Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
brOOKS
The silence in the SUV on the way to the club is heavy enough to crush a lesser vehicle.
Ivy is staring out the window, her posture rigid. She's wearing sunglasses that are too big for her face, likely borrowed from Savvy, and clutching her purse like it contains state secrets.
I'm trying not to look at her. Specifically, I am trying not to look at the stretch of bare leg exposed when the slit in her white linen dress falls open, or the way the fabric drapes over her shoulders.
It is proving difficult. She smells like vanilla, a scent that is rapidly filling the confined space of the SUV.
I shift in the leather seat, adjusting my suit jacket.
I rub my temple. The concussion is a dull roar in the background, muffled by painkillers and adrenaline.
"We're here," I say as the car pulls up to the valet stand of the Southampton Beach Club.
Ivy takes a deep breath. She turns to me, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. Her eyes are wide, but clear. She looks like a soldier checking her parachute before a jump.
"Okay," she says. "The mother. Betty. Give me the dossier."
"She's not a spy target, Ivy."
"She's a hostile entity. Give me the intel."
I sigh. "She values pedigree, punctuality, and pearls.
She hates loud laughter, public displays of emotion, and people who don't know which fork to use.
She will ask you about your family. Keep it vague.
She will ask about your education. Tell the truth; she can background check you. And she will ask about the wedding."
"Our wedding?"
"Yes. We're aiming for June. The Plaza. Black tie. Classic."
"Boring," Ivy mutters. "But fine."
The valet opens the door. I step out and offer my hand to Ivy. She takes it. Her skin is cool, her grip firm.
"Clause 4," she whispers as I pull her out of the car.
"I know the rules," I mutter back, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm.
We walk up the steps. The club is a sea of white tablecloths, navy blazers, and old money. Heads turn as we pass. I nod to a few people, investors, board members, neighbors I've ignored for years.
"Smile," I murmur. "You're in love."
Ivy flashes a grin that is dazzling, convincing, and completely terrifying. "I'm delighted to be here," she says through her teeth. "I hope your mother doesn't eat me."
"She prefers her meals cooked," I assure her.
We reach the terrace. My mother is sitting at the best table, naturally. It has a view of the ocean, is shaded by a blue-and-white striped umbrella and is far enough from the bar to avoid the noise but close enough to see who's drinking too much.
Betty Taylor is sixty-five, looks fifty, and acts like royalty. She is wearing cream silk and a look of mild disapproval.
My father, Preston, is next to her, reading the Wall Street Journal on an iPad. He looks up as we approach, his expression unreadable.
"Mother. Father," I say.
Betty turns her gaze on us. It's like being scanned by an MRI machine. She looks at my bandage. She looks at Ivy's dress. Then, her gaze drops instantly to Ivy's left hand.
The bare left hand.
Ivy stiffens beside me. We missed a step. We were so busy arguing about the bedroom that we forgot the hardware.
Betty's eyebrow arches, a silent, lethal question mark.
"Brooks," she says. Her voice is crisp, like dry champagne. "You're three minutes late. And I see you've forgotten something."
"Traffic on the LIE," I lie smoothly, pulling out a chair for Ivy. "And if you mean the ring, it's currently with the jeweler. The setting was loose. I'm not risking a family heirloom until it's secure."
It's a flimsy lie, but it holds.
"Prudent," Betty concedes, though her eyes linger on Ivy's naked finger for a second too long.
"Mother, Father, this is Ivy Sullivan. My fiancée."
Ivy sits down with a grace that surprises me. She doesn't fidget. She folds her hands in her lap, hiding the ringless finger, and smiles.
"Mrs. Taylor, Mr. Taylor," she says warmly. "It's lovely to finally meet you. Brooks has told me so much about Eastmoor. The drive in was breathtaking."
My father nods. "Good to meet you, Ivy. Brooks tells us you're in... management?"
"Events," Ivy corrects smoothly. "I own a boutique planning firm. Ever After, Inc."
"A party planner," my mother says. She says it the way one might say a contagious disease.
"We specialize in high-end logistics and crisis management," Ivy says, unruffled. "Most of our clients are in finance or law. People who don't have time to manage the details, but demand perfection in the execution."
It's a clean pivot. I solve problems for people like you.
My mother hums, lifting her iced tea. "And your family, dear? Are they in New York?"
"My father was in logistics as well," Ivy says.
I happen to know from her personnel file, which I read on the drive, that he was a truck driver. Technically true.
"And my mother is a retired educator originally from Jersey."
"Jersey," my mother repeats. She sips. "How... spirited."
I tense.
"So," Betty continues, setting down her glass. "Brooks tells me this was a whirlwind romance. He's usually so... calculated. I must admit, I was surprised to hear he'd proposed to someone we've never met."
"Brooks has always kept his personal life private," my father says mildly, as if this is an old, accepted flaw. "We're accustomed to learning things after the fact."
My mother's mouth tightens, but she doesn't contradict him.
That part, at least, is honest. I've never brought a woman home. I've never talked about anyone long enough for it to matter.
"Especially someone so... new to the circle," Betty adds, eyes back on Ivy.
"When you know, you know," I say, reaching for Ivy's hand. A reflex. Or maybe an instinct to put something between my mother and her scrutiny.
"Indeed," Betty says. Her gaze sharpens. "And tell me, Ivy, what is it about my son that charmed you? Was it his portfolio? Or perhaps the Hamptons estate?"
The table goes silent. It's an insult wrapped in a question. She's calling her a gold digger to her face.
I open my mouth to shut it down, but Ivy squeezes my hand. Hard.
She leans forward slightly, meeting my mother's gaze head-on. She doesn't look offended. She looks... amused.
"Actually, Mrs. Taylor," Ivy says, her voice light and conversational, "it was his ability to handle a crisis. We met when a mutual friend's wedding was about to go off the rails. Brooks stepped in to... handle a difficult situation."
I admire the audacity. She's using the tackle as our meet-cute.
"I admire a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty to protect the people he cares about," Ivy continues. "It's a rare quality in this city. Most men just throw money at problems. Brooks throws himself at them."
My father chuckles. He actually chuckles. "She's got a point there. Remember when Brooks fixed the wiring on the yacht when the captain quit?"
My mother's lips purse. She hasn't drawn blood, and she doesn't like it. She pivots.
"Well," she says. "I suppose 'crisis management' is a useful skill. Though I hope you won't be managing our events. I prefer to leave that to the professionals."
She sighs, looking out at the ocean. "Speaking of which, this season is already a disaster.
I'm hosting the Mid-Summer Charity Gala in two weeks, and the event planner I hired, some woman named Colette, is incompetent.
She wants to do tented ceilings in the ballroom.
Can you imagine? In July? It will look like a circus tent. "
This is a trap. I know it's a trap. If Ivy agrees, she's snobby. If she disagrees, she's contradicting the hostess.
Ivy tilts her head, studying my mother. She switches modes. I watch it happen, the shift from Fiancée to The Fixer.
"Tented ceilings are risky," Ivy agrees thoughtfully. "Especially with the humidity this year. It traps the heat. You'll have guests sweating through their silk within an hour."
My mother blinks. "Exactly."
"If I were advising on the Eastmoor ballroom," Ivy continues, "I'd actually suggest an open-air projection mapping on the ceiling. Keep the airflow but use light to create the texture. Maybe a soft amber wash to complement the limestone? It makes the diamonds sparkle better in photographs."
My mother stops moving. Her glass hovers halfway to her mouth.
She looks at Ivy. Then she looks at the ceiling of the club terrace, as if imagining the lighting.
"Amber wash," Betty muses. "Not blue?"
"Blue washes out skin tones," Ivy says with the confidence of a general. "Everyone looks sickly in blue light. Amber is universally flattering. Your guests will look ten years younger. And they'll drink more champagne because they feel attractive."
My father laughs again, louder this time. "I like her, Brooks. She knows her audience."
Betty lowers her glass. She studies Ivy for a long, silent moment. The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on.
Then, slowly, the corner of my mother's mouth twitches upward.
"Colette wanted blue," Betty says disdainfully. "She said it was 'nautical.'"
"Nautical is for children's birthday parties," Ivy says gravely. "This is a gala."
"Precisely," my mother says.
She picks up her fork. The test is over.
"Brooks," Betty says, cutting into her salad. "Why didn't you tell me she had taste? I was expecting... Well, I was expecting denim."
"I told you she was perfect," I say.
I look at Ivy. She is taking a sip of water, her hand trembling slightly against the glass. She catches my eye over the rim. She winks.
A genuine, startling jolt of admiration hits me in the chest.
I expected her to survive. I didn't expect her to win.
The rest of lunch is a blur of social niceties. Ivy navigates the minefield of Hampton gossip like a pro, nodding when appropriate, laughing at my father's terrible jokes, and deferring to my mother just enough to feed Betty's ego without looking weak.
By the time the check comes, my mother has actually invited Ivy to "look at the ballroom lighting" later that afternoon.
We walk back to the car in silence.
As soon as the valet shuts the doors and the partition slides up, Ivy collapses.
She slumps against the leather seat, letting out a groan that sounds like a deflating balloon. She rips the sunglasses off her head and covers her eyes with her arm.
"I need a drink," she muffles into her elbow. "I need a drink, and a nap, and hazard pay."
"You were incredible," I say, and mean it.
She peeks out from under her arm, eyeing me suspiciously. "I was lying. I hate amber lighting. It makes everyone look jaundiced. But I knew she'd love it because it's pretentious."
I laugh. I can't help it. It hurts my head, but I laugh anyway.
"You played her," I say. "You played Betty Taylor. I've seen hostile board takeovers with less strategic maneuvering than what you just did with a salad fork."
"It's just client management," she says, sitting up and smoothing her hair. "She's just a bride with a bigger budget and more repressed rage."
She looks at me, and for a second, the air in the car changes. The camaraderie is there. The shared victory.
"You defended me," she says softly. "With the 'crisis management' story. You didn't have to do that."
"You're my asset," I say, falling back on the safety of business terms. "I protect my assets."
"Right," she says. The softness vanishes, replaced by a cool mask. "Asset."
She looks out the window again.
I watch her profile. I think about the way she handled my mother. I think about the moment earlier when her composure slipped. And I think about the fact that later tonight, she'll be sleeping in my bed.
"Ivy," I say.
She turns. "What?"
"We survived lunch," I say. "But tonight is the real test."
"Why? What's tonight?"
"Tonight," I say, "we have to convince the staff that we're actually sleeping together. Which means we have to go into that cottage, close the door, and not kill each other until morning."
She swallows. "Right. Piece of cake."
"I'll take the couch if you want," I offer. It surprises me as I say it.
She looks at me, searching my face. Then she shakes her head.
"No," she says. "Clause 4 says we have to maintain the ruse. If Mrs. Clarkson comes in to turn down the bed and sees you on the couch, we're busted."
She squares her shoulders.
"We share the bed, Brooks. But just so you know: I am building a pillow wall. It will be like the Great Wall of China between us."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I say.
She turns back to the window.
As the car turns off the highway and the iron gates of Eastmoor swing open, my hand finds the door handle and I hold on.