Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
IVY
There are certain sounds that haunt the nightmares of every wedding planner.
The rip of a zipper on a custom Vera Wang gown. The crash of a five-tier cake hitting a parquet floor. The slur of a best man realizing the microphone is live.
But currently, the sound that is keeping me awake and threatening to unravel my sanity is far more subtle.
It is the sound of Brooks Taylor breathing.
It is 1:14 AM. We have been in bed for two hours.
I am lying on the far-left edge of the California King mattress, clinging to the precipice like a mountain climber hanging on for dear life.
My back is to the center of the room. My eyes are squeezed shut.
I am wearing a pair of silk pajamas Savvy packed for me, navy blue, long-sleeved, buttoned to the chin.
They are aggressively modest, sleepwear a nun might wear if she won the lottery.
Behind me, separated by the Great Wall of Down, a fortification I constructed from four European shams, two bolsters, and a decorative lumbar pillow I absolutely did not need, lies the enemy.
Brooks is asleep. Or at least, I think he is.
His breathing is steady, a low, rhythmic inhale-exhale that vibrates through the mattress springs and straight into my spine. Every now and then, he shifts, the rustle of the high-thread-count sheets sounding like a landslide in the quiet cottage.
I stare at the moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.
This is fine, I tell myself. This is a business trip. People share rooms on business trips all the time.
Except they usually don't share a duvet.
I squeeze my eyes tighter. I am exhausted.
The adrenaline of the deal, the drive, and the gladiator match with Betty Taylor has drained me dry.
I should be unconscious. But my brain refuses to shut down.
It is cycling through a highlight reel of the day: Brooks's hand on my wrist. Brooks in the towel.
The way he looked at me across the lunch table when I lied about the lighting.
Asset.
That's what he called me. Not a partner. Not a person. An asset. Like a stock option or a piece of real estate.
I grit my teeth. I will be the best investment he's ever had. I will be so indispensable, so charming, so fake that he'll be counting down the days until that waiver releases and he can finally get rid of me.
Another shift from the other side of the wall of pillows. A groan.
I stiffen.
The groan isn't the sound of someone getting comfortable. It's a sound of pain. Low, tight, and sharp.
I wait.
Silence returns, but the rhythm of his breathing has changed. It's faster now. Shallow.
Then, a click.
A soft, pale blue light floods the room, casting long, weird shadows against the vaulted ceiling.
I turn my head slowly, peering over the bolster pillow.
Brooks is sitting up. He has pushed the duvet down to his waist. He's wearing a grey t-shirt that clings to his shoulders and plaid boxers that I absolutely refuse to look at. His laptop is balanced on his knees, the screen glowing harsh and bright in the darkness.
He is squinting at the screen, one hand pressed against his forehead, shading his eyes as if the light hurts him. Which, given that he sustained a concussion recently, it definitely does.
He types something. Deletes it. Types again. Then he winces, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his hands into his temples.
"You know," I say into the dark, "if you're trying to give yourself a stroke, you're on the right track."
Brooks jumps. He snaps the laptop shut, plunging the room back into semi-darkness.
"You're awake," he says. His voice is rough, scratchy with sleep and pain.
"It's hard to sleep when there's a lighthouse beacon next to me," I say, pushing myself up. I sit cross-legged on my side of the wall. "What are you doing?"
"Working," he mutters. He opens the laptop again, just a crack. "I have emails. The Asian markets are opening."
"The Asian markets will open whether you watch them or not," I say. "Brooks, you have a concussion. The doctor said no screens. No stress. No cognitive strain."
"The doctor doesn't have a deal closing in eight weeks."
"The deal won't close at all if you drop dead from a brain bleed," I counter. "Put the computer away."
"I'm fine," he snaps. He starts typing again, the click-clack-click sounding like gunshots in the quiet room. "Go back to sleep, Ivy. You're off the clock."
"I'm never off the clock," I say, sliding out of bed. "Not when the client is actively sabotaging the event."
"I'm not sabotaging anything," he grumbles, not looking up.
"You're working on a laptop at 2 AM with a concussion.
That's sabotage." I march around the foot of the bed.
The floor is cold under my bare feet. I walk up to his side of the mattress.
Up close, he looks terrible. The moonlight washes him out, making the bruise on his temple look like a splash of ink against his skin.
His eyes are red-rimmed and tight with pain.
I reach out and grab the top of the laptop screen.
"Hey!" he protests, his grip tightening on the base.
"Let go," I command.
"No. I need to send this draft to legal."
"Send it in the morning."
"Ivy, let go."
"Brooks, let go or I will enact Clause 9 and leave you here to explain to your mother why your fiancée vanished in the middle of the night."
He hesitates. He glares at me, his jaw tightening. For a second, I think he's going to fight me for it. I think he's going to use that venture capitalist arrogance to steamroll right over me.
But then, the pain wins. He flinches, a spasm of agony crossing his face, and his grip on the laptop loosens.
I pull it away. Before snapping it shut, I catch a glimpse of the screen.
An email from his father, the subject line reading, "Tomorrow's Discussion.
" I close the laptop and place it on the dresser across the room, far out of his reach.
"Tyrant," he mutters, leaning his head back against the headboard.
"Fixer," I correct.
I walk into the kitchenette. I open the freezer. Empty, except for a bottle of vodka and, thank God, a gel ice pack. I grab it, wrapping it in a tea towel I find on the counter. I grab a glass of water, and the bottle of Tylenol I saw on the bathroom counter earlier.
I return to the bed.
"Sit up," I say.
Brooks cracks one eye open. "Are you going to smother me with that towel?"
"Tempting, but no. It's ice."
He groans but pushes himself up a little higher on the pillows. I hand him the water and two pills.
"Take them."
He takes them without arguing, swallowing the water in one gulp. He hands the glass back to me.
"Turn your head," I instruct.
He turns slightly, exposing the bruised side of his temple. I gently press the ice pack against the swelling.
He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Too cold?" I ask, pulling back slightly.
"No," he exhales, his shoulders dropping about three inches. "No, it's... good."
I stand there by the side of the bed, holding the ice against his head.
My hip is brushing against the mattress.
His eyes are closed now, his lashes dark against his cheekbones.
Without the glare of the laptop and the armor of his suit, he looks younger.
Less like a force of nature, more like a man who is carrying something too heavy.
My arm starts to get tired.
"Here," I say, shifting. "Hold this."
He reaches up, his hand covering mine over the ice pack. But he doesn't take it. He just keeps his hand there, trapping mine against his temple. His skin is warm.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly, his eyes still closed.
"Doing what? Preventing swelling?"
"Helping me," he says. "You hate me. I blackmailed you. Most people would let me suffer."
"I'm protecting my investment," I say, forcing lightness into my voice. "If you don't recover, you can't charm the board. If you can't charm the board, the vote goes sideways. If it goes sideways, you sue me. It's a simple flowchart, Brooks."
He opens his eyes. They are dark, intelligent, and currently focused on me with an intensity that makes me want to step back.
"You're lying," he says softly.
"I'm a professional liar. It's part of the job description."
"You're doing it because you can't help it," he murmurs. "You see a mess, you have to clean it up. Even if the mess is me."
I don't answer. He's right, and I hate that he's right. It's my fatal flaw. Maddy saves stray cats; I save disasters.
"Why are you awake, Brooks?" I ask, changing the subject. "And don't say 'Asian markets.' You were staring at that email from your father for five minutes without typing a word."
He sighs, the sound rattling deep in his chest. He finally takes the ice pack from me, holding it in place himself, which allows me to step back. I sit on the edge of the bed, on his side, giving up the pretense of the wall for a moment.
"He's coming tomorrow," Brooks says.
"Your dad? We saw him at lunch."
"He was present at lunch," Brooks corrects. "He wasn't there. Tomorrow he wants to do a site walk of the estate grounds. Just him and me. To 'assess the stability of the foundation.'"
"He means your foundation," I guess.
"He means my sanity," Brooks says bitterly. "He thinks I'm reckless. He thinks I'm impulsive. He's been waiting for me to screw up for ten years so he can justify bringing in an outside CEO."
"Why?" I ask. "You're good at what you do. I looked you up. You tripled the firm's portfolio in five years."
He looks at me, surprised. "You did your homework."
"I always research the venue," I say. "The numbers are there. Why doesn't he trust you?"
Brooks looks away, staring at the unlit fireplace. "Because I'm not him. Preston Taylor believes in slow, conservative growth. He believes in zero risk. I take risks. I bet on startups. I bet on tech. I bet on things that haven't happened yet. He calls it gambling. I call it vision."
He shifts the ice pack.