Chapter Eight
Ivy
These incident reports are not going to file themselves.
This production office is so tiny, we’ll violate fire code if the janitor walks in.
Yet somehow, it’s housing three adults (that’s Blaze snoring on the couch), six computer monitors, a wobbly folding table, and a giant wad of chargers.
The light above us flickers like a low-budget horror movie. Fitting after today.
I uncap my pen for the third time in ten minutes… stare at the same blank box… and put the cap back on.
The form wants a description of the incident. Oh, sure. Let’s summarize the moment Dr. Echol’s large narwhal sprang to life in front of millions of livestream viewers. And fun fact: the internet now affectionately refers to him as ‘Sea Lion Daddy.’
I am a college-educated professional with six years of production experience that feels worthless. I cannot figure out a way to phrase this latest debacle without destroying my career.
Unplanned… prominence on camera?
No.
A momentary surge of enthusiasm?
Hell no.
I CANNOT write: Bikini Girls. Baby Oil. Foam Rave. Accidental Erection. Four-Way Bondage. Narwhal.
Narwhal.
The word sits in my head for a long time.
I am so fired.
At least there was no property damage. Otherwise, Ms. Vexford would’ve shut us down before Orson finished his walk of shame offstage.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to erase the memory.
Nope. My brain has other plans, generously playing out the Orson disaster in slow motion: his shorts dropping, the bright blue sea-lion boxers unable to hide his giant erection (the man is packing).
Blaze shouting about scepters the whole time while the donation counter spiked.
And underneath it all was a frequency I couldn’t tune out: Cole’s voice in my headset. Smooth. Unnervingly intimate. A low rumble that had no business feeling like a hand dipping into my panties.
My grip tightens on the pen until my knuckles whiten.
That’s the real problem.
Not Blaze’s idiotic ranting. Not Orson’s wardrobe malfunction.
Cole.
I let him slip back in—let that voice wrap around my thoughts, settle into my bones.
I was supposed to be watching the feeds.
Monitoring the livestream. Directing the cameras.
Instead, I was locked in a twisted argument with him about the pool.
About the “almost kiss.” About whatever the hell he was building toward before Orson’s dignity was publicly executed.
My mind warns me even as it lingers on him. Even as I yearn to have our bodies back in that pool, pressed together.
What was he trying to say? That’s the problem. I want to know. But what’s worse? I know I shouldn’t.
My pen pierces the page.
Across the room, Cole sits, ankle over his knee, camera in hand. He’s polishing the lens with the focus of a man preoccupied with a job well done. He jams in a new battery with a sharp snap. He hasn’t looked up once.
Which is great. Fine. Ideal, even.
Except.
My eyes rebel, drawn to him like a magnet. He’s ignoring me, right? If he is, it’s making me crazy! And if he isn’t… also crazy. Is he thinking about me? Why do you care, Ivy?
I exhale through my nose and force my attention back to my paperwork. List description of damages sustained.
SQUONCH-KRACK-SQUISH (That’s what I hear, not what I write).
Loud, crunchy chewing noises come from the sofa.
Blaze is apparently awake, one arm dangling, staring blankly at the ceiling as he gnaws on something from the hotel welcome basket.
“Blaze.” I set down my pen. “What is that?”
He holds up the small gold-foil square. “Dude, these mints SLAP.”
“That’s not a mint.”
He squints at the wrapper. “Then why’s it vanilla flavored?”
I lean forward. Gold square. Embossed lettering. The unmistakable Hotel Bellwether logo.
“That,” I say carefully, “is a scented linen tablet.”
Blaze stops chewing. “… like for pillows and stuff?”
“Yes.”
He looks at the remaining half in his hand. Then shrugs and pops the rest into his mouth.
“Eleven out of ten, would eat again!”
My iPad flares to life.
Incoming FaceTime: Cam & Reece
Nobody moves. The air in the office just turned into set concrete.
“Do you think they saw the stream?” I whisper. It’s a stupid question. A hopeful, pathetic, please-tell-me-the-internet-broke question.
The tablet rings again, that cheerful little bloop-bloop sounds way too optimistic for what’s about to happen.
“Oh yeah.” Blaze’s voice is muffled as he chews. SQUISH. CRUNCH. “They saw it, dude.”
My stomach plummets.
Blaze saunters off the couch to the desk chair.
“Time to get lectured by mom and dad,” he says, all no muss, no fuss. Why would there be? Blaze could livestream a flaming jet ski crashing through a billionaire’s mansion and walk away with a brand deal.
And Reece Dare isn’t going to fire his best friend. They’ve been making videos together since they were teenagers with GoPros and bowl haircuts. The internet literally calls them the DareDuo.
Hell, Blaze probably just earned himself another million subscribers.
The iPad rings again.
I grab it before it can chirp a fourth time, prop it on the desk, and angle all three of us into frame.
Cole slides his chair closer (too goddamn close) and his whole left side is against mine. Thigh to thigh. Arm to arm. The kind of close that makes you aware of every single place you’re touching and every single place you’re not.
I nudge him away.
He doesn’t budge.
There’s nowhere to go that isn’t Cole or the edge of the stupid desk, so I straighten my spine, pretend I’m made of ice, and hit the Accept button.
The screen floods with sunlight. White cabana curtains frame the perfectly blue sky, and beyond them, an infinity pool stretches toward the Pacific.
Reece and Cam’s Malibu mansion.
Cam sits cross-legged on a cushioned lounge chair in a floral bikini top and denim shorts, hair twisted into a scrunchie. Sunglasses pushed onto her forehead. Clearly, she was enjoying her peaceful Saturday.
Reece is next to her, six-pack abs on full display, with a half-finished cocktail sweating on the table. He sends a murderous gaze through the camera as though he’s trying to decide who to yell at first.
Blaze grins back like this is more frat party than firing squad. “brOOOOSS.” He lunges toward the screen. “Is that a sex scrunchie?”
“Blaze, I love you, man, but shut up.” Reece’s voice is steel.
“Right,” Blaze finishes, before double-winking at Cam. “I know it is though.”
“Not the time,” Reece growls.
Cam’s mouth twitches. “Hey, chicos,” she says warmly but no-nonsense. “We’re here for one reason. YouTube flagged the video, so let’s talk damage control.”
“Quick question.” Reece gets closer to the camera. “Is Dare4Change a goddamn circus now? Somebody better tell me how Dr. Echol’s dick became the mascot of sea lion conservation.”
Blaze lifts one hand.
“Technically—”
“That was rhetorical.”
Blaze sinks into his chair.
Cam’s hand slides over Reece’s bicep. “The donor conversion rate actually—”
Reece doesn’t move a muscle. He cuts his eyes toward her. It’s a silent, “not now” motion.
Cam exhales, a tiny puff of frustration. “Yes, okay, Senor Serious. Conversation for a different meeting, I’ll let it go for now.”
Then she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But mijos? Thirty-seven percent above projections. That’s what I call winning!”
“Blaze,” Reece says, arms folding across his chest. “Ground-level assessment. These two. No bullshit.”
“Okay, so here it is,” Blaze says, his face going uncharacteristically earnest. “First off, DR. O? LEGEND. That scepter? Bro, a monument to SCIENCE and SEX! If the fish gig flops, dude’s got a career in adult film waiting for him!”
“Dude, focus,” Reece warns.
“Right. Pro mode.” Blaze high-fives himself. “Cole? That foam rave? TOTAL GENIUS. I was standing right there when the cannon went off. Saw him scope the crowd like a HAWK. Low-key jealous it wasn’t MY idea, but whatever. Cole’s got that SICK INSTINCT.”
Reece gives a single nod. Cole says nothing.
Blaze turns to me, and there’s something in his face I don’t expect, something genuine beneath the restless energy. As if he really thought about this.
“Yo, yo—okay, okay, soooo. The foam rave POPPED OFF ’cause the stream was ready, ya know.
The audience was HYPED, that was ALL Ivy’s MAGIC!
She made the moment so Cole could find it.
Cole’s like the—the dude with the thing—bro, what do you call it?
The GUY. Cole’s the GUY, right? And Ivy’s the… the OTHER guy. No wait—”
He pauses. Something clicking behind his eyes.
“Camera. Cole’s the CAMERA! Ivy’s the TRIPOD! You can’t have a camera without a tripod, bro. My dudes, she’s the reason it WORKED!”
My heart does a weird, painful thump. It’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all year, delivered by a man currently digesting a laundry tablet. I keep my face carefully blank, ignoring the way Cole’s energy shifts beside me.
Cam straightens up, controlling the call.
“You both delivered,” she says. “The numbers prove it. We’ve already raised $1.5 million. Two events left: beach cleanup and the sea lion viewing. Two more chances to prove who the best leader is.”
Her eyes are supportive but all-business.
“What we need more than a problem solver,” she continues, “is a problem preventer.”
She turns toward Reece.
“Ms. Vexford is one incident away from pulling access,” he says sharply. “YouTube’s algorithm is not our friend right now and Saltwater Saviors deserves more than a clickbait catastrophe.”
Reece reaches for his cocktail. Takes a slow sip.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
Beside me, Cole says, “Loud and clear.”
Our boss’ eyes slide to his best friend. “And stop touching things.”
“Yeah. No. I GOT this brO.”
“Goodbye.”
The clink of his glass is the last thing we hear. The screen goes black.
Blaze exhales a long, slow whistle. Then, with confidence, he says, “Did we crush that or what?”
Cole and I both stare. Wordless.