Chapter Thirteen
Ivy
Steam clings to everything.
The mirror. The glass. My flushed skin.
Him.
Cole’s body is a wall of muscle at my back, his chest rising slow and steady against my spine. He’s spent the last ten minutes in this shower unraveling me with nothing but the touch of his fingers. He squeezes my hips—less a caress, more of a claim.
I’m the one with the plans, the strategies, the control.
But right now?
I’m pure sensation. My thoughts go to static every time his grip tightens, every time his breath exhales down my neck.
He’s rewriting every rule I’ve ever lived by.
The riskiest thing about this?
How easy it is to let him.
How natural it feels.
Like my body already knows him.
“Cole.”
“Mm.”
“You’re supposed to be washing your hair.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but his hands don’t stop. Over my ribs, on my breasts, his palms heavy and sure.
“I’m multitasking.”
“That’s not—” The words dissolve into a whimper as his thumbs drag over my nipples. “That’s not what that means.”
Those troublemaking hands slide south, mapping my stomach, lingering on the curve of me. Then, he impulsively yanks my hips back until I fit perfectly against him.
“See. Now I’m washing you too.”
His erection is bold, impressive, and now between my cheeks. My body reacts with a tingle and a shudder, despite the exhaustion. The hours we spent tangled together weren’t enough to sate my hunger for him.
“This,” he mutters, nose buried in my damp hair as he drags in a deep breath. “This is the scent that’s been fucking with my head all weekend.”
“My shampoo?”
Another deep inhale. “Apple. So damn sweet. You walk by me and I forget what the hell I was doing.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “Maybe they should put that as a side effect on the label?”
“Hell yeah.” His touch traces down my legs and back up, slow and worshipful. “You’ve got the body of a goddess, Ivy.”
“I’m probably bigger than most girls you—”
He spins me around so fast my breath catches. His hands cradle my face, and he tilts my chin until his gaze sears into mine.
“Don’t do that. I know what I see.”
His thumbs brush my cheekbones.
“I’m so damn infatuated with you. All of you.”
Then he kisses me.
For once, the voice in my head listing my flaws fades.
I’m not thinking about how I look, I’m thinking about how I feel.
Desired.
His body pins me against the tile, water pounding down around us. My hands slide into his hair, my body arches into his, and the ache between my legs builds fast, too fast. My brain finally sputters back online.
“Okay, wait. Hold on, buddy.” I break away, breath coming in short bursts. “My lady bits just hit capacity. We’re not accepting new business.”
“I believe my dick has seniority here.”
He rocks his hips, his cock sliding between my thighs, pressing right against my swollen, overworked clit.
I huff a laugh, dizzy with the sensation. “I could help with that another way.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You offering solutions now, Stopwatch?”
Challenge accepted.
I sink to my knees and trace his hard length with a long, slow lick from base to tip. My tongue begs for more, but Cole’s hands grip my arms, pulling me up before I can take him in.
He steps back.
And that—
That I did not expect.
“Two hours until call time,” he says, scrubbing water from his face. “If we start again, we’re not stopping.”
I open my mouth (to argue this time, I swear).
But he cuts me off with a single head shake, “Nope. You’ll be pissed at me.”
“You’re making decisions for me now?”
“I’m saving present-day me from the wrath of future you,” he teases, eyes glinting. “Call it risk management. Your passion for punctuality matches my passion for keeping my balls attached. I’m playing the long game here, Stopwatch.”
He places a tender kiss on my lips and steps out of the shower. He towels off his damp hair before dragging it over his muscled body. With a quick tie around his waist, he moves toward the exit.
He stops.
Turns back.
And for an unguarded second, his face says something I don’t have words for.
“Ivy, I…” He exhales. “I’ve gotta check the cameras. Batteries. Make sure nothing goes haywire when we go live.”
“Not exactly a glowing review of your prep skills, Hartwell.”
“Blaze exists,” he counters.
“Fair.”
He gives me one last sharp look.
Then the door clicks shut.
I’m left standing under the spray until steam fills the room. The water is too hot. My hands move on autopilot: shampoo, lather, rinse. But my mind is stuck. Still caught on the way he said, with sincerity:
I’m so damn infatuated with you. All of you.
And that face right before he closed the door—his expression cracked open like he was one breath away from an unsaid truth. Then, poof, gone. As if he swallowed the secret.
What the hell was that?
The steam curls around me, thick and heavy.
Somewhere between rinsing my conditioner and reaching for the hotel body wash, I do something dangerous.
I imagine our future.
The campaign is over. Juliette’s judgy eyes aren’t keeping us on edge anymore. The pressure is off, the promotion has been decided, and one of us won. Fine. Either way, we’re done being trapped in this limbo of what ifs and maybes.
And now?
Now we’ve stopped fighting each other and started fighting for each other instead.
No more competition. No more keeping score. We get to be real with each other. Honest. And yeah, that might mean pretending self-control isn’t a thing and ripping each other’s clothes off mid-argument (which will get us into a lot of trouble at work).
But it’s just us.
Together.
And for once, I don’t list all the reasons it won’t work or all the ways this could blow up in my face. I see it. I feel it: no longer the fallback option, the compromise, the “good enough” choice.
I’m glowing.
It’s real…
Or it can be.
I’m being chosen. First.
MWARP! MWARP! MWARP!
The obnoxious, digital shriek of my iPad alarm chirps from the bedroom.
“Stopwatch! Your tablet is having a meltdown.” Cole says through the wall, amused, as if we’ve already domesticated our cold war into this strange, new rhythm.
“Snooze it!” I call back, grinning at the showerhead. “Code’s one-two-three-one!”
The alarm cuts off. I take my time, letting the warmth seep into my bones, letting myself want this. Want us.
I turn off the spray and wrap myself in a robe, tying it too tight, as if that might keep my emotions from spilling out. There’s still a smile on my face. I don’t fight it. My pulse kicks up at the thought of seeing him.
I’m ready for the “what now” conversation. For whatever comes after.
I pull open the door, a flirty remark on my lips—
And it dies.
My iPad is in Cole’s hands.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
Scrolling.
Not holding. Not glancing.
SCROLLING.
Something inside me goes cold so fast it’s almost violent.
For a full three seconds I stand there, wet hair dripping onto the robe collar, watching him flick through my production notes. My campaign logistics. My personal notes.
He’s spying on all of my private, password-protected schemes and battle plans!
“What the hell!” I scream.
I should have seen this coming.
Of course. Of fucking course.
My brain cycles through the evidence, a rapid-fire Google Slides presentation of every red flag.
His restraint in the shower: Calculated.
The apple shampoo confession: Strategic.
Sleeping with me wasn’t about me. It was about access. A way to soften my defenses, to slip into my production schedule, my notes, my perfectly planned campaign, like it was his for the taking.
Playing the part of a total, certified idiot, I handed him my password.
Startled, he blinks up at me. “Ivy.”
I cross the room and yank the iPad out of his hands.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” My voice cracks like a whip, but my hands are shaking.
“I hit your alarm, and—”
“I catch you snooping, and that’s your best line?” A laugh claws out of me, jagged and hollow. “After last night. Really? That’s—wow. Even for you, that’s a new low.”
“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I wasn’t—”
“God, you’re predictable.” Another humorless laugh.
“Stop! Listen to—”
“No, you stop.” I stab a finger toward him. “You needed access. You took it. Because that’s the Cole Hartwell playbook, isn’t it? Take the credit and ignore the hard work. After all, you’re the only one who matters.”
He stands, reaching for me. “That’s not—” but I step back.
“Is this your standard operating procedure now?” I shout over him. “Outmaneuver me before the finish line? Was Books for Every Block your trial run? Bad news for you. It’s not going to work this time.”
“Ivy.” He replies sharply. “Let me finish a sentence.”
“You are finished.” I turn, grabbing his bag off the chair. It’s still a mess of twisted straps and half-zipped gear, but I don’t even hesitate. I toss it into the hallway.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” he begs, reaching the doorway.
“Fixing a mistake,” I shoot back, grabbing the rest of his stuff. Camera. Hoodie. Whatever’s his, and hurl it into the hall. “Out!”
“It’s six in the morning—”
“Not my problem.”
“Ivy—”
“I said out.”
“You won’t even listen.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say, arms crossed. “You’ve shown me what this was. You took credit for my work before, and I let it slide.” I lift my chin, even as my heart cracks. “I’m done being your doormat.”
A shadow crosses his face—guilt, maybe, or just the light playing tricks. Who cares.
He exits, and I slam the door, rattling the walls.
Heavy silence fills the room.
My hands ball into fists so tight my knuckles sting. Because if I let go, I’ll throw that door open and pull him back in here. Not to yell at him (though God, I want to), but to listen. To hear whatever pretty lie he’ll feed me, whatever bullshit excuse he’ll spin.
And the worst part?
I might actually let myself believe it.
***