Chapter Nine #2
“No worries.” Dr. Alvarez dabs her boots. “Alrighty, time to talk about safety to a room full of people who’d rather be hooking up.” She heads to the podium.
“Wow. Just… wow.” Ivy lasers into me. “Riveting display of professionalism.”
“I was offering a napkin.”
She peeks at my lap, then back up. “Oh, I think you’re wanting to offer her way more than that.” She crosses her arms, her bottom lip curling into a stubborn pout. My cock throbs.
I am so screwed.
Like, how-am-I-even-functioning-right-now screwed? Because my only thought is putting my hands on Ivy.
Everywhere. Right this second.
But telling her that? That she’s the reason my dick is hard enough to pound nails? Instant asshole move.
Who the fuck cares about Sienna? My body has one setting: Ivy.
Her fuckable lips have rewired my brain.
Her mouth is apparently my obsession now, and that’s a problem—a big, inconvenient, trying-to-poke-out-of-my-jeans problem.
Yeah. Nope. I’m going with silence as my response. And maybe a quick prayer that my zipper holds.
Thankfully, Sienna taps the mic and commands the room.
“Welcome, everyone. “I’m Dr. Alvarez. Let’s talk about how to clean a beach without accidentally murdering yourselves or each other.”
A few nervous laughs ripple.
The slideshow reveals a rusted pipe buried in the sand just as the servers descend—a synchronized, black-tied swim team moving together.
A plate of chilled jumbo shrimp lands in front of me, garnished with lemon and paired with cocktail sauce.
The presentation is impeccable, but for someone with my particular genetic glitch, they're essentially edible landmines.
I reach out to push—
Ivy’s hand is there first.
She hooks the rim and slides the plate away without a word, eyes still on the stage. No announcement. No big deal. Just quietly removing the threat as if she’s done it a million times before.
My hand lands over hers, and everything goes quiet.
Sienna’s deadpan lecture on puncture-resistant gloves turns into white noise. The clinking of two hundred forks sounds muffled and distant. My thumb finds the delicate skin on the inside of Ivy’s wrist. Her pulse is a frantic, erratic thrum against my skin.
I’m testing.
Waiting.
Hoping she doesn’t pull back.
“Shellfish,” she states flatly. “You’re allergic.”
I keep my voice even. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t.”
Her hand retreats, but the lie is already out. I felt it: that frantic, staccato spike of her pulse beneath my thumb, at odds with the composed expression she’s wearing.
She cares.
And that—okay, that throws me off balance.
Not like her mouth did earlier.
Not like my body’s been losing its mind all day.
This one sticks somewhere deeper.
“Rule three of beach cleanup.” Sienna’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She flexes her gloved hand. “If it glitters, it’s not gold. If it glints, it’s dangerous.”
CLICK.
“Next slide,” Sienna continues. “If it’s breathing, it’s got teeth. Unlike you, the ocean is not here to make friends.”
I face forward. Settle back in my chair. Fix my eyes on the stage as if I’m absorbing every word of this snoozefest presentation.
But I’m not.
I’m watching Ivy out of the corner of my eye, back on her iPad, biting that pillowy bottom lip of hers in concentration.
I have to stop noticing when she does that!
I’ve been categorizing Ivy as a beautiful, high-strung opponent I enjoy dismantling. I told myself it was all fun and games.
Push her. Watch her unravel. Repeat.
But last night I mentioned my shellfish allergy for half a second. The EpiPen fell out of my bag, and I tossed out two words between arguments, then moved on because it wasn’t a conversation—it was a footnote.
Not a detail you expect anyone to catch, much less hold onto.
She caught it.
More than that. She filed it away in that overcrowded brain of hers, and the second the threat landed, she handled it. No fuss, no credit, no leverage.
I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.
I run on instinct. I read rooms, I read momentum, I know within thirty seconds which way a situation is moving, and I move fast. That’s always been my whole thing. Stay ahead of it.
But then she went and treated me like I was worth protecting.
I can not figure out Ivy Ellison.
Sienna clicks to her final slide. “After lunch, we’ll head to the beach as a group. Wear shoes you won’t miss.”
I make a decision. Clean and quick, the way I make all of them.
No more games. No more prodding at her edges to rile her up. The promotion’s real, the pressure’s on, and whatever’s happening under that pulse of hers is too much for me to keep pretending I’ve got the upper hand.
I can’t control this.
I can’t play it cool.
Not anymore.
Ivy turns toward me. Holy hell, she’s smiling. Not the tight, professional version, this one’s soft. Almost shy. Like she didn’t mean to let me see it, but now she’s letting it stay.
“Want to walk down together?” she suggests. “We should align before the next event.”
The opening is right there, taunting me, daring me, begging me to take it. I let my gaze linger on her for exactly one second, caught in the pull of a goddamn gravity field. It would be so easy to say yes. To walk beside her. To let her in.
No.
I’m on my feet, already halfway to the door.
“I’m good. I’ll meet you there.”
I’m in the hallway before she can say another word. Before I change my mind.
Whatever this is… it’s finished.