Chapter 8 Timothy
CHAPTER EIGHT
Timothy
Mornings can go to hell.
I’m here an hour early, which is unnatural on a good day, but Mitchell’s holed up at the townhouse buried in invoices, and Freddie won’t roll in until ten. So it’s just me, black coffee, the hum of the shop lights, and the sound of pencil dragging across paper.
I’ve been chipping away at this floral sleeve for days now, trying to get the shading to flow just right. It's for a return client… an older woman who wants peonies and smoke and something to honor her sister. I want it to be perfect.
Debussy plays low from the speaker behind the counter, the kind of quiet piano that helps me keep my hand steady. I’m lost in it, almost relaxed, when the front door crashes open like someone kicked it.
A Frenchie comes barreling through the shop like he owns the place. Tongue out. Ears flapping. Demonic glee in his eyes.
"Pickle! Pickle, you little shit… get back here!"
The voice is familiar. And when she stumbles in after him, red faced and breathless, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, all wide eyes and barely restrained rage, I blink like I’m seeing a mirage.
Ivy.
Definitely not a morning person either, judging by the sock sliding down her ankle and the sheer murder in her eyes.
She skids to a halt inside the doorway, sees me, and groans like the universe is personally out to get her.
"Sorry! He slipped the leash, he saw a squirrel and went full chaos gremlin… Pickle, I swear…"
I nearly drop my pencil laughing.
Pickle does a sharp turn behind the reception desk, tail wagging like he’s just won a game nobody else knew they were playing. Ivy lunges after him and grabs him mid spin, hauling him up like a sack of potatoes.
She turns toward me, huffing, holding the wriggling menace under her arm. Her hoodie’s sliding off one shoulder, and her cheeks are flushed from chasing him. There’s a tiny smear of dirt on her knee.
Mitchell’s an idiot.
He says he’s not interested. That it was a one time thing. That it’s not like that.
But she’s standing here, windblown, gorgeous, and somehow still grinning, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how he’s not looking twice.
"I’d say this isn’t normal," she says, voice dry. "But honestly? It kind of is."
"Can’t say I’m surprised," I reply, leaning back in my chair. "That dog’s got a death wish."
"He’s got me wishing for death," she mutters, adjusting her grip. "Sorry for the disruption. I was walking him before heading to Freddie’s. Clearly, it’s going great."
"You want coffee?" I offer before I can think better of it. "Still some left."
She blinks. "Seriously?"
I shrug. "If you’ve survived Frenchie parkour at seven a.m., you’ve earned it."
She hesitates, probably debating whether to flee, but finally sets Pickle down and follows me to the little kitchen nook behind the counter. I pour her a mug and slide it her way. She takes it with both hands like it’s some kind of offering.
"You’re a saint," she says. "An actual caffeine bearing saint."
"Nah," I say, going back to my sketchbook. "Just know what mornings are like."
She sips, sighs, and leans against the counter. Pickle trots over to the rug beneath my chair and flops down dramatically, like he just ran a marathon and we should be comforting him.
I reach down and offer him one of the biscuits we keep behind the desk for when clients bring dogs. He sniffs, snorts, and promptly devours it like he’s being filmed for a survival documentary.
"See?" I say, nodding at Pickle. "Creature of taste."
"He also ate half a sock yesterday, so let’s not give him too much credit."
"I’ve done worse on a dare," I shoot back.
She quirks a brow. "Was the dare ‘ruin your digestive system for clout’?"
"Technically, the dare was ‘don’t be a coward,’" I say. "And I regret nothing."
Ivy snorts into her mug. "You give off such unhinged older sibling energy."
"I am the older sibling," I say proudly. "By a whole four minutes. And it shows."
"Explains the chaos."
"You say that like it’s not my best quality."
"I mean, it’s up there. Alongside the suspicious number of rings."
"I’ll take that as a compliment." I tilt my head. "Also, suspicious? Or charmingly roguish?"
She pauses. "It’s a fine line."
Pickle lets out a small bark, tail thumping, like he’s voting "roguish" with extreme enthusiasm.
I reach down to scratch behind his ears. "See?” I tell him. “She likes me."
"He likes roadkill and mud puddles," she says. "You’re in excellent company."
I give her a faux wounded look. "Wow. Brutal. I thought we were bonding."
"We are," she says dryly. "In the way people bond during disasters."
"You wound me, Fletcher."
"Good."
I sip my coffee, watching her over the rim. She’s got that wild, sleep deprived sparkle in her eye. The one people get after surviving a toddler sugar crash or a failed IKEA build. I like it. I like her. Too much, probably.
"You know," I say casually, "you’re welcome to swing by for a less chaotic visit sometime. Preferably not at full sprint with Pickle foaming at the mouth."
She snorts. "And do what, exactly?"
"Sit in the tattoo chair," I say, winking. "Could even offer you the special experience package. No leash required."
There’s a half beat of silence. Then her entire face rearranges itself.
Brows up. Mouth open.
She stares at me, frowning in that way people do when trying to reverse engineer a life decision.
I watch it hit her in real time.
She tilts her head.
Squints.
Then…
"Wait," she blurts, eyes widening, "are you the one I slept with?"
The words land like a record scratch across the room. Even Pickle lifts his head in alarm.
"You look so alike and it was dark that night and…"
I choke. Literally choke on my coffee.
Then I start laughing. Loud, wheezing, delighted laughter that echoes off the walls.
"Oh no way," I manage between fits. "No. Nooo. Definitely not."
She goes rigid, face going scarlet.
"I mean… thanks?" I add, still cracking up. "I’m flattered. Truly. But no. That would’ve been Mitchell. Giant broody vibes. Great with shading, terrible with feelings."
Her hands fly to her face. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m moving to Canada."
"Good luck getting Pickle through customs."
Pickle barks once, as if to confirm he would not survive Canadian bureaucracy.
"I’m mortified," Ivy groans behind her hands.
"Don’t be," I say, still chuckling. "You just made my whole week. Seriously. I am never letting you live this down."
"Please don’t tell your brother I said that."
"Oh, no promises," I say, grinning like a villain. "This is comedy gold. I may frame this moment."
She groans again. "I’m never coming back here."
"You’ll be back," I say, smug. "Pickle likes me too much."
"Pickle’s judgment is extremely questionable."
"He has taste. He likes treats and danger."
"And French bulldogs with a death wish."
"Exactly. We’re soulmates."
She sinks onto the bench by the wall, looking like she’s aged ten years from embarrassment. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even as she mutters, "Canada."
Pickle hops into her lap and promptly sneezes on her shirt.
"Great," she says. "Now I’ve been assaulted by my own dog."
"You were asking for it," I say, deadpan.
She flips me off without looking.
I grin.
Mitchell is a damn fool.
And if he doesn’t pull his head out of his broody ass soon… well, I’m not making any moves. Yet. But I’m definitely not blind.
And Ivy Fletcher?
She’s dangerous in all the best ways.
As Ivy finally wrestles Pickle into submission and drags him toward the door, still muttering something about maple syrup and emotional exile, I lean on the counter and watch her go.
She glances back once. Just for a second.
Her cheeks are still pink, her hoodie half zipped, Pickle tucked under one arm like a football. And despite the chaos and the confusion and the international relocation threats, she grins.
It hits me right in the ribs.
She’s smart. Sharp tongued. Clearly has a disaster magnet strapped to her back and still keeps moving forward like she doesn’t care who sees the mess.
And yeah, I know. One night stand. Lines. Complications. Bros before whatever the hell this is.
But Mitchell already made his stance clear: "Not interested. Not my thing. It’s over."
So… does that mean she’s fair game?
I’m still chewing on that thought when the front door swings open again. Less chaos this time, more quiet precision. Enter Mitchell, in all his tall, shadowy glory, sunglasses on despite the indoor lighting, like some brooding rock star who does his taxes in Latin.
"You’re late," I say, just to annoy him.
He doesn’t bite. "You’re early."
"Wrong," I say, spinning in my chair. "I’ve been here since dawn. Working. Socializing. Fending off tiny beasts and international incidents."
He raises an eyebrow. "Did you hit your head?"
"No," I say, then pause. "Well. There was some coffee related choking, but that was laughter induced."
Mitchell drops his bag on the counter and starts unpacking his gear like it personally offended him. "Do I want to know?"
I grin. "Probably not. But I’ll tell you anyway. Ivy stopped by."
That gets a flicker. Barely. But it’s there.
"Yeah?" he says, casual. Too casual.
"Yep," I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye. "She was chasing that crazy dog of hers. Full meltdown mode. It was glorious."
"Sounds about right."
"She also mistook me for you… in a way."
That gets a pause.
Mitchell looks up, lips twitching like he’s holding in something… amusement? Annoyance? Existential dread?
"She thought you were me?"
"Well, she was mid coffee, post dog chase, deeply frazzled. And I did offer her the tattoo chair, which she apparently took as code for… well, I’m guessing whatever happened with the two of you."
Mitchell exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
I keep going. Because I’m a menace.
"She asked if I was the one she slept with. Just… right out with it. No hesitation. I nearly died."
"Damn."
"I know. Best Tuesday I’ve had in a while."
He shakes his head, going back to his supplies. "You didn’t correct her?"
"Of course I corrected her. I’m not you, after all."
There’s a beat of silence while he threads his machine and adjusts his station. I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him like a cat watching a ball of yarn.
"So," I say eventually. "You seriously done with that?"
"That?" he repeats.
"Ivy."
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t throw anything.
Just shrugs. "Yeah."
"That’s it? Just… yeah?"
"I told you. It was one night. Doesn’t matter."
I tap my fingers on the counter. "Because if you don’t care, and she’s still orbiting the shop and Freddie’s place and, you know, looking very cute in oversized hoodies and doom energy… I might ask her out."
Mitchell finally meets my eye. Still no reaction. No flicker of emotion. His voice is cool.
"Do what you want."
Not permission, exactly. But not a warning either.
I nod slowly. "Noted."
He turns away. Ends the conversation without ending it.
But I’m already cataloguing her laugh. Her eyes. The way she flipped me off like it was foreplay and not a threat.
And if Mitchell’s so dead set on pretending it meant nothing?
Well. That’s not my problem.