Chapter 20
I drag my feet up the winding path to the estate, back aching from hours of pretending I gave a shit about golf stats and investment portfolios.
The day started with eighteen holes of pure torture, and watching my dad nail perfect drives down the fairway despite claiming he'd "only played twice before.
" Because of course Greg Miller would be naturally gifted at the most pretentious sport in existence.
"Not bad for a construction guy, huh?" Dad had gloated after sinking a thirty-foot putt, high-fiving Matt, who matched him stroke for stroke. The two of them spent the entire back nine discussing swing techniques like they'd discovered some secret father-son language I wasn't invited to learn.
"You're choking the club, Caleb," Dad had said, not even looking at my pathetic attempt to get the ball anywhere near the green. "Look how your brother is holding it."
Matt had jumped in with his big brother savior routine. "Dad, come on. If this was football, we'd both be eating dust right now."
"Football's over," Dad had replied, eyes narrowing. "And what good did it do him?"
And there it was, Matt's awkward laugh, the one he uses when he's trying to diffuse tension that's been brewing for years. As if he could swoop in after years of being MIA and fix everything.
"Hey, guys, come on. It's my wedding week," he’d said, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. "Let's just enjoy the beer and terrible golf scores."
I'd gritted my teeth and shanked another ball into the water hazard, wondering if I could "accidentally" clip Dad with my next swing.
Matt spent the rest of the afternoon shadowing Preston with all the eager loyalty of a corporate golden retriever, tossing out terms like "market projections" and "quarterly earnings" in a desperate attempt to impress him.
It was painful to watch my brother stumbling over himself to laugh at Preston's vulgar jokes and nod along to every smug comment about 'old money wisdom. '
Even his laugh changed from his usual snort-wheeze to a tight, polished chuckle better suited to a country club boardroom.
But the worst part? Preston didn't even notice.
He was too busy trading stories with Wyatt about their 'glory days at the club', and shared summers at the lake house.
Meanwhile, Matt kept pushing, dropping stock market references as if they might finally earn him a stamp of approval.
I've never seen my brother work so hard to be someone he's not.
Then there was Carter, who apparently thinks asking about Ivy every five minutes is totally normal bro behavior.
"So, your friend," he'd said, lips curled into a smirk. "She single? Because I could—"
"She's not interested." I'd cut him off with a look that made Jefferson snicker into his craft beer.
"You sure about that?" Carter had pressed. "Because Virginia said—"
"Drop it."
Which, of course, only made Jefferson's sneer deepen. "What's wrong, Miller? Scared of a little competition?"
Now, hours later, I'm finally escaping what has to be the longest Tuesday in human history.
I push open the door to our room, already dreaming about a hot shower, and finding something mind-numbing to watch until my brain stops replaying Jefferson's snide comments. But I freeze in the doorway, caught off guard by two things.
One: Ivy's moved all my pillows and blankets to the bed, arranged with a quiet care that punches harder than it should. She probably didn't think twice—saw me curled up like a pretzel and decided to fix it.
Two: She's now stretched out across the very couch I was trying to survive on, phone on speaker, mid-conversation.
"You do sound jealous," Amelia's voice crackles through the speaker.
"I mean, I get it," Vinnie chimes in. "If someone was talking about my man like that—"
Ivy's eyes snap up, catching me standing there with what I'm sure is the world's most annoying smirk on my face. Her cheeks flush as she scrambles to end the call. "Love you, bye!"
"Wait, get some of that di—" Amelia's voice cuts off mid-sentence as Ivy throws her phone across the room.
"Should I be offended I missed the punchline?" I ask, enjoying how the pink in her cheeks deepens to red.
"It's nothing," she says quickly, sitting up and smoothing her oversized shirt. Today she's paired it with actual sleep shorts, which is somehow worse than yesterday's shirt-only situation. "How was the groomsmen bonding?"
I let out a groan and collapse face-first onto the bed. "If I have to hear one more story about Carter's hedge fund or Jefferson's yacht club membership, I'm walking back to Hallow's End."
Ivy laughs, and the knot inside me eases just a little. "Tell me about it. Sarah seems nice. Everyone else, on the other hand . . ."
"Yeah, she's nice." I roll onto my back, staring at the ornate ceiling. "Too nice, maybe. Matt's different around her. All . . ." I wave my hand vaguely, "pressed suits and business jargon. Like he's trying to be someone else."
"I don't think that's Sarah's fault," Ivy says, that gentle defender-of-the-universe tone creeping into her voice. "She told me some stuff today that—"
I scrub a hand over my face. "Can we not talk about any of them? I've hit my rich people quota for the day."
"Okay." There's a pause, and I can practically hear her thinking. "We could watch a movie?"
"God, yes." I prop myself up on my elbows. "But please not another possessed doll thing. My brain can't handle demon Barbies right now."
Her eyes light up in that way that means I'm definitely about to regret everything. "Final Destination."
"Never seen it."
"What?" She sits up straighter, outraged. "How have you . . . never mind. We're watching it. You're about to unlock so many new irrational fears."
"Perfect. Just what I needed after today." I push myself up. "Let me take a shower first."
My stomach drops at the word 'shower,' memories from last night flooding back with brutal clarity. The steam. Her name on my tongue. The way guilt and want twisted together.
Not now. Not fucking now.
I grab clean clothes and sprint to the bathroom, desperate to outrun the echo of last night's weakness. The same marble walls mock me as I crank the water to ice cold, refusing to let my mind wander down that dangerous path again.
Serial killers and possessed dolls. Think about that instead.
When I emerge fifteen minutes later, Ivy's twisted on the couch, trying to make herself small in a way that sets my teeth on edge. Because Ivy doesn't do this. Doesn't create careful distance or polite boundaries. Not with me.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She startles, eyes wide. "Getting ready to watch a movie?"
"From there?" I gesture at how she's contorted herself. "You can barely see the TV, and your neck's going to hate you tomorrow. The bed's right here."
"I'm fine."
"Since when are you 'fine' on the couch instead of sprawled across my space?" The words come out sharper than intended, because something about this careful new distance makes my skin itch.
"I thought—"
"Nope." Before she finishes whatever excuse she's spinning, I cross the room in two strides and scoop her up. She lets out a squeak that has no business being that adorable, as I toss her onto the bed, doing my best to ignore how perfectly she fits against my chest. "There. Your spine owes me one."
"Caleb!" She bounces once, hair wild, cheeks flushed, and fuck—I need to look somewhere else. "You can't just—"
"Watch me." I drop beside her, deliberately sprawling into her territory. "Now hit play before I start wondering why you're suddenly allergic to sitting next to me."
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. For a second, I think she might tell me what's she thinking. Instead, she snatches the remote and mutters something that sounds a lot like, "bossy asshole."
I grin, pretending my pulse doesn't spike when she finally relaxes beside me. Because this—her in my space, dishing out sarcasm—this is how it's always been. How it should be.
Even if having her this close makes me reckless enough to wonder what other sounds I could pull from her. Ones that aren't indignant squeaks.
"So," I say as the movie starts, trying to ignore how the mattress shifts as she settles beside me, "what kind of fears am I unlocking? Because I already don't trust planes."
"Oh, I know." She grins, but there's something different about it tonight. Softer, almost shy. "That's why I picked second one. No plane crashes in this one."
Something warm spreads through my chest at that. The fact that she remembered; that she thought about it. But before I can examine that feeling too closely, someone dies on screen in what has to be the most elaborate death scene I've ever witnessed. I grab onto the distraction like a lifeline.
"What the actual fuck?" I sit up straighter, which is a mistake because now she's tucked into my side. "That's not even physically possible!"
"Oh, just wait." Her breath skates across my neck, and my cock twitches in betrayal. "It gets so much worse."
An hour in, I've learned to fear approximately seventeen new everyday objects, but the real threat is her shifting closer every few minutes, completely unaware.
She stretches and her shirt rides up, exposing a pale line of waist that makes my mouth water.
When she settles back, her ass grazes my thigh, and my fingers dig into my leg to keep from grabbing her.
"See?" She gestures at the screen, where someone just got obliterated by a chain of events involving a garbage truck and barbed wire. "This is why I always check my rearview mirror like fifty times. Death gets creative."
"That's not even—how would that even—physics doesn't work that way!"
"Tell that to Death." She turns toward me, cheeks flushed pink, and I swear she realizes how close we are because her breath catches.
For one dangerous moment, we're frozen like that, heat building between us until the air hangs heavy with it.
She jerks back, tucking her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.
"You know what's funny? The writer got the idea when . . ." Her voice trails off in a yawn.
"Don't you dare fall asleep," I warn. "You can't leave me alone with this chaos."
"M'not sleeping." She blinks hard, trying to focus. "Just resting my eyes."
"Sure. That's what you said during Annabelle, and you drooled on my shoulder."
"Did not." She pouts, and dammit, my eyes lock onto that bottom lip before I even realize what I'm doing.
Five minutes later, her head drops to my shoulder and her hair brushes my neck, her chest rising and falling softly against my arm. My whole body hums with awareness. Because after last night's shower fantasy, even the smallest touch crackles with tension.
She makes this soft, sleepy sound that's been haunting my dreams, and burrows closer.
Her hand finds my thigh, fingers curling into my sweats as if she's claiming territory, and my blood runs hot.
Because this isn't like all those other times—legs draped over mine during movie marathons, casual touches that meant nothing.
This time, every point of contact burns.
This time, I'm hyperaware that there's nothing casual about the way my body responds to her.
Fuck it.
I reach for the remote, clicking off the TV. The room plunges into darkness and Ivy stirs as I move to get up.
"Stay," she mumbles, fingers catching my wrist. Her grip is sleep-clumsy but insistent. "Warm."
That one word demolishes every defense I've built. "Just getting comfortable, Shortcake." My voice comes out rough. "Not going anywhere."
I strip down to my boxers, aware of her presence even in the dark. When I slide back into bed, she immediately gravitates toward me like I'm magnetic north, and she's been waiting to find true direction.
Her warm skin molds against mine, and my cock throbs in approval. But it's different than the desperate need from the shower. This is slow-burning ache that begs me to take my time. To memorize every inch of her while she trusts me enough to sleep in my arms.
I let my hand drift to her hip, thumb stroking the strip of skin where her shirt's ridden up. She sighs and presses closer, leg hooking over mine. My fingers sketch lazy circles on her thigh, goosebumps chasing every touch.
"Caleb," she breathes.
Her hand splays across my chest, right over my hammering heart, and I wonder if she can feel how much I want her. I brush hair from her face, earning a soft sigh.
She nuzzles into my neck, lips grazing skin, and every muscle in my body locks. "This is nice," she murmurs and it nearly undoes me.
My eyes grow heavy as the night deepens, but I stay awake to have a few more minutes of this. Of Ivy soft and warm in my arms, of letting myself imagine what it would be like if this wasn't just for tonight.
Tomorrow, I'll hate myself for crossing this line. But right now, nothing else matters except how perfect this is. How right.
How goddamn inevitable.