Chapter 5
SEBASTIAN
I haven’t been thinking about Ivy at all.
Okay, a little bit.
But that’s only because I’m wondering about her clinging to my sweatshirt like I handed her an engagement ring.
That’s weird, right?
Whatever. Life goes on.
A week passes and I haven’t seen her anywhere. Which may be because I go to work and straight home afterward. I lock all the doors except the patio and balcony. I don’t know why I leave those unlocked.
The next weekend proves that the universe has a sense of humor—and it’s aimed directly at me.
I’m halfway down the wooded path, breath steady, pace controlled, when I see Ivy walking toward me like this is a perfectly normal occurrence and not a calculated assault on my equilibrium.
She’s wearing black leggings and that fitted bright pink jacket, her hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the cold. She smiles when she spots me—bright and effortless—and lifts a hand in a cheerful wave.
It’s hard not to stare at that smile. Especially those bright pink lips surrounding it.
I slow without meaning to.
I wave back—and immediately regret it.
She passes me with a soft “Morning.”
I nod like a man whose brain hasn’t just short-circuited.
I keep running.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t turn around.
I turn around.
She’s walking away now, easy stride, hips swaying in a way that I have no business noticing. The leggings she’s wearing should be illegal. Or banned from wooded trails where men are trying to mind their own business.
I face forward again, my jaw tight.
It’s fine.
Everything’s fine.
I finish my run in peace, spotting no one.
Including Ivy.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I tell myself I’m relieved, but there’s a flicker of disappointment as I head up the deck steps and enter through the patio door.
I head straight for the shower, hoping hot water will burn the image of her in those leggings from my brain.
Down, boy, I lecture the part of my anatomy that very much likes Ivy in tight pants.
Setting the temperature on hellfire, I stand beneath the scalding spray, wincing and cursing.
But it doesn’t help.
I back the temperature to a more manageable one and stand beneath the spray, willing myself to relax.
I glare at my hard dick. “This is ridiculous. Stop it.”
He absolutely does not listen.
Gritting my teeth, I wrap my hand around myself. “Fine. But only because you’ve been neglected. We are not thinking about her.”
As I stroke myself from base to tip, I shake my head. If anyone overheard me, they’d think I was insane.
I grab the body wash and pour a generous amount into my hand, then stroke myself again.
That feels so much better.
Instantly, the image of the dark-haired, green-eyed woman I saved at the bar enters my head. The one who has my sweatshirt. The one who shall remain nameless because I’m not thinking about her.
Okay, I’m a liar.
I am thinking about her.
Fuck it. It’s just a fantasy.
I pump myself faster, pretending it’s her hand wrapped around my hard dick.
It’s embarrassing how quickly I go from excited to completely over the edge, but thinking of her has me shooting ropes of cum within minutes.
Shame hits me the second the orgasm is over.
I bow my head.
I don’t get involved. Relationships are way too complicated, and Ivy seems… well, kind of like a stalker who’d push for a relationship. And chain me to the bed. Break my feet with a sledgehammer if I tried to escape.
You know the type. The Kathy Bates from “Misery” woman.
And that’s the last thing I need in my life.
It’s just a fantasy, I reassure myself. That’s all.
She’s pretty. You’re lonely and horny.
Satisfied, I finish showering.
I dress, grab my list, and head to the grocery store with one goal: efficiency. In. Out. No distractions.
Things are going according to plan, until I reach the produce aisle and stop short when I see her.
Ivy’s standing in front of the bell peppers, holding one red and one yellow, her head tilted as she weighs them like they’re philosophical questions.
I should leave.
I should absolutely leave.
On the double.
Instead, I drift to the broccoli beside her like a moth with a death wish.
When she looks over, I feign surprise with the enthusiasm of a cardboard box.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”
Her face lights up. “Hey, stranger.”
My chest does something annoying.
“Bell peppers,” she says, lifting them. “Thoughts?”
“They’re… peppers,” I reply.
She laughs. “Insightful.”
I grab broccoli I don’t even need. “They both look fine.”
“Excellent,” she declares. “You’ve solved it.”
We make small talk about the weather. The trail. How Hollow Creek is deceptively quiet. I nod at appropriate intervals, acutely aware that I am voluntarily participating in conversation. With her.
When I finally walk away, my inner voice immediately starts yelling.
What the hell did you just do that for?
You could have avoided her like you do everyone else.
I forget half my list. I circle aisles twice. I stand in front of the pasta for an unreasonable amount of time, staring at it like it might explain itself.
At checkout, I’m mentally reassuring myself that I still don’t like people. After all, I haven’t said a word to the cashier, unless a grunting sound when she asked if I found everything okay counts as conversation.
Movement catches my eye through the large front windows.
Ivy approaches a sleek black car, a couple of bags in each hand. She bounces toward it like a cheerleader about to wave pom poms, completely oblivious to everything around her.
An older gentleman steps out, takes the bags, and loads them in the trunk. Then he opens the door for her.
A memory of the conversation we had outside the bar hits me.
Her driver. Of course.
She slides into the seat, then turns her head as if she feels my stare. Our eyes lock through the glass.
Oh, shit.
Look away.
Look away.
I don’t.
She lifts a hand and waves.
I wave back.
The driver closes the door and walks around the car. Through the tinted window, I feel her gaze linger, warming my skin.
I finally look away, heat crawling up my neck.
Stop encouraging this.
You don’t like people. Remember?
The cashier asks how my day is going.
I grunt.
She stops making small talk and gives me my total. I slide my card through the machine, then grab my bags and leave, clinging to the lie like a life raft.
I still don’t like people.
I’m just… tolerating Ivy.
That’s all.