Chapter 12 Ivy
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ivy
By the time the cornhole chaos dies down and we’ve officially earned our dubious victory as Team CornHub, yes, that’s still happening, the whole crew migrates to the patio behind The Hollow like it’s some kind of afterparty for beanbag gladiators.
The sun’s doing that warm, glowy, golden hour thing like it thinks it can trick me into having emotions. It’s mostly working.
I’m a little sun drunk, a little seltzer drunk, and more than a little dazed from the fact that I didn’t humiliate myself in front of half the town. Or maybe I did, but nobody’s telling me yet. That’s always a possibility in Coyote Glen.
Penny’s off chasing Karl’s Popsicle hyped chaos, Jesse’s disappeared into the sunset with Vanessa again, shock, and the crowd is slowly peeling off… some heading home, some loitering for gossip, some chasing toddlers who’ve gone feral on lemonade and pure spite.
And somehow… I end up at a table with Timothy.
Not on purpose, exactly. It’s just that we both sat down and didn’t get back up. Which isn’t suspicious until you realize you’re the last ones left and you’re halfway through a conversation about accidental tattoo typos and oh wow, now you’re laughing too hard to stand.
"And the guy still tipped you?" I manage between gasps. "Even after you inked ‘belive’ on his arm forever?"
Timothy just shrugs, that damn grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s not fair how easy it comes to him. "He said it made him look deep. Like he was trying to tell people to be livin’ in themselves."
I nearly snort my drink. "I hate that."
"I know," he says, pretending to be serious. "Me too. But I let him leave happy and I got burrito money out of it, so really, who’s the real loser?"
"Oh wow." I wipe tears from the corner of my eye and sink back into my chair, letting the last of the sun hit my face. "This town is going to kill me. Slowly. With weirdness and carbs."
"I mean, there are worse ways to go."
I’m laughing harder than I should be. My cheeks hurt. My thighs are warm from the sun and his knee just brushed mine under the table. Once. Twice. Probably an accident.
Probably.
But I don’t move.
Neither does he.
He leans back in his chair, stretches and I get a full view of sun kissed forearms, that tantalizing little dip where his biceps meet his T shirt sleeve, and the neck of his shirt sliding just enough to tease the edge of a collarbone tattoo I haven’t seen before.
My mouth goes dry.
"I have questions," I say, trying to sound normal. "Like… how many people in this town are walking around with tragic spelling mistakes thanks to you?"
"Only a few," he says, eyes sparking. "And they all love me for it. I’m charming. Irresistible, really."
"Mm, I don’t know." I tilt my head. "I’ve resisted you so far."
His smile slips into something lower, slower. "Have you?"
And okay. That? That hits low. Somewhere just under my ribs.
I hold his gaze. "Mostly."
"Guess I’ll have to try harder."
Oh no.
There’s a pause.
A long one.
It crackles. He’s still smiling, but it’s not light anymore. It’s heavy. Charged. His eyes drop to my mouth like he’s thinking about how it would taste, and my whole body reacts before my brain can catch up.
And it’s not just lust. Not just attraction. It’s him.
Because he’s funny, yeah, but he’s also gentle. Steady. The kind of guy who notices when you’re overwhelmed and says something just stupid enough to make you laugh. The kind who looks at you like you’re not something to fix, but something to understand.
And it’s messing me up.
Bad.
"I shouldn’t be here," I say, softer now, eyes dropping to the rim of my cup. "I mean, it’s complicated, right?"
I don’t mention Mitchell, but I’m sure he gets what I’m talking about.
I don’t think I need to even consider Freddie here, since that was clearly just a moment of madness.
He nods once, slowly. Like he does get it. Like he gets me.
"Complicated doesn’t scare me," he says, voice low. "People are complicated. Life’s messy. That doesn’t make it wrong."
That makes something stutter in my chest.
I try to laugh it off, push it away. "You say that now, but you haven’t seen me panic buy three gallons of ice cream and sob through reruns of Kitchen Nightmares."
"I’m great with ice cream," he says, leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. "And I’ll yell at bad restaurants right along with you."
Dammit.
He’s not supposed to be this charming. Or this hot. Or this genuine. Not when I’m supposed to be swearing off all forms of messy entanglement for at least six to twelve business months.
I look down, fiddling with the edge of my paper cup. "You know I came here to escape everything, right? A breakup. A city I hated. My own lack of life skills. My last boss called me ‘unmanageable.’" I glance up. "She wasn’t wrong."
Timothy just smiles, soft and warm. "You don’t seem unmanageable to me."
"That’s because you haven’t seen me try to assemble IKEA furniture."
"Even better. I’ll bring the Allen wrench and a fire extinguisher."
I laugh again, but it’s shakier now. Thinner around the edges. The kind of laugh you make right before the truth slips out.
"I think I’m just tired of being the one who wants more," I say, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. "Like… I get attached, and they don’t. Or I try too hard, or I pretend not to care, and either way, I end up the idiot in the end."
It’s quiet for a second. I wish I could suck the words back in.
Then Timothy says, "Maybe it’s not you. Maybe they just weren’t capable of seeing how rare you are."
I stare at him.
He shrugs, but there’s no playfulness now. "You walk into a room and light it up. You act like you’re invisible, but you’re the one everyone’s watching. Even when you’re pissed off. Especially when you’re pissed off."
My face is hot. My stomach’s doing weird rollercoaster flips.
"You don’t know me that well," I whisper.
"Sure I do," he says. "I’ve been paying attention."
And then his fingers brush mine again, just a featherlight touch, knuckle to knuckle, and my pulse trips like I’ve stuck my finger in an outlet.
I shouldn’t do this.
I should absolutely not do this.
I lean in anyway.
So does he.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first. Just the press of his mouth to mine, like he’s making sure it’s okay. Like he’s giving me the chance to back out.
I don’t.
I kiss him back, hungry and sure, hands curling in the front of his shirt as I pull him closer.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, low, wrecked, and deepens the kiss, his palm sliding up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing under my ear like he wants to memorize the shape of me.
His lips are warm. His tongue slick. The kiss isn’t frantic… it’s focused. Intentional.
Hot as hell.
And when he shifts forward and our knees bump again, his hand finds my thigh under the table, just a whisper of pressure and heat… and man, it’s almost too much.
I break the kiss with a gasp, forehead tipping to his, breath coming fast.
We sit there like that for a second, our drinks forgotten, the sounds of the bar fading away behind us.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
But when I finally open my eyes, his are already on me.
And for the first time since I got to this town, I don’t feel like a disaster in progress.
I feel like maybe… maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
"Come with me?"
I slide my hand into his. Does he even need to ask when he’s looking at me like that?
The second his car door clicks shut, I’m pinned.
Not by force, just presence. Heat. That storm in Timothy’s eyes that says you’re not getting out of this untouched.
He kisses me like he’s been holding back for hours, days, maybe since that first meeting in Freddie’s living room, and I let it crash over me, open and aching and dizzy with it.
His mouth is hot, devouring. His hand slides up my thigh like he’s not just touching me, he’s claiming me. My dress is bunched around my hips in seconds, breath snagging in my throat as cool air hits bare skin.
No panties. Not that I planned on this…
His hand freezes at the top of my thigh. He pulls back just enough to look at me. His voice is low, raw. "You showed up like this?"
My breath stutters. "It was hot out."
A wicked smile curves across his lips. "You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?"
My cheeks flame.
It hits low, sharp and sudden. Not shame. Not exactly. Just the shock of being seen like that. Called out.
And fuck if it doesn’t make my pulse pound.
"I… shut up," I mumble.
He grins wider. "Oh, sweetheart. I think you like it when I talk to you like that."
I don’t say anything.
Can’t.
Because he’s already sliding two fingers between my thighs, dragging through the wet heat of me, slow and deliberate.
"Oh yeah," he murmurs, voice like velvet dipped in sin. "You’re soaked. Fucking dripping. From just my words?"
I gasp. He’s not wrong. And it’s doing things to me… hot, electric, bad things.
His fingers tease, just barely inside me, enough to make me roll my hips with a desperate sound I don’t recognize.
"Look at you," he breathes, eyes locked on mine. "Making a mess on my hand. You act so put together, but you’re filthy under it, aren’t you?"
I should hate this. It’s wild.
But I’m unraveling.
And I don’t want him to stop.
I drag him down by his shirt and kiss him like it’ll make the burn in my stomach go away. It doesn’t.
He groans into my mouth and slips his fingers in deep, curling them perfectly. I cry out against his lips, hips lifting off the seat. His palm presses against my clit, grinding just right.
"That’s it," he growls. "Such a good girl when you’re desperate."
I moan, completely wrecked by that one phrase.
Good girl.
My body clenches. My whole nervous system lights up like it’s just discovered a secret switch labeled yes, please.
"You like that too," he whispers, grinning against my cheek. "Being told you’re good… right after I tell you how dirty you are."
I nod helplessly, mouth open, thighs shaking.