Chapter Five
Ivy
Good news. The ballroom looks stunning.
Blue-green light ripples across the polished floor as paper kelp sways from the ceiling in thick, tangled waves. Schools of fish swim past lush coral on LED screen walls that surround the stage. It’s not just decor: it’s full submersion without the wetsuit.
Bad news.
Cole Hartwell’s hand was inside my dress exactly fifty-three minutes ago. His fingers traced the curve of my breast, and his touch lingers like a bad decision I’d make again.
Let’s just say my nipples RSVP’d to tonight’s sleeping arrangements with a hard yes.
It’s not my fault. It’s physics. Cufflink-related, involuntary physics. If I think about it for one more second, I will catch on fire, and HR does not cover spontaneous human combustion.
My mind welcomes the smoky jazz drifting in from overhead speakers. A sea of stunning men and women—dressed to distract—sparkle under the chandeliers. Candlelight flirts with linen-draped tables, orbiting the dance floor, daring partygoers to seize the night.
The monitor station hums in front of me. Three screens are glowing, timeline taped along the side in precise, neat blocks like a battle plan. The donor overlay flashes, tested and retested. The chat queue keeps refreshing, just as it should. When the moment comes, I am ready. Triple-checked.
Juliette works the perimeter with her clipboard, her immaculate posture carving a straight line through the arriving guests. Her expression is the practiced neutral of someone cataloguing damages before they happen.
She steps onto the riser. Stops at the statue.
A sculpted California sea lion is poised on a rock formation, so lifelike you half expect it to demand a fish. Hand-crafted by a ceramic artist named Lyra, who donated it because she grew up watching sea lions from her grandmother’s porch. It’s her favorite piece.
The foam cannon at the base hisses, releasing a low, controlled drift of mist every thirty seconds that rolls over the rocks. In the blue-green gala light, it looks exactly like it’s supposed to: as if the ocean reaches the stage (but mango scented).
Juliette watches a simulated wave cycle. Foam sprays, spreads, dissolves. She gives one crisp nod, checks her clipboard, and moves on.
Phew! I exhale a forgotten breath.
Cole is stage right, manhandling a stubborn spotlight. Why does he have to look that good in a tux? He hasn’t glanced my way once. Which is… mature. Responsible. Exactly what two rational adults should do. And I’m totally not noticing his forearms as he torques that bolt. Definitely not.
His cufflink glints under the light, and my nipples say hello.
Traitors. Both of you. We talked about this.
The air shifts.
Dr. Sienna Alvarez is here.
Loose curls. Green dress. She cuts through the room of glamorous strangers—calculated, unbothered, dangerous—the same way I bet she navigates surf rescue operations.
She stops beside me, surveying the gala. “Not bad. Tell me this rakes in cash, or I’m repurposing those centerpieces for The Salty Old Sea Hag.” She pauses. “The Salty Old Sea Hag is our boat.”
I smile. “Yes. Fundraising is the goal.”
“The Hag’s shower is actively hostile,” she whispers. “The water pressure is her petty revenge. After a week at sea, my curls surrender to her wrath.”
I laugh.
“Who knows? We could fund an entire remodel off one generous donor,” I say. “Hot water. Maybe even conditioner.”
“Don’t you get my hopes up now.”
She muses over her dress. “Haven’t worn one of these in years. Sea lions don’t judge your wardrobe, only your fish-throwing skills.”
There’s something almost shy under the humor. Not insecure, just unused to this environment.
“You look fantastic,” I say. “Like, excellent-water-pressure good.”
“Thanks.” She smirks, like she’s sizing me up as competition. “Don’t do anything fun without me. I need to go find my small-talk juice so I can get through this.”
Every head pivots to track her walk to the bar.
Everyone except Cole.
His eyes are on me. Only me. It’s that same predatory look he had in the hotel room before he walked out. The one I’ve been actively trying not to think about. His blue eyes are dark, shadowed, and so intensely hungry they turn my lungs to lead.
I watch his fingers flex around the casing of his camera. It’s a small, rhythmic squeeze, barely noticeable, but my body reacts like it’s been waiting.
A slow, dangerous pull settles in my stomach.
I’m caught in the suffocating undertow of his stare. I should look away. I should move. My mind unspools into memories of his hands on me.
What would it feel like if he really touched me? Not just a brush of skin, but everywhere.
I catch myself. Stop being so pathetic. You’re reading into that squeeze. He’s probably thinking about aperture settings, or more likely, how much he hates your guts.
Delusional or not, I can’t stop looking back. His gaze carries a thread of tension that’s about to snap, and I’m trying to convince myself that those eyes aren’t tracking the line of my throat.
My mind is quietly unraveling. Heat coils low and tight in my belly, a slow-burn pressure that makes my breath hitch. Then, he drags his tongue over his bottom lip, and I don’t just see it.
I feel it.
And then—
The doors burst open, camera flashes ignite, and in struts Blaze Tate. White tux. Top buttons undone. A woman on each arm. The wave of relief that crashes over me is almost shameful.
Bless you, Blaze.
I’m not even irritated he’s late. He’s saved me from my own body’s betrayal, or worse, my brain’s dangerous fantasies.
“Dr. O!” Blaze bellows, steering his entourage as he goes.
Passing the sea lion statue, he shoots out a hand and slaps a big high-five on its fin like they’re old buddies, never breaking stride.
He deposits the women at the bar with Orson, who’s gripping a glass of water like it’s the only stable object in the universe.
Blaze claps him on the shoulder. “My dude! My main man! These ladies are missing out on your epicness. Let’s fix that, yeah?”
Orson blinks at them. “I study pinnipeds.”
“See? TOLD YA! He’s smart as shit.” Blaze slams him with a bro-hug. “Total fucking package, am I right?!”
The women move closer, and Orson’s left eye twitches like it’s trying to escape his face.
I’m in motion, mic pack in hand, pushing through the crowd before Blaze can get away.
I grab his elbow. “I need two minutes.”
“Ivy.” He lights up. “Yo, you look INSANE tonight. Like, ‘damn’ insane!”
“Thank you, I—”
“Starting the pre-show meeting without me, Stopwatch?”
I close my eyes. Breathe in.
Fucking Cole.
“I’m wiring our talent,” I say without turning around.
“I’ve got it,” Cole says, stepping closer. “Hand me the pack.”
I pivot automatically. “I’m already doing it.”
“And now you’re not.” He plucks it from my grip, grinning.
I growl and snatch it back. “Touch it again. I dare you.”
Blaze’s gaze ping-pongs between us as if he has front-row tickets to Wimbledon.
We stare at each other for one beat too long.
“I don’t have time for your games, Hartwell.” I reach for Blaze’s waistband.
So does Cole.
We scramble against the fabric of Blaze’s pants when our hands smack together.
Right. Over. His. Dick.
Nobody moves.
“Bros be kicking the night off right!” Blaze proclaims.
“Shit. Sorry,” I grind out, yanking the pack left.
Cole shoves the clip right, and the wire snaps taut between us in a tiny, deeply undignified tug-of-war. Blaze lets out a rough laugh.
“Do your thing. I like to watch.”
“You’re going to break it,” I hiss.
“You’re about to pants him.”
“I am not!”
Blaze peeks down at the mic pack, then at us. “Wait. Are you two—”
“No!” we shout.
“Okay. Cool. Just checking the vibe.”
“Hands. Off,” I say, calm and lethal.
Cole’s fingers slide away first.
Scoreboard: Ivy.
I secure the pack properly, slide the clip into place, and smooth the wire up under Blaze’s lapel. The earpiece pops into his right ear, and I adjust it so it sits flush.
“Blaze.” I pin him with a look. “The speech is on the teleprompter. Read it. Exactly as written. The words scrolling in front of you are your best friends. Do not freestyle. Do not improvise about dolphins’ dating lives.”
“Hold up. But if I get, like, ocean poetry—”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“Blaze.”
He nods. “Teleprompter. Got it, boss.”
“When you hear my voice in your ear—”
“And mine,” Cole interjects, tapping his own headset mic.
“Right. Us,” I grit out. “That’s us adjusting something live. I’ll say things like ‘slow down’ or ‘go to Orson now.’ Just do it. Don’t say ‘okay, Ivy’ on camera. Don’t nod at the ceiling. Just absorb it and move on.”
“Copy that, cap’n.” He flashes finger guns. “No chatting with the ghost in my ear.”
“These sea lions are counting on you tonight, superstar,” Cole says.
Blaze salutes with both hands. “For the flipper squad!”
“We go live in three minutes,” I tell him. “Let’s have a great show. And Blaze… live chat shoutout in the first thirty. Make them feel seen.”
He puts a hand over his heart solemnly. “Ivy, I never forget my fans. Ever. They’re my ride-or-dies. My sea bros. My besties.”
“Great.”
“My chosen family.”
“Perfect.”
“The Blaze Nation does not get left beh—”
“Blaze.”
He grins. “Yo, yo. Locked and loaded, my dude! Teleprompter, chat, flippers. I was born for this.”
God help us all.
My eyes find Cole. The camera dangles from his fingers, his jacket straining over forearms I’ve spent the last hour pretending don’t exist. He stands there, cocky, like he’s holding the detonator to my last nerve.
“Don’t mess this up, Hartwell.”
“Most people say good luck.”
“Most people don’t make me consider arson.”
“Still owe me that apology drink.”
“You’ll be waiting until sea lions evolve opposable thumbs.”
His eyes flicker. Amused. Infuriating.
I spin on my heel before my face can betray me.
He is not your problem. The livestream is your problem.
My station closes around me. My headset is on, three monitors are buzzing, and the donation overlay is armed and gorgeous.