Chapter 2
2
IVY
After two long nights of knitting while binge watching Christmas movies, I hold the new sweater in front of myself and inspect it for the final time. The deep green and red yarn doesn’t really give Scrooge, but they’re the colours I was drawn to. It was either green and red or my favourite purple and pink yarn I always keep balls of, which, from the descriptions I’ve gotten of the guy I’m meeting, don’t seem like they’d really be his thing.
Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s a guy who loves wearing pink and purple. Either way, I hope Niko still appreciates all the effort I put into making this gift for him and sees it as the olive branch I’m intending it to be.
The giant glass jug of moonshine on my kitchen counter is supposedly candy cane flavoured, but because I didn’t want to risk alcohol poisoning after a single sip, I haven’t tried it to check. Niko is a bar owner, so he has to be able to handle his liquor, right?
After folding the sweatshirt neatly, I tuck it into a Grinch-themed gift bag, add the moonshine on top, and stuff it full of glittery red tissue paper. My chin drops in a nod of approval before I’m taking the bag by the handles, grabbing my purse, and bringing everything out to my car, thankful for my remote start that’s already warming it up for me.
The five inches of snow weren’t supposed to have fallen until Sunday night, but it arrived early with the promise of more to come this weekend. Even bundled in my heavy winter jacket and thick boots, the chill is instant, burning my exposed cheeks.
I took Jill up on her offer and used her snow blower on my sidewalk yesterday. You’d never know looking at it today. Each step through the thick snow is grating, and by the time I make it to my car, I’ve broken into a sweat beneath my jacket.
Abandoning the gift in the passenger seat, I slip on my gloves and start clearing the snow from the roof of my car. It continues to fall as I brush away what’s already accumulated, but at least the heater is melting the snowflakes hitting my windshield.
By the time I finish, I’m both sweating and freezing. I take my gloves off and yank my phone from my jacket pocket. It vibrates as I scroll for a song to play.
Shit For Brains: Are you sure you won’t come back for Christmas? We could talk.
And another.
Shit For Brains: Come on. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?
Talk about having the absolute fucking audacity.
I choose a song and then open the message, hating the way my stomach pinches at the sight of our last conversation and the memories it drags back up.
My reply is quick and blunt.
Eat shit, Travis.
It’s been nine months since I learned my now ex-boyfriend had been writing the cruellest things about me in a group chat between him and his friends.
Every single one of my habits, both bad and those I thought were iffy but at least okay, had been sent to a group of men who made crude jokes and nasty comments about them. And it hadn’t stopped there, either.
After one of them called me Mount Ivy during a Friday night football party we hosted and then looked like he was going to be sick afterward, I had this gut feeling that something wasn’t right. I’d never been called that before, much less by one of Travis’s friends.
I looked through his phone the next night and found all of my answers in messages where they’d been calling me that as a way to make fun of my heavy chest. It got worse after that somehow, with personal details of my body and what I enjoyed during sex being shared in a disgusting way that made me hate myself for a while. Every one of my insecurities was highlighted and shared as a way to get a few laughs.
The fact he has the nerve to still text me after I left and moved two hours away from him is beyond my comprehension.
I delete our conversation and slide my phone between my thighs as I drive. He’s not going to get the better of me today. I’ve prepared for this business meeting with Niko for too many days now to show up distracted with this shit.
If I don’t do well, I could be spending Christmas in a snow pile on the side of Main Street.
I keep my grip tight on the steering wheel the entire drive to the Frosty Mug. The roads aren’t slick, but the snow is loose, and my winter tires are old—definitely not making it another year.
My nerves swell when I pull into the plowed parking lot and stare at the Open sign hung on the door. There are a few other vehicles here, but not many. Maybe that will change later.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself, inhaling a reassuring breath.
Fuck yeah, I do.
I don’t give myself another second to doubt that before I’m grabbing my things and stepping out of the car. Locking it twice, I head for the bar.
Leather and popcorn are the smells I notice first when I get inside. I was expecting something like stale beer or oil, but this is much better.
I make quick work of wiping my boots off on the entry mat and shrugging my snow-coated jacket off. Then, I drape it over my arm and make my way through the tables at the front.
The majority of them are empty, but a few are occupied. An older couple flashes me quick smiles that I return before continuing my search for the bar. I find it past a few more tables, outlined with bar stools. Only a handful of them are occupied, leaving me plenty of choices. There doesn’t appear to be anyone working the bar, so I take a seat at the end, well enough away from everyone else, and decide to wait.
I lay my jacket and purse over the stool beside me and set the gift bag on the bar top before pulling my blonde hair in front of my shoulders, hoping that the curls haven’t fallen completely. My button-up pink blouse is professional and one of my favourites, but I notice the top button has come undone the way it always seems to. Doing it back up quickly, I worry my lip, realizing I forgot to safety pin it shut before I left.
It’s okay. It’ll hold now.
The sound of a door swinging open and shut comes before the scent of the fryer oil I was expecting to smell earlier. I focus on the short man who comes out from the back room with two baskets of fries in his hands and glides behind the bar to hand them out to the guys a few stools down from me.
He doesn’t have a name tag on his plain black shirt, so I wait until he’s coming back my way before waving him over.
“Hi!”
He pauses, his thick brows creasing as he looks at me. “Hey. Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else had come in. Do you have ID?”
“Oh! Yes, one second.” I dig around in the zipped pocket of my jacket for my small card holder before pulling my ID out. “Here you go.”
The bartender takes it and looks between the picture of me and the version sitting at the bar before handing it back with a smile. “Thank you. Now, what can I get you, Ivy?”
I put the card back in my jacket before leaning over the bar and saying, “I’m here to see Niko, actually. Is he here? We have a business meeting.”
Eyes growing wide, he stammers, “Uh—yeah. Yeah, he’s here. Let me get him for you.”
His obvious nerves are confusing. Is Niko really that terrible that the guy working the bar is scared just to get him for me? Surely not. But the only other reason for his weird behaviour is that I make him uncomfortable, and that would upset me too much to entertain.
I dressed nicely and spent extra time on my hair and makeup. My lips are glossy and a muted pink that matches my blouse. I put my tight jeans on for this because they’re the only ones I own without rips in the knees. Sure, my breasts are stretching the blouse a bit, but for god’s sake, does that really matter? I’ve done everything I can do to appear like I’m here for business and nothing else.
“Could I actually get a water first?” I ask, needing something for my dry mouth.
“Of course. Yeah. Coming right up.”
“Thank you.”
I chew on the inside of my lip and watch him pour me a glass of water and set it on a coaster in front of me. He adds a straw to the glass, and I flash a grateful smile before taking a sip.
“I’ll go get the boss,” he says after a moment of silence.
“I’d appreciate that.”
With a rap of his knuckles to the bar, he takes off. I risk a look at the men eating fries and quickly turn forward when I notice they’re already staring at me with obvious curiosity.
While I may have been in town for a few weeks now, this is my first time in this bar. I’m wishing I’d have been here a few times before right about now.
I sit and wait long enough for me to have emptied my glass before the back door swings open again. Straightening my curved posture, I watch the bartender come out alone.
“He’ll be right out,” he tells me when I open my mouth to ask.
I settle on the stool with a nod. “Thank you again.”
“No problem. Another water?”
“That would be great.”
He takes my empty glass and refills it before setting it back on the damp coaster. I don’t drink from it yet. When the back door opens this time, it’s a large man who appears.
Focusing on not letting my eyes bulge as I stare at his massive chest, I swallow and bring my gaze to his shoes before cautiously sliding it upward.
God, he’s so fucking tall. His legs seem to never have an end, and when I reach his waist, I still have a long way to go. He’s even wide up top, with thick hips and bulky shoulders that are kept straight, his posture far better than mine. Biceps that I guarantee are wider than my head bunch and strain beneath a tight black henley.
Muscles like that . . . they’re the ones that could have him lifting you up and manhandling you with little effort. My pulse spikes to the point I think I can hear it in my ears and feel it dropping lower and lower . . .
Even sitting on a bar stool, I have to crane my head back to find his face. There’s a thick, dark beard around his jaw and up around his mouth that looks softer than it should, like maybe he spends a few minutes every day taking care of it.
My next breath gets caught in my throat when I lift my eyes past the wide bridge of his nose. I erupt with a cough that tears through the entire bar.
I know the hazelnut eyes that stare back at me. They’re the same ones I remember seeing several times over the nine months that I was with Travis. The last time I saw them was during Travis’s birthday in March when his dad showed up with pizza and beer.
He’s Nicholas Shaw, Travis’s father.
Niko .
My jaw flies open.
“Ivy?”
“Mr. Shaw?”