Chapter Seven
Ivy
The lawn is a sea of skin—bikinis and board shorts set against the Bellwether’s iconic red roof.
There’s a pulse to the crowd, bodies in motion, voices carrying, the kind of energy that builds fast and doesn’t ask permission.
If this were a spring break reality show, Blaze Tate would absolutely be the host.
“ALRIGHT, MY SEA LEGEND SQUAD!” Blaze skids to a halt, mic in hand, grinning like he just caught the perfect wave. “If you’re getting roped up with someone like a human pretzel, YOU’RE OFFICIALLY IN THE ENTANGLEMENT GAMES!”
The audience roars as the Pacific glitters behind him.
A hundred sun-flushed, thirsty singles in strategically minimal swimwear—designed to accentuate assets (and yes, asses)—cluster together, laughing and flirting, while hotel staff pair them off and loop colored rope around their bodies.
One couple tests their binding and immediately stumbles. The girl gasps, then crash-lands on his lap. Neither of them seems to mind, judging by their giggles.
“Hell yeah!” Blaze points at them. “That’s the secret sauce for love, my dudes! Now I wanna know, WHO GOT LUCKY LAST NIGHT?!”
He drops the mic to his waist and starts thrusting toward the crowd, grin fully unhinged.
The people rally with him. Hands shoot up. Men whistle. Someone howls like they just won a rodeo. Music thumps through the speakers.
Blaze whoops, spinning toward a newly roped couple. “THAT’S WHAT THIS WEEKEND IS ABOUT, BABY! Connection. Chemistry. And getting your sexy body tied up and oiled down BECAUSE WE GO LIVE IN TWENTY!”
The energy is buzzing, but damn it's hot.
It’s ninety degrees out and barely ten a.m. I’m parked at the production table under the shade canopy, monitors glowing. I’d love to let my hair down. Party. Enjoy my iced coffee. But it’s so hot outside, “iced” now means lukewarm, bean-flavored backwash.
My thighs are fusing to this plastic folding chair. I attempt to lift my leg—
SCHLUPPFRRRT.
The noise is wet and glorpy.
I jerk upright, scanning for witnesses.
A guy three feet away gives me a tight “I heard that” smile… then pretends to straighten his flip flops.
This is why I wanted to wear my linen pantsuit. It’s professional, breathable, and dignity-preserving.
But no.
Here I am in my Dare4Change red tee and jean shorts, sweating as if I’m under interrogation. And showing weakness? Not happening. I’d rather collapse from heatstroke than give Cole the upper hand.
I press my iced coffee to the side of my neck.
The condensation isn’t helping.
Because now I’m thinking about his thumb.
The water sluicing off his hand as he pulled me close in the pool, his calloused thumb stroking my bottom lip, testing how far I’d let him go.
His dark eyes locked onto mine and tracked every hitch of my breath.
He was seconds away from dragging me under and ruining me right there.
My brain stuttered. I forgot how to speak, how to breathe. I forgot every logical reason why Cole Hartwell’s mouth should never, ever, under any circumstances, touch mine.
My thighs clench under the table, heat pooling low in my belly.
Why can’t I stop picturing his lips all over me?
I won’t fall for it. He was flirting for the promotion. A tactic. A game. Nothing more.
So why does it feel like more?
Dammit. Focus, Ivy. Don’t let him distract you. You need to own this event. To prove your instincts are just as good (no, better) than Cole’s.
As if summoned, Mr. Thumb-erton appears beside me. “Is your headset dead?” Cole asks. “Been trying to reach you for ten minutes. Are you ignoring me?”
“Please. That would require more attention than you deserve.” I reach up and smack the earpiece. It crackles to life. “Trust me, you’re not even a blip on my radar.”
He stands effortlessly, jeans molded to his hips, a black T-shirt glued to his chest, every muscle on display.
Black?! In this scorching heat.
“I’m working, Hartwell. You should try it.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been locked on those monitors like you’ve been commissioned to do a portrait of my ass. If you want a better view, all you gotta do is ask.”
“Ha! You and your tight pants can keep begging for attention, but that bulge is 90% hype and 10% delusion.”
“That so? Easy to confirm. Say the word, and I’ll show you exactly—”
“Ms. Ellison. Mr. Hartwell.”
The voice slices through the air. A guillotine through butter. Juliette Vexford. Shit.
She stands under the canopy entrance in a crisp silk blazer, posture perfect, clipboard in hand. Not a single hair out of place in her honey-blonde bun, despite the sun’s best efforts.
I quickly stand to attention beside Cole, but my chair has other plans. It comes with me, suctioned to my sweaty thighs, clinging like a needy boyfriend. The chair releases—
FRRRR-AP. PLIP-SCHLOOB. FLORP.
The sound is disturbingly moist. Like an octopus high-fiving a pile of mashed bananas. Cole snorts (asshole). Juliette’s lip twitches.
Just fucking perfect.
I quietly pray for a sinkhole to open.
Juliette clears her throat. “The damage assessment from yesterday.” She flips a page on her clipboard.
“The custom hand-painted mural near the entrance has a tire track through it. The lobby’s Venetian side table—antique, 1887, irreplaceable—is now missing two legs.
I trust you understand the gravity of that statement. ”
Cole winces.
“The ballroom chandeliers required emergency cleaning. Three acoustic panels are waterlogged beyond use. The Persian runner outside Ballroom B is being decontaminated, though the stench of mango-scented bubble solution lingers. The hand-carved welcome podium sustained what our facilities manager called ‘significant trauma.’”
My stomach sinks. “Ms. Vexford, I—”
“One more incident.” Her tone is flat. The threat is crystal clear. “And Dare4Change’s programming will be cancelled and replaced with our standard singles’ events. Candle-lit dinners. Wine tasting. Guided sunset walks.”
The idea of live streaming that boring-ass content flashes through my brain.
Dead air.
Awkward small talk.
Donations plummeting.
I can’t let that happen. If this weekend tanks, my promotion goes with it.
“Nothing will get broken,” I say quickly. “Today’s first activity is outside. On the lawn. Open space, ocean backdrop, no antique furniture within a hundred feet. It’s just rope—”
“And baby oil,” Cole adds.
Juliette’s eyebrows shoot up a full centimeter and my pulse spikes. Why the hell did he poke the bear!
“The oil is for the ropes!” I squeak. “It helps with the knots! Makes them easier to untangle! Safety first! Purely to prevent accidents. It’s uh, also like sunscreen for ropes—definitely not skin!
I guess you could call it rope lube—innocent rope lube!
Not body lube! It’s oil! Normal oil—like olive oil!
But not for salads! Or massages! Or anything fun. Just ropes!”
Cole coughs, interrupting. “The worst-case scenario for this event is a grass stain. I promise you that, Ms. Vexford.”
“Ensure it is,” she says. “Now, here’s the insurance documentation for yesterday’s incidents.” She pulls three identical stacks of papers from her clipboard, paperclipped so tight it feels personal.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
In walks Sienna Alvarez, her dark curls wild and free like she just ran her hands through them on purpose.
Her Saltwater Saviors tank top is so low-cut, it shows a peek of her purple bra.
And those short shorts? They’re one deep breath away from being indecent.
And of course she’s in combat boots because apparently, she wants to murder the entire internet with her sex appeal.
“Alright, where should Orson and I be?” She glances between us. A corner of her mouth curves. “Or I guess I should ask who I’m getting tied up with. FYI Dr. Echols is more of a ‘watch and take notes’ kind of guy.”
Cole glances at the forms.
Then stares at Sienna. Stares so hard I can hear his every thought come together over the way her tank top frames her breasts.
“It’s your favorite,” he says, snatching the forms from Juliette’s clipboard and slapping them into my hands. “Paperwork.” His smirk is all teeth as he steers Sienna toward the lawn. “I’ll handle the talent.”
“Hartwell—”
“Stick with what you’re good at, Stopwatch.” He doesn’t look back.
Surprise, surprise. He picked the hot biologist. Of course he did. I’m sure she’s exactly his type. A woman who doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait to get chosen. Doesn’t lose.
Why do I do this to myself?
I need to stop fantasizing about Cole’s hands. Time to start acting like the badass I am. The first choice for this promotion.
Focus on the win, not him.
I smile at Juliette, exuding calm authority that I don’t feel. “I’ll have these back to you by the end of the weekend. No problem.”
“Today.”
“End of today,” I nod. “That’s what I meant by ‘weekend.’”
She pivots and walks away.
“YOOOO, LISTEN UP, SQUAD!” Blaze hollers from across the lawn. “DR. O just strolled in like the LEGEND HE IS. Drop the confetti, sound the alarms, we got an ocean rockstar at this PARTY!”
My head snaps up from the insurance forms.
Orson is on stage beside Blaze, blinking at the crowd and resembling a man who walked into the wrong room and hasn’t figured out how to leave yet.
“My brain just EXPLODED with a GENIUS idea! Who’s ready to TURN UP and be tied to the SCIENCE KING!?”
Oh no no no. Sienna told us Orson does NOT participate.
I throw the forms on my chair and run.
The grass is hot under my sneakers.
Normally I would radio in this type of emergency, but after the foam cannon gala incident, I made a tactical decision.
Blaze no longer gets an earpiece. His brain short-circuits from the dueling voices.
Instead of directing him through comms like a normal producer, I now physically sprint to him whenever he “has an idea.”
“Blaze!” I skid to a stop at the stage steps, wheezing. He beams.
“IVY, Dude! You’re right on time.”