15. Ivy
IVY
I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, holding two shirts against my chest. The navy blouse made my eyes look darker, more serious.
The cream one softened my face, brought out the auburn in my hair.
I told myself I wasn't dressing up for him.
I told myself this was about feeling confident, about looking professional enough that he'd take me seriously when we talked about work boundaries and appropriate conduct between employer and employee.
I chose the cream shirt.
Downstairs, chaos reigned in the kitchen.
Sammy had managed to get marinara sauce in his hair despite eating only half his spaghetti.
Chrissy kept trying to feed Elena bits of garlic bread, which Elena rejected with increasing volume.
I moved between them, wiping faces, refilling sippy cups, trying to get them fed before Lauren arrived.
"Mama, story?" Elena asked, tugging on my jeans.
"After pajamas, baby. Lauren's going to read to you tonight."
"Want Mama story."
My chest tightened. I crouched down to her level, smoothing her dark hair back from her forehead. "I know, sweetheart. Mama has to go out for a little while, but I'll be back before you wake up. I promise."
Lauren knocked on the front door at seven-thirty, saving me from Elena's disappointed expression. I pulled my friend aside in the hallway, lowering my voice.
"They've already eaten, but Sammy might ask for another snack around eight. He's been going through a growth spurt. Elena gets cranky if the nightlight isn't on, and Chrissy?—"
"Ivy." Lauren placed her hands on my shoulders. "I've got this. I've watched them before, remember?"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm just?—"
"Nervous about seeing him?"
I looked toward the kitchen where my father sat reading his newspaper, pretending not to listen to our conversation. "Dad," I called, "I have a work emergency. I'll be back late."
He glanced up, folding the paper with crisp precision. "What kind of emergency?"
"Client presentation got moved up. I need to help prepare materials."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. My father's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "Drive carefully."
I kissed each of the triplets goodbye, grabbed my keys, and left before anyone could ask more questions.
The drive to Duncan's house took twenty-five minutes through Boston's evening traffic.
I'd looked up his address in the company directory, telling myself I needed it for emergency contact purposes.
His neighborhood surprised me—tree-lined streets, modest colonials, nothing ostentatious.
I'd expected something grander, more imposing. A fortress to match the man.
He waited on the front porch as I pulled into his driveway. He'd changed out of his work clothes into dark jeans and a gray sweater that made his eyes look storm-cloud blue. My hands trembled slightly as I turned off the engine.
"You found it okay?" he asked as I approached.
"GPS made it easy."
He opened the front door, gesturing for me to enter first. The interior matched the modest exterior—clean lines, comfortable furniture, nothing flashy.
Books lined a row of built-in shelves and a chess set sat half-finished on a side table.
I caught the scent of coffee and the hint of his cologne that I remembered from four years ago.
"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
"Coffee would be good."
He led me through the living room toward the back of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a patio surrounded by mature oak trees and tall privacy fencing. String lights hung between the branches, casting everything in soft amber.
"This is beautiful," I said, stepping outside.
"It's why I bought the place. Most lots around here are small, but this one backs up to conservation land. No neighbors behind me for miles."
He disappeared inside to get the coffee, leaving me alone with the evening air and my racing thoughts.
I sat on one of the cushioned chairs, trying to organize what I wanted to say.
We needed to establish boundaries. We needed to discuss what happened in his office last week and why it couldn't happen again.
Or rather, why I was too scared to allow it to happen again.
"Here." He returned with two mugs, handing me one before taking the chair across from me.
The coffee was perfect—strong, but not bitter. I wrapped my hands around the mug, using it as armor against the intimacy of the setting.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"We need to talk about work, Dunca. About keeping things professional at the office." If I didn't come right out and say it, I would end up back in his arms and that was a recipe for disaster, no matter what Mom thought.
"Do we?" His tone caught me off guard. I'd expected him to agree, to suggest we pretend the past had never happened.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying my face in the string-light glow.
"I've been thinking about you for four years, Ivy.
Not every day, but often enough. I told myself it was guilt, that I'd taken advantage of a situation I should have walked away from. Your father trusted me."
"You didn't take advantage."
"Didn't I? You were twenty. I was thirty-nine. You'd had a fight with your parents about college, about your future. You came to my apartment upset, looking for someone to listen. Instead, I?—"
"I kissed you first."
The made him pause and he set down his coffee mug, his expression shifting. "You did. But I should have stopped it there."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I'd been wanting to do it for months." Shame washed over his face as he said it. "I know I'm an idiot, but even after that scandal I still wanted to. And Bill forcing me to make that promise opened a door to a fantasy in my mind that would never have even occurred to me otherwise."
A breeze rustled the oak leaves above us.
I stared down into my coffee, remembering that night.
I'd been so angry at my parents, so tired of being treated as their fragile, precious daughter who couldn't make her own decisions.
Duncan had listened without judgment, had treated me as an adult capable of making my own choices.
Even the choice to kiss him.
"Tell me about Maine," he said, changing the subject.
"What about it?"
"What was your life there? Before you came back."
I hesitated. This felt dangerous, personal. But something about the evening, about the privacy of his backyard sanctuary, made me want to answer.
"It was quiet. I lived near the water, in a small rental house. I worked at a bookstore downtown, helped them with their social media and online sales. I read a lot. Took long walks on the beach."
"Sounds peaceful."
"It was. I'd forgotten how much I loved that—peace. Growing up here, there was always noise. Dad's business calls, charity events, social obligations. In Bar Harbor, I could disappear for hours and no one would notice."
"You always were good at disappearing. Even as a kid, you'd vanish whenever your parents had parties. I'd find you upstairs, reading in your room."
The memory surprised me. I'd forgotten he'd noticed that, that he'd sometimes sought me out during those endless adult gatherings.
"I hated those parties. All those people talking about money and property values and who was buying what. I wanted to be anywhere else."
"Where did you want to be?"
"In the stories I was reading. Or writing my own stories. I kept journals back then, filled them with characters who could go anywhere, do anything. They weren't trapped by expectations or family names or other people's disappointments."
Duncan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Do you still write?"
"Not much. Life got… complicated."
He waited for me to elaborate, but I couldn't. How could I tell him that life got complicated because of him, because of one night that changed everything?
"What about you?" I asked instead. "What did you want to be when you were twenty?"
"Successful. Respected. Powerful enough that no one could ever dismiss me again."
"Mission accomplished."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Was it? I spent my twenties working eighteen-hour days, making connections, building a reputation. I thought if I could just prove myself, earn enough money, gain enough influence, I'd feel… satisfied. Fulfilled."
"And now?"
"Now I realize I became someone I barely recognize." His honesty startled me. This wasn't the confident, unshakeable man I worked for. This was someone vulnerable, someone questioning the choices that had defined his adult life.
"The scandal changed you," I said.
"It did. But not in the way people think. The public humiliation was brutal, yes. But what came after was worse. I threw myself into work, into building walls so high that no one could hurt me again. I thought I was protecting myself. Instead, I was just… existing."
I sat quietly with that for a moment, unsure of what to say next. Duncan was opening up to me in ways I felt nervous about. The sex was bad enough, but getting emotionally invested would destroy us both
"Ivy." My name sounded different in his voice tonight, softer and more intimate.
"This is a bad idea," I whispered, setting the coffee down. I wanted to run away and make sure my heart never got attached, but Duncan had other plans.
He reached for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. His skin was warm, calloused from weekend projects around the house. I should've pulled away. Should've reminded him about professional boundaries and complicated histories and all the reasons this couldn't work.
Instead, I let him hold my hand.
"I never forgot that night," he said quietly. "Not the way you felt in my arms, not the way you looked at me afterward. I told myself it was a mistake, that we were both in vulnerable places. But I never forgot."
"Duncan…"