Chapter 22
Ford
I don’t mind admitting that I have an arsenal of negative qualities—stubborn, occasionally too stoic, a closed book with most people—but one thing I’m not is a liar.
And yet lying is all I’ve done for the past week.
I’ve been lying to myself. Shamelessly.
Because no, one time wasn’t enough. Not by a fucking long shot, and I was naive to think otherwise.
I can’t get Ivy out of my system. It doesn’t matter what I do.
Whether I exhaust myself working out at the firehouse, or help Rhys clear out his basement, or attempt to distract my mind by grabbing a beer with Nash, or take three cold showers a day to calm the situation in my pants, she is still at the forefront of my thoughts, beckoning me.
When I drove up to The Harmony Grove to talk to her after her shift, I wasn’t expecting us to end up in the back seat of my car. Not that I’m complaining, but my only goal was to apologize. I can’t stand seeing her hurt or disappointed, least of all when I’m the one making her feel that way.
But then she made a move to leave, and something clicked inside me.
To say I acted on impulse would be unfair, because my feelings for Ivy have been simmering under the surface for a while.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to kiss her in the past few weeks or how many times I need to do it again.
“Morning, Cap,” Ian greets me with a huge smile as he enters the kitchen at the firehouse. “Guess what?”
I give him a look. “I’m too scared to.”
He laughs, but I’m completely serious. The last time he asked me that question, he went on to give me an unnecessarily detailed description of a threesome he’d had the night before.
“I promise you’ll want to hear about this.”
“What is it?”
Ian smirks. “The calendars are ready.”
My stomach jumps. “You’ve seen them?”
“Oh yeah.”
I don’t know what to make of the way he’s looking at me, as if he’s privy to something I’m not. Which is true, I suppose.
“One word: insane.” He enunciates every syllable. “You gotta see it. Ivy is mad talented. They’ll start selling them at the Beer Fest, but I can ask my mom for a picture and show you now.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll see it later.”
With her. Ivy never said anything about wanting to do the honors—quite the opposite, since she blushes every time I bring it up—but still. It would be more special if she showed me.
Ian continues, “Man, I’ll admit I had my reservations about an illustrated calendar, but I have a good feeling about this one. I mean, I look hot as fuck, so there’s that.”
It’s a little difficult to feel resentment toward him for going out with Ivy when it’s clear they’re nothing more than friends. She said so herself.
Plus, I was the one who made her come the other night.
“I knew she would knock it out of the park,” I say proudly. “What does everyone else think?”
Ian takes a sip of his morning coffee. I haven’t touched mine yet. “My mom thinks it’s fun and looks realistic. Other volunteers are still wary because of what everyone has been saying. You know, that they prefer the real thing.”
Frustration bubbles up in the pit of my stomach.
Not because I might have to pose half naked again next year—that’s the least of my concerns right now—but because I don’t like that they’re dismissing Ivy’s work before giving it a chance.
How can adults be so judgmental toward a harmless thing they haven’t even seen?
The next twenty-four hours pass without a lot of fuss. We’re called in to rescue a cat from a tree—stereotypes are sometimes real—and to a playground in the next town over, where a kid got his head stuck in a railing. Both cat and child were fine.
After my shift ends the next day, I take a shower and a long nap at home, then spend hours hyping myself up to go knock at Ivy’s door.
It’s six on a Friday, which means she only has a couple of hours before she starts her shift at Nash’s, and here I am, wasting my time.
Everything is fine. We are fine. We’ve seen each other this past week, mostly in passing, and it didn’t feel like our relationship has changed. From the outside, I’m sure nobody can tell I had her squirming in my lap just days ago.
I can’t decide if that bothers or relieves me.
The point is, she’s not pulling away. We promised things wouldn’t get weird between us, and she’s kept the promise.
Me, not so much. For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been pacing back and forth in my kitchen like a nervous teenager about to ask his crush to prom.
Movement outside the window catches my eye. I recognize Ethan as he walks up to Ivy’s front porch. Minutes later, Joe leaves with him in the direction of town. Ivy’s car is still in the driveway, so she must be home.
Once again, I remind my brain that I’m capable of having a normal conversation with her after what happened. Before the traitor changes lanes again, I grab my keys and head out the door.
“It’s open!” Ivy bellows from inside after I knock.
I take a deep breath and let myself in, then blink and blink again at the sight in front of me.
“Do I want to know why you’re balancing yourself on top of a ladder?”
Ivy glances at me over her shoulder, a smirk on her face and paintbrush in hand. “Do you like the color?”
I get closer, not because I need to see the color more clearly, but because picturing her falling from the ladder is making me sick.
“I’ve never seen a green kitchen,” I say, staring up at her with my hands on my hips.
“It’s olive green.”
“Ah, of course. Big difference.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to keep painting the top cabinets. “Joe wasn’t sold at first, but he’s grown to like it.”
“It looks good with the white backsplash.” I sniff the air. “Why doesn’t it smell of paint, though?”
“It’s odorless. Cool, right? And just wait until I add the gold handles on the cabinets.” She makes a chef’s-kiss gesture with her free hand. “I’ll have this house looking all modern and cute in no time.”
I glance around the rest of the space as if seeing it for the first time. The kitchen does look more modern than the living room on the other side of the hall, which seems to be stuck in the nineties.
“You don’t like how the house looks right now?” I ask her, curious.
“Our dad didn’t take the best care of it when we lived here,” she says, her voice quieter. “Before that, it belonged to our grandparents, so it was already old when my mom inherited it. It’s been needing some TLC for a while.”
“This is your mother’s house, then?”
“Our mother left it to us, to Joe and me, in her will, but we could only inherit our respective parts when we turned twenty-five. I’m twenty-six, so the house is mine for now. I’m taking care of Joe’s side. I pay the bills is what I’m trying to say. The house itself is paid for.”
“But your dad was living here,” I say, trying to understand.
“Not anymore.” Her voice sounds firmer, and I can tell this is a touchy subject for her. “It made sense to live together as a family before, but he’ll have to find another place to live when he gets out of jail.”
I wrap my hands around the ladder so it doesn’t shake every time she moves. The back of my hand brushes her leg as she keeps painting.
“Joe deserves a nice place to live,” she adds. “Our budget is a little tight, but I can make it work if I do everything myself. It’ll take a while, but I don’t mind.”
“You deserve a nice place to live too,” I tell her, my eyes on her beautiful face despite her attention not being on me.
“I’m not half bad with woodwork, and I can move heavy stuff, so I can help.
My dad could help as well when he comes back in the spring, if you need an extra pair of hands.
Woodworking has been his hobby since he retired. He’s way better than I am.”
Instead of fighting me like I expected, she turns to me with a shy smile. “Okay.”
“Are my ears deceiving me, or did you just agree to getting help?”
Her chuckle travels all the way to my chest. “Someone told me I should stop putting myself last, so I’m listening.”
“That someone must be smart. Probably sexy too.”
“Both for sure.”
We exchange a smile that teeters between our familiar dynamic and who we were in the back of my car.
“Speaking of sexy,” I start, grabbing the can of paint for her when she’s done with the cabinet door, “rumor has it that your calendars are ready.”
The blush on her cheeks is undeniable. “Really?”
“Ian wanted to show me, but I said no.” I grab her hand and help her down the ladder. “Because I want you to show me in person.”
“Did you wait until I came down the ladder so I wouldn’t throw myself off it?”
“Maybe. If it’s any consolation, Ian and his mom love it.”
“Yeah, well.”
Before she can keep going, I brush my thumb over her chin to rub off a little splotch of paint. Her blush deepens, and my heartbeat accelerates at the contact with her skin.
She clears her throat. “I’m not ready to die inside just yet.”
“I think we’re way past embarrassment, considering what happened in my car.”
“I see we’re talking about that.”
“Why not? It happened. We had fun. We can talk about it.”
She lets out a deep sigh. “I guess I’m being dumb about this whole illustration thing. It’s not like you’re never going to see it.”
“I get feeling apprehensive. You’re not being dumb, just self-conscious.”
“Why do you always read me so well?”
“I have a doctorate degree in Ivy-ism.”
She shakes her head, amused. “All right. Wait here. I’ll go grab my tablet.”
When she comes back moments later, she’s looking down at the screen with that blush still on her cheeks.
“I’m mortified, just so you know,” she mutters as she taps away. “You can totally lie to me to make me feel better if you don’t like it.”
“I would never lie to you. And there’s no way I could hate anything you do. Got it?”
Her eyes find mine, unsure. “Got it.”
“Should I close my eyes for dramatic effect?”
She snorts. “If you want.”
I do it because I know a little humor will ease her nerves. And indeed, when she chuckles, I feel ten times lighter.
“All right.” I can’t see her, but I hear her deep breath all the same. “On three. One, two… three.”
When I open my eyes, a near replica of my face stares right back at me.
To say I’m in awe would be an understatement. I scan the exact dark blond shade of my hair, the scruff on my face, my bone structure. If I looked in the mirror, I would look exactly like her drawing.
The rest of the illustration is just as impressive. Me, wearing my gear up to my waist, my chest bare except for my suspenders, my muscles glistening with sweat as I hold an axe that was once a broom prompt.
And behind me, just like I’d asked for half jokingly, tall flames that make me look like a true badass.
“You’re not saying anything,” she notes.
The self-consciousness in her words pulls me out of my head.
“I’m just having trouble believing my eyes, Ivy,” I tell her under her watchful gaze. “You really made this out of me posing with a broomstick in my living room?”
The unsure look in her eyes turns into vulnerability. “Do you truly like it, or are you just saying things?”
“I would hang this on my wall if it wouldn’t make me look like a narcissist. That’s how much I like it.”
“Your guests would definitely have questions if you did that.”
“But I really like the brownstone drawing I saw in your notebook. Do you think you could sell me a print or something?”
She blinks up at me. “Really?”
“I think it would look good in my living room. But also,” I add, looking down at my illustration again, “you should post your drawings online. I think you could earn a following on social media.”
“I don’t know….” She hesitates. “Joe said the same thing years ago, but social media isn’t my thing.”
“I’m just saying, you could make a living out of this,” I tell her confidently.
“I think you’re being optimistic because you like me.”
“Yeah, I do like you.” Her gaze falls to my mouth before coming back up again, and I resist the urge to pull her into me.
It was supposed to me a one-time thing. She’s not mine.
“But I’m also telling the truth. I wouldn’t bother saying anything if I didn’t think it was good.
Better than good. What do you have to lose, Ivy?
You can give it a try. See how you feel about it. ”
Her eyes roam the screen as she scans the illustration. “I appreciate you saying that, but I still think you’re biased. Also, I have a feeling the rest of the town won’t be so on board with these illustrations. You’ll see.”
“What other people think shouldn’t matter,” I tell her. “Not even what I think. But as your friend, I want you to be happy and proud of your art. You deserve to be.”
The word “friend” tastes bitter on my tongue. Because yes, Ivy is my friend, but a not-so-dormant part of me wants her to be more than that.
“I’ll think about it.” She locks her tablet and places it on the kitchen counter. “So, do you have any plans today?”
“Not beyond pestering you until you showed me the illustration, but that’s done now. You’ll keep working on the cabinets?”
“Yep. That’s the idea.”
“Do you have another paintbrush?”
She watches me carefully. “Why?”
“Because I feel like channeling my inner Michelangelo today.”
“No offense, but I feel like Michelangelo would know the difference between green and olive green.”
Before I can think better of it, I pinch her side, making her squeal. “Don’t be a little shit.”
Instead of running away, she reaches for my side and pinches me right back. Her laughter spills into the space between us, bright and warm, and I catch her wrist to pull her closer until she’s flush against me.
She tilts her face up just long enough for our eyes to meet, and something in my chest stutters.
Then she lets out a soft laugh and folds her arms around my middle.
The world around us disappears to the weight of her against me, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
And when she rests her head on my chest, I can’t help but think how perfectly she fits there.
“Did you know I really like hugging you?” I tell her quietly.
“We should do this more often, then,” she says, her voice muffled.
“Yeah, we should.”
I’m about to do something stupid, like kiss the top of her head, when she pulls away. Smiling, she grabs a brush and passes it to me.
“Let’s see what you can do, off-brand Michelangelo.”
I send her a look as I fight my disappointment that she’s no longer in my arms. I’m being irrational.
“I’ll show you off-brand.”