Chapter Sixteen
Ivy
The Tipsy is packed. Saturday night energy pulses through the crowd, bodies pressed together as Three Pence commands the stage.
The lead singer’s powerful vocals soar above the indie rock rhythms, her Michigan roots evident in the raw authenticity of their sound.
The vibrations from the bass travel up through the soles of my feet. I still can’t believe I’m here.
Back in New York, I’d be in sweatpants reviewing my latest cases or binge-watching Supernatural. Instead, I’m at an exclusive party listening to one of the biggest bands of the year.
“You look incredible,” Lillianna says next to me, eyeing the dress I’ve borrowed from her. It’s a deep burgundy number that hugs curves I usually keep hidden under tailored suits. “That dress was made for someone with your assets.”
I adjust the plunging neckline. “It feels like everyone’s staring.”
“That’s the point,” she laughs, scanning the room before freezing mid-movement. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Thorne’s here.” Her eyebrows lift in surprise.
My heart stutters as I follow her gaze. Sure enough, Thorne stands at a high table near the bar, bourbon in hand, looking like sin personified in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down with sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle.
The casual outfit does nothing to diminish his commanding presence.
If anything, it amplifies it. My mouth goes dry, and I have to press my thighs together against the sudden throb of want.
I swallow hard, annoyed at my body’s immediate reaction.
“Who’s that with him?” I ask, desperate for any distraction from the heat blooming in my core.
Lillianna grins. “That’s Drake London. He does marketing and management for Blackstone. Come on, let’s go say hi.”
“Wait—” But she's already weaving through the crowd, leaving me no choice but to follow.
Thorne spots us approaching, his expression shifting from casual charm to something darker, more focused as his gaze travels slowly down my body before snapping back to my face.
The intensity in those blue eyes strips away pretense, leaving me exposed despite the dress.
Our connection bypasses the crowd, the music, everything, as a private current runs between us that makes my skin flush and my heart stumble over its next beat.
“Lillianna,” he acknowledges his sister with a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to me. “Ivy.”
“So you decided to come after all,” I say, sounding much too satisfied. Had he come because I’m here?
A muscle ticks in Thorne’s jaw. “Apparently. Where’d you get the dress?”
“It’s mine. Doesn’t she look stunning?” Lillianna jumps in.
Thorne grunts. Not the most flattering answer. Screw him.
His sister gets that I’m-going-to-start-some-shit look in her eyes that I can clearly recognize now. “Well, the rest of the men here, and a good number of women, agree with me.”
“I concur,” says the man next to Thorne, which earns him a murderous look from the growly-looking Thorne.
“Hi Drake,” Lillianna says, turning to Thorne’s guest. “Ivy, this is Drake London, our marketing genius. Drake, this is Ivy West, Madison’s guardian and our new environmental consultant.”
Drake is classically handsome with an easy smile and dark blue eyes that crinkle at the corners. “The famous Ivy West. Thorne’s mentioned you.” He extends his hand, his grip firm and professional.
“All good things, I hope,” I reply, conscious of the way Thorne is watching our interaction.
“Just the basics,” Drake says with a polite smile. “Thorne keeps business matters pretty close to the vest.”
The disappointment in my chest is ridiculous. Yet, his admission from the other day plays on repeat in my head. “I want to fuck you.” The heat in his voice and eyes had burned me, and I want to play in the flames, never mind the consequences.
On stage, Three Pence transitions to a new song, the crowd responding with enthusiastic cheers.
“Drake’s from Michigan like the band,” Lillianna says, nodding toward the stage. “Must be a mitten night.”
“I’m only here for the week,” Drake clarifies. “Just in town for some meetings. I travel wherever the business takes me. But bourbon business is the best business.”
“And Blackstones make it worth everything,” Lillianna says, her smile flirtatious.
He winks. “I agree.”
Thorne taps his glass on the table. “Drake’s the one who suggested we come here. He’s a fan of Three Pence.”
“Caught them a few times in Detroit,” he replies. “Good to see them making waves outside Michigan.”
A tap on my shoulder pulls my attention away from the group. I turn, and there's Dave — dark hair, easy smile, exactly as uncomplicated as I remembered. He looks genuinely happy to see me, and something about that makes my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.
"You came," I say. The surprise in my voice is embarrassing. I'd half-hoped he wouldn't, and that's not something I'm ready to examine.
"Of course I came." He pulls me into a brief hug, warm and undemanding. "You look amazing, Ivy."
Across the table, a glass stills mid-lift. I don't have to look to know whose.
When I do glance over, Thorne’s expression has gone carefully blank. It’s that particular kind of blank that I'm learning means the opposite of nothing.
"Dave, this is Lillianna Blackstone and Drake London," I say, steering us toward the group. "And this is Thorne Blackstone."
The two men shake hands. Dave's smile doesn't waver. Thorne's doesn't appear.
"Blackstone Bourbon," Dave says, with the appreciative nod of someone who actually means it. "Hard to find a better pour in Kentucky."
Thorne takes a slow sip of his glass, eyes steady on Dave over the rim. "Or anywhere."
Dave blinks, then lets out a short laugh like he's decided to find Thorne’s arrogance charming. Turning to me, he asks, “Want a drink? A Manhattan, right?”
He heads for the bar at the same time a pretty woman in a dress that fits like a second skin bumps into me.
She apologizes, but she’s looking at Thorne.
Her cocktail sloshes in the glass, and she’s gripping it a little too tightly.
Her eyes are fixed on Thorne with the determined focus of someone who needed a few drinks to gather her courage.
“Well, look who it is.” Her voice rings of a forced lightness. “Thorne Blackstone, gracing the commoners with his presence.”
If I weren’t attuned to, okay, slightly obsessed with, Thorne’s body, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the shift: the flash of annoyance, or maybe discomfort, before his expression settles into careful neutrality.
“Heather,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “She’s Blackstone’s event planner.”
“Is that all I am?” she asks, and I swear, she bats her lashes at him.
“Yes.” The single syllable drops between them like a guillotine blade.
Heather’s perfectly-painted smile falters, then turns brittle. She drains her glass, her knuckles white around the stem. Okay, I may not like her familiarity with him, but that was harsh.
Before I can admonish him, another woman approaches. This one is more polished and sober, eyeing Heather with slight disapproval before turning her attention to Thorne.
“Thorne Blackstone,” she says, her voice a practiced purr. “I thought that was you.”
What the hell. Did Thorne’s fan club—or more likely, harem—have a meeting tonight at the Tipsy?
“Meredith,” Thorne nods, even less encouraging than he was with Heather. “Good to see you.”
“It’s been ages,” she continues, stepping closer to him than casual conversation warrants. “Not since that charity gala your mother hosted last year.”
Lillianna leans closer and tells me. “Meredith has been trying to get her claws into my brother for years, but he’s thankfully smart enough to stay away from that social climber.”
I shouldn’t ask. I don’t need to know. Yet my mouth opens, and out falls, “What about Heather?”
The woman in question shifts her weight, glass tilting dangerously as she moves closer to Thorne’s other side. The two women are like opposing magnets with him caught in between, and sharp and unexpected pain twists in my chest at the sight.
Lillianna pauses, her gaze assessing me. She bites her lower lip, then sighs. “Office romance that shouldn’t have happened.”
Is that a warning or just information? Given our previous conversation and what she knows about Thorne and me, it’s possible.
Dave returns, handing me a fresh drink, his fingers brushing mine. Easy. Uncomplicated. Safe. I smile up at him and he smiles back, and I think, this is what normal looks like. This is what I should want.
Then Meredith laughs at something Thorne says, her hand finding his arm again. My stomach tightens. My fingers curl around my glass. Dave says my name, like it isn’t the first time he’s said it.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
"Dance with me?" Dave asks.
The band had shifted into a slower number. The saxophone winds sensually through the crowded room.
I take his hand. "Yes."
He leads me to the floor, finding a space near the stage where the lights are low and the crowd is loose. He's a good dancer. His hand settles at my waist and I settle into the music.
Yes, this. This is fine. This is good.
His thumb moves slightly, just a small shift in his grip, and my body registers with humiliating clarity that it isn't the right hand.
I smile at something he says. I think I respond. He laughs, so I must have.
The saxophone winds through the room and Dave's cologne is warm and pleasant and completely forgettable and I hate myself a little for noticing that.
He says my name and I realize it isn't the first time.
“Sorry.”
Dave tilts his head. "Where'd you go?"
I squeeze his hand. "I'm here."
But my skin is waiting for something it has no business waiting for. And no amount of trying is going to change that.
The air behind me changes before I hear him.
"Mind if I cut in?" Thorne's voice is as smooth as aged bourbon, but with the burn of high proof beneath it.