Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
IVY
I press my face against the cool glass of the SUV window as we turn off the Montauk Highway and pass through a set of wrought-iron gates that are taller than my apartment building.
"Subtle," I murmur.
Beside me, Brooks doesn't even look up from his phone.
"It's old," he says dismissively, his thumb scrolling through emails with a speed that suggests he's trying to ignore the throbbing vein in his temple. "Drafty in the winter. The plumbing is a nightmare. Don't let the hydrangeas fool you; the place is a money pit."
I look at the rolling green lawns, the manicured topiary that probably requires a team of three gardeners to maintain its spherical integrity, and the main house rising in the distance like a limestone wedding cake.
"Right," I say. "A money pit. I see at least three chimneys from here, Brooks. Do you know how many chimneys I have? Zero. I have a radiator that clangs like a prisoner of war."
"You're obsessed with HVAC," he mutters, finally sliding his phone into his pocket as the car crunches over the gravel driveway.
"I'm the stand-in. Brides hire me to fix what's unraveling. Climate control is fifty percent of my job. The other fifty percent is stopping aunts from fighting over centerpieces."
The car glides to a stop in front of the main entrance. It's exactly what I expected, imposing steps, white pillars, and a front door that looks like it judges you for not having a family crest.
The driver opens my door, and the salt air of the Hamptons hits me. It smells like money. Crisp, clean, and expensive, with freshly cut grass and that chalky, briny note that comes from crushed shells underfoot.
I step out, smoothing the skirt of the white linen dress Savvy forced me to wear. I grab my bag, but Brooks is already there, nodding to a woman standing on the porch.
She isn't his mother. She's wearing a sensible navy dress and an expression that suggests she knows where all the bodies are buried and has personally polished the shovels.
"Mrs. Clarkson," Brooks says, walking up the steps. He winces slightly as the sunlight hits his eyes. The concussion is still lurking, but he hides it well.
"Mr. Taylor," the woman says. She doesn't smile, but her eyes soften a fraction. "Welcome home. And this must be..."
She turns to me. Her gaze is a scanner, reading my price tag from the brim of my hat to the soles of my wedges.
"Ivy," Brooks says.
He reaches back and grabs my hand.
I stifle a gasp. His hand is warm. Shockingly warm against the cool breeze coming off the ocean. His fingers lace through mine with a familiarity that feels unearned, pulling me up the steps and slotting me into his side like a missing puzzle piece.
"My fiancée," he finishes, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.
My pulse jumps. It's a physiological reaction, I tell myself. Startle response. Nothing more.
"Ms. Sullivan," Mrs. Clarkson says with a polite nod. "Mrs. Taylor is expecting you both at the club for lunch at one. She sent word that she's... eager to meet you."
The way she says eager sounds a lot like she's sharpening her knives.
"We'll be there," Brooks says, his grip on my hand tightening enough to be possessive. "We're just going to drop our bags in the guest cottage and freshen up."
Mrs. Clarkson clears her throat. It's a delicate sound, but it stops Brooks in his tracks.
"About the cottage, sir," she says. "There's been a slight... adjustment."
Brooks stiffens next to me. Tension radiates through his arm. "What kind of adjustment?"
"Your mother decided that the East Wing renovations needed to be expanded," Mrs. Clarkson explains. "The construction crew found some dry rot in the guest cottage beams last week. They've sealed off the second floor and the two back bedrooms for safety."
A cold prickle of dread runs down the back of my neck.
"Sealed off?" I repeat.
"Dust containment," Mrs. Clarkson says efficiently.
"Mrs. Taylor insisted. She didn't want you breathing in particulates, especially with your.
.. injury." She glances at the bandage on Brooks's temple.
"She instructed us to prepare the master suite on the ground floor of the cottage.
She felt it would be more... romantic. For the happy couple. "
I freeze.
Brooks freezes.
We are both doing the same math, and the equation is a disaster.
"The master suite," Brooks repeats slowly. "Just the master suite?"
"It's the only room with the AC currently connected to the main grid," Mrs. Clarkson says apologetically. "But it's lovely. Fresh linens. I put hydrangeas on the nightstand."
"Thank you, Mrs. Clarkson," Brooks says, his voice tight. "We'll... head down there now."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He grips my hand tighter and marches us away from the main house, down a stone path lined with rose bushes that are blooming with perfection.
As soon as we're out of earshot, behind a towering wall of privacy hedges, I yank my hand away.
"Clause 4, Section B," I hiss, stumbling a little in my wedges to keep up with his long strides. "Private accommodations. A separate room with a locking door. That is in the contract, Brooks! Mason wrote it down! You signed it!"
"I know what I signed," Brooks snaps, not looking at me. He's walking fast, the gravel crunching violently under his loafers.
"Then fix it! Tell Mrs. Clarkson we need another room. Put me in the main house. Put me in the servants' quarters. I don't care. I am not sharing a room with you."
"My parents are in the main house," Brooks says, swinging the gate to the cottage open. "Do you want to sleep down the hall from Betty? Do you want her waking you up at 6 AM to critique your sleepwear?"
"I'd prefer that to sleeping next to the man who blackmailed me!"
"Mrs. Clarkson just said the other rooms are full of dry rot and dust," Brooks counters, stopping at the cottage door. He turns to me, and he looks exhausted. The sunlight is harsh on his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
"And if I demand another room, my mother is going to ask why. Engaged couples usually want to sleep in the same room, Ivy. If we ask for separate beds an hour after arriving, the jig is up before we've even had lunch."
He pushes the door open and gestures for me to enter.
I stomp inside, ready to argue, ready to cite Clause 9 and demand to enforce my exit clause.
Then I look around.
The "cottage" is nicer than my entire apartment building.
It's been converted into one large open space with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams, a stone fireplace that looks like it belongs in a ski lodge, and French doors opening onto a private patio that smells like jasmine.
Whatever walls once separated the rooms have been removed in favor of this sprawling, romantic suite.
It's beautiful.
But there, dominating the center of the open room, is the problem.
A bed.
A massive, four-poster, California King bed.
It is piled high with crisp white duvets and enough throw pillows to suffocate a small army. The frame is dark mahogany, sturdy and imposing. It looks soft. It looks luxurious.
It looks like a trap. I scan the room for alternatives. A couch. A daybed. A chaise lounge I could curl up on. Nothing. Just one bed, centered, impossible to avoid.
"One bed," I say, my voice flat. "Let me guess. Your mother arranged the accommodations?"
"Probably," Brooks admits, walking in and dropping his suitcase by the door. He walks over to the bed and pokes the mattress. "She wants grandkids. She thinks forcing proximity accelerates the process."
"Well, she's wrong," I say, dropping my bag on the floor with a thud. "This accelerates nothing but my desire to commit a second felony."
Brooks checks his watch and swears softly. "We don't have time for this. It's 12:50. If we're late, she'll eat you alive."
"I need to freshen up," I protest. "I've been in a car for three hours."
“You look fine,” Brooks says. He shrugs into his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels. “Actually, you look perfect. Which is annoying.”
I blink, thrown off balance by the compliment, however backhanded it was.
He turns to the door. "Leave the bags. We have to go. Smile, darling. The curtain is going up."
I look at the bed one last time, that massive, unavoidable expanse of white linen, and swallow.
"Fine," I mutter, following him out. "But tonight, I'm building a pillow wall."