wrap halfway to his mouth. I don’t blame him, because I’ve sort of frozen myself on the spot with those words too.
Slowly, he sets it back on the plate. “Are you sure?”
My nod is small, but it’s there. “I can’t promise it will be any good.”
“It will blow everyone’s minds.”
“We’ll see.”
He bumps my knee under the table again. “I believe in you.”
Those four words stay with me after our lunch, during my shifts at Sunny Stitches and The Harmony Grove, and when I get back home at midnight.
I believe in you.
What will it take me to do the same?