16. Duncan
DUNCAN
I arrived at the office forty minutes early, which wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was how I kept glancing toward the elevator bank, waiting for auburn hair and hazel eyes to appear.
I told myself it was professional concern—I had reports to review, meetings to schedule.
But every time the elevator doors opened, my pulse quickened.
By nine-thirty, Ivy still hadn't arrived. I checked my watch, then checked it again five minutes later. She was never late. In the month since she'd started, she'd been punctual to the point of arriving ten minutes early every morning.
At ten o'clock, I opened my email to find a message from her: Mr. Walsh, I've come down with something and won't be able to make it in today. I apologize for the short notice. I expect to return tomorrow if I'm feeling better. - Ivy
The formal tone stung more than it should have. After last night, after the intimacy we'd shared on more than one occasion, she was back to calling me Mr. Walsh.
The rest of the morning dragged. I reviewed quarterly projections without absorbing the numbers. I attended a conference call where I contributed nothing meaningful. I found myself staring out my office window, wondering if Ivy was truly sick or if she was avoiding me after last night.
Had I pushed too hard? Moved too fast? She'd seemed willing, even eager over the past month. But maybe in the cold light of day, she'd reconsidered. Maybe she'd decided that her father's best friend was exactly the wrong person to get involved with.
The thought made my chest tight with familiar disappointment.
By lunch, I'd accomplished nothing productive. I tried returning calls, but couldn't focus on the conversations. I tried reviewing contracts, but the legal language blurred together. Everything felt distant, irrelevant.
Meranda had done this to me once—consumed my thoughts until I couldn't function properly. But that had been different. She had been calculated, strategic in her affections. She'd known exactly how to make me want her, then used that wanting to manipulate business decisions in her favor.
Ivy wasn't calculating. If anything, she seemed almost afraid of her own feelings, constantly pulling back whenever we got too close. But maybe that was part of the game. Maybe I was being played again, and I was too desperate for connection to see it clearly.
My phone buzzed with a text message and I swiped to unlock.
Nick 9: 15 AM: Drinks after work? You look miserable.
I glanced up to find him standing in my doorway, having apparently been watching me stare blankly at my computer screen, and I scowled at him.
"I'm fine," I grumbled.
"You're a terrible liar. O'Malley's at six?"
I wanted to refuse, to go home and brood in private. But the alternative was spending another evening replaying every moment of last night, analyzing every word, every touch, every expression on Ivy's face.
"Fine. Six o'clock."
O'Malley's was crowded for a Thursday evening, filled with other professionals drowning their workplace frustrations in whiskey and beer. Nick had already claimed a corner booth by the time I arrived. He'd ordered for both of us—bourbon neat for me, craft beer for himself.
"So," he said as I slid into the booth across from him. "Want to tell me what's eating you?"
I took a long sip of bourbon, feeling it burn down my throat. "Work stress."
"Bullshit. I've seen you handle hostile takeovers and board revolts without blinking. This isn't work stress."
Nick had known me for fifteen years. We'd started as competitors, ended up as friends, survived my scandal and his divorce. He could read me better than most people, which made lying to him pointless.
"It's complicated," I said finally.
"The best things usually are."
I stared into my glass, swirling the amber liquid. How could I explain this without sounding pathetic? How could I admit that I'd spent the day obsessing over a woman who might be avoiding me?
"There's someone," I said.
"I figured. Anyone I know?"
"Bill Whitmore's daughter."
Nick's eyebrows shot up. "Ivy? Your assistant?"
"You know her?"
"I know of her. Bill's mentioned her a few times over the years. Said she'd been living in Maine, raising…" He paused, his expression shifting. "Well, he said she'd been living in Maine."
"She came back because of Barbara's cancer."
"And now you're interested in her."
"I was interested in her four years ago. Before she left for Maine."
Understanding dawned in Nick's eyes. "Ah. So this isn't new."
"We had one night together. She was twenty, upset about her future, looking for someone to listen. I should have sent her home. Instead…"
"Instead, you're human."
I laughed bitterly. "Her father made me promise to stay away from her. Years ago, after my scandal broke. He was worried about his daughter's reputation, about what people would say if she got involved with someone who'd already been through that kind of public humiliation."
"And you agreed."
"Of course I agreed. She was a teenager then, and Bill was one of the few people who didn't cut ties with me after the press got hold of the story. I owed him that much."
Nick finished his beer, signaling the waitress for another round. "But she's not a teenager anymore."
"No. She's twenty-four. An adult who can make her own decisions."
"So, what's the problem?"
"The problem is that I made a promise to my friend. The problem is that she might be hiding things from me, and I can't tell if it's because she's protecting herself or because she's playing games. The problem is that I don't trust my own judgment when it comes to women anymore."
"Because of Meranda."
I nodded. "Meranda taught me that mixing business and personal relationships is a mistake," I said. "But here I am, making the same mistake again."
"Is it the same mistake? What's Ivy done that makes you think she's playing games?"
I considered the question. What had Ivy done, exactly? Agreed to have coffee with me? Accepted my dinner invitation? Been putty in my hands when I molded her like clay?
"She's guarded," I said finally. "Secretive. She deflects whenever I ask about her life in Maine."
"Maybe she's just private. Some people are."
"Or maybe she's hiding something significant."
Nick leaned back in the booth, studying my face. "You're looking for reasons to distrust her."
"I'm trying to be realistic."
"No, you're trying to protect yourself. You're so afraid of being hurt again that you're sabotaging something that might actually be good for you."
The waitress brought our second round. I stared at the fresh bourbon, remembering the way Ivy had looked last night when I'd asked if she wanted there to be a "this" to define. She'd seemed genuinely conflicted, genuinely scared.
Not calculating. Not manipulative. Just afraid.
"Bill will never forgive me if he finds out," I said.
"Maybe. Or maybe he'll realize his daughter is an adult who deserves to make her own choices about who she spends time with."
"You didn't make that promise."
"No, I didn't. But I've made plenty of promises I had to break because circumstances changed. Sometimes keeping your word means causing more harm than breaking it."
I thought about that as we finished our drinks.
About promises and loyalty and the complicated mathematics of friendship.
Bill had stood by me when others hadn't.
But Ivy hadn't asked to be protected from me.
She'd made her own choice to kiss me, to come to my house, to let me take her under the tree in Bill's own backyard.
Maybe Nick was right. Maybe I was looking for reasons to walk away because walking away felt safer than risking my heart again.
By the time I left O'Malley's, I'd made a decision. I would call Ivy, check on how she was feeling, maybe offer to bring her soup or medicine. It was a small gesture, but it would let her know I was thinking about her without being pushy or inappropriate.
She answered on the third ring, her voice hoarse and congested.
"Hello?"
"Ivy? It's Duncan. I heard you were sick."
"Duncan." She coughed, the sound rough and painful. "I'm sorry I didn't make it in today. I woke up feeling awful."
"Don't apologize. Are you feeling any better now?"
"Not really. My head feels stuffed with cotton, and I can't stop coughing."
She sounded miserable, completely drained. The protective instinct that had been simmering since last night flared into full intensity.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
"I had some toast this morning. Haven't been hungry since then."
"You need to eat something. And drink plenty of fluids."
"I know. I just don't have the energy to cook anything." She sniffled.
"What if I brought you some soup? There's a place near my house that makes excellent chicken noodle. It might help with the congestion."
Silence stretched between us. I could hear her breathing, could picture her weighing the offer against whatever concerns were holding her back.
"That's very sweet," she said finally. "But my father might not understand why my boss is delivering soup to his sick daughter."
"Then I'll explain that I was being neighborly. That it's what any decent person would do."
"Duncan…"
"Let me help, Ivy. Please. I feel useless sitting here knowing you're suffering."
Another pause. Another cough.
"Okay," she said quietly. "But maybe call before you come over? In case Dad is home?"
"Of course."
I drove to the soup place immediately after hanging up, ordered a large container of chicken noodle and some fresh bread rolls.
The drive to Bill's house took twenty minutes through evening traffic.
I'd been there countless times over the years for business dinners and social gatherings, but tonight felt different.
Tonight I was crossing a line I'd sworn I wouldn't cross.
I called Ivy from the driveway. She answered immediately.
"I'm here," I said.