Chapter Ten
Ivy
The Pacific looks like it’s trying to sell me something.
Blue on blue, sunlight doing that annoying diamond-scatter thing across the surface, waves rolling in with the lazy, cinematic ease that belongs in a cruise line commercial. This is the view meant to make a person feel peaceful, present, and one with the universe.
I am a rotisserie chicken.
It’s ninety-five degrees, the sun is trying to cook me alive, but I’ve kept my headset fused to my skull. It’s my outward proof that I’m still, technically, holding it together. So I keep moving. Stopping means feeling and feeling? Absolutely not on today’s agenda.
Monitors: on. iPad: good to go. Cue sheets: set. Ugh. Cole’s backpack is a glaring distraction under the table.
Dammit. Think about work. Not him.
From my spot under the production canopy, I watch the volunteers assemble in their designated zones. Some are eager, some scroll through their phones, and others are already scanning for an exit.
A blonde bombshell strides into view, all toned legs, a bikini top that’s two triangles barely covering the essentials, and a ponytail that screams beach influencer instead of beach cleanup. She flicks her safety gloves into her trash bag as if they’re an inconvenience.
Not on my watch. I intercept her.
“Hey, sorry, gloves need to stay on your hands,” I say, pointing at her trash bag.
She groans. “They’re ugly. My vibe is cute volunteer, not hazard worker.”
“Trust me,” I say, voice soft but firm. “You’ll sing a different tune when you’re sitting in urgent care, explaining to the nurse why you need a hepatitis shot from mystery beach slime.”
She pauses, weighing her options. With a theatrical sigh, she grabs the gloves and puts them on. “Fine, but if I don’t get a number today, I’m telling everyone your safety rules ruined my love life.”
“That’s fair,” I say, smiling, because let’s be real. I just worked my magic.
Bikini girl spots a beach guy two rows over, fumbling with gloves and locks on. She adjusts her bikini top (the two triangles defying physics), lifts her chin, and struts toward him with the clear upper hand. Poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.
He glances up and grins. Not polite. Not shy. The kind that telegraphs trouble. A damn-this-sure-got-interesting grin that says he’s ready to play.
I’ve seen that grin before.
On Cole.
He flashed it at lunch (quick, unguarded, gone before I could process it). Unlike this beach guy, who’s letting his hungry eyes linger, Cole flipped back into competition mode.
Why didn’t he walk to the beach with me?
I invited him. Casually. Professionally. Friendly even. And he dropped that “I’ll meet you there” like he was ending a conference call, picked up his bag, and left me staring at his abandoned shrimp plate.
No flirting.
No smirk.
Nothing.
I am ninety-nine percent sure our elevator kiss wasn’t a hallucination.
He kissed me back. I mean, really kissed me back.
He hauled me in so tight my breath caught and just…
stayed caught, somewhere between his mouth and mine.
His lips were hungry, needy, and his desperation was real. I’d bet my favorite blazer on it.
So why did he walk away, like he was allergic to me more than shellfish?
Before my brain can spiral into some ridiculous theory about his mixed signals, I fixate on the monitor, my lifeline.
But that’s a lie. What I’m really doing is…
Staring at Cole crouching in the damp sand, his lens trained on Sienna. Ms. Sun-Kissed Skin and Effortless Confidence, who literally saves sea turtles for a living.
She laughs, and he smiles, capturing the shot.
Get your shit together, Ivy. Stop settling for crumbs, for the scraps of attention you don’t even want.
I click the headset.
“Comms check.”
Cole’s voice comes through flat. “Copy.”
One word.
“Really, Hartwell? No smug remark? No, ‘I don’t need your bossy input.’” I tap my mic. “Are you sick, or did you run out of excuses for being wrong?”
“Just trying to focus, St…” He cuts himself off, voice gruff. “… it’s a tricky shot.”
Stopwatch.
That’s what he was about to say.
Why didn’t he?
I glance at the monitor: Sienna framed perfectly, the ocean glittering behind her, volunteers hanging on her every word.
Because he didn’t want to say your nickname, Ivy. Not with her there.
Jealousy flares, but I clench my eyes shut and breathe through it.
“Enough.” I grip the edge of the table. “You are going to execute this event flawlessly. You are going to secure that promotion. And you are absolutely not going to obsess over Cole Hartwell’s stupid silence in your headset.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re live.
Blaze is already mid-ramble. “… which is why, ocean lovers and beach babes, this is THE HOTTEST beach cleanup EVER! We’re out here saving the Pacific AND getting that vitamin D—win-win, bro!”
I check the live chat and immediately regret it:
SEA LION DADDY WHERE YOU AT
Check the water for Dr. O’s STAFF OF POWER
BLAZE IS BACK LETS GOOOOOOO
SCEPTER WATCH - Day 2
I press my finger into my temple.
Fantastic. We’ve summoned the internet.
The Dr. O incident is very much alive and thriving. Thankfully, Blaze can’t see the chat and make it worse. All I have to do is let the event build momentum, and those comments will bury themselves under actual content.
Hopefully.
“Cole, zoom out,” I say into the headset.
“Copy.”
I go still.
Same word.
Again.
“Ya know you said copy twice, Hartwell. Should I test you for signs of personality loss?”
Nothing.
He’s ignoring me?
Great. Real mature. Nothing gets my blood boiling quicker than a grown-ass man resorting to childish games. Fine, Hartwell. Pretend I’m not here. I’ll enjoy the silence.
Blaze throws an arm toward the shoreline. “Let’s give it UP for the REAL MVP, the brains, the BOSS behind the whole show. Dr. Sienna Alvarez!”
She steps into frame wearing her Saltwater Saviors baseball cap.
“Here’s the drill,” she says, voice steady. “You’re looking for plastics, food waste, and metals. But if it’s sharp, sketchy, or could draw blood in any way?” She points. “Goes in the flagged bin. Handle it like it’s evidence.”
She scans the group, voice steady as the tide.
“These waters are littered with ghost nets. Synthetic death traps abandoned by somebody who didn’t care enough to haul them in. They don’t rot. They drift. And they keep killing marine life long after the fishermen move on.” Her gaze hardens. “You see one? Stop and call for backup. No exceptions.”
The chat is fully locked in. No more Dr. O comments. Progress.
Blaze raises his hand.
“What if, like, a baby Kraken was tangled up in one of those? But it’s not dangerous, it’s just scared, and we have to help it find its mom and dad.”
Sienna turns and looks at him. Just one sharp glance, and he closes his mouth.
Honestly, it’s masterful.
I watch her redirect back to the volunteers without breaking stride and decide: yep, I’d follow her into battle. Full girl crush. No notes. Brains. Authority. The ability to silence Blaze Tate with sustained eye contact.
Truly the complete package. Makes a girl want to take up marine biology.
So, of course, Cole’s smitten with her. And so is the chat:
Sorry ocean but I’m looking at her
HOW IS SHE MAKING TRASH SEXY
I came here for sea turtles and left with a life coach
GHOST NETS DON’T DECOMPOSE AND NEITHER WILL MY CRUSH
A dangerous thought slides in: Maybe if I looked like her? He’d finally see me.
I let the stupid fantasy sit there for one second. Then burn it to the ground.
I know what I look like. I know what I bring. These curves are mine, and I’ve made my peace with every single one of them—no. Not peace. Praise. Hard-won, and not up for negotiation.
I’m not handing that power over to anyone, not even to Cole Hartwell and his stupidly hot smirk.
I’m focusing on the only thing that matters. This promotion.
Everything else (including your bullshit, Cole) can wait or get lost.
Blaze puts his hands in the air. “YOOO—gloves ON, bags UP, let’s GET AFTER IT, beach squad! This ocean ain’t gonna clean itself!”
The excited singles spread out along the shoreline, choosing their spots. Surprisingly. Miraculously. Things are going as planned.
The donation counter ticks.
The chat scrolls: actual questions on sea lion facts, a stubborn group of scepter weirdos who refuse to let that die, and the typical nonstop questions about Blaze’s relationship status.
Priorities.
On screen, it looks… good. Not staged. Not forced. Just a bunch of very attractive people here for environmental impact while absolutely clocking each other between pickups.
A guy in a backward cap flexes as he picks up a water bottle.
A girl in a lavender sundress invents reasons to touch the arm of the tall guy beside her, and he keeps “needing” to lean down so she can reach.
Two women hold hands, deep in conversation, while one of them tosses a styrofoam cup into their bag. Gotta respect the multitasking.
From the corner of my eye, an attractive man—30’s, medium build, alluring brown eyes—walks through the drone boundary and dips under the canopy.
He’s ignoring the signage, approaching me with confidence.
“Hey, sorry,” I say. “But can you stay on this side of the markers? We’ve got equipment running.”
“Oh, yeah. No problem.” His eyes scan me from head to toe. “Just wanted to say hi. I’m Daniel.”
“Ivy.” I offer my hand.
He takes it—and oh, he lingers.
His grip is warm, his smile easy (and Jesus, he’s cute). Dark curls, sparkling eyes you can get lost in, and a genuine smile that spreads slow, testing the waters. Very boy-next-door charm.
My ovaries do a double backflip with a twist and stick the landing.
“I saw you from across the beach, Ivy. And had to meet you.”
And he’s still holding my hand. Okay. Not mad about it.
“Sorry for interrupting.” He steps back, finally releasing my palm, his eyes searching mine. “Let’s keep an eye out for each other. Later, when you’re off the clock, I’d like to learn more about you.”