Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
brOOKS
Victory, it turns out, tastes a lot like expensive tequila and salt air.
It is Saturday, a few days after the "Red Wedding" dinner where Ivy and I publicly executed Royce's career between the soup and salad courses.
The mood in the Hamptons has changed. The whispers about my instability have vanished, replaced by a terrified respect.
The board is docile. The stock price is climbing.
We won.
To celebrate, my parents threw a "casual" gathering on the family yacht, The Merriweather. In Taylor language, "casual" means seventy-five people, a live DJ, and enough chilled seafood to depopulate the North Atlantic.
Half the guests came by tender from the marina. The rest helicoptered from the city, the distant thrum of rotors a familiar weekend soundtrack out here.
I am standing on the upper deck, leaning against the teak railing, watching the party below.
Actually, I am watching Ivy.
She is on the main deck, wearing a white crochet cover-up over a jade bikini. A wide-brimmed straw hat shades her face. She is laughing at something a software CEO is saying, her head thrown back, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
It's a performance. I know it's a performance. I know exactly how much energy it takes her to maintain that level of radiant charm for hours on end.
But watching her work the room used to feel like watching a skilled employee. Now, it feels... different.
I'm possessive.
Every time a man leans in a little too close to hear her over the music, my jaw tightens. Every time someone laughs too hard at her jokes, a spike of irritation hits that has absolutely nothing to do with optics and everything to do with the fact that she's wearing my ring.
"She's good, isn't she?"
I turn. My father, Preston, stands next to me, swirling a scotch. He looks relaxed, his shoulders finally loose.
"She's excellent," I agree, taking a sip of my tequila.
"Royce is out," my father says, looking out at the water. "Resigned this morning, 'to spend more time with his family.' The board is voting on the Holloway acquisition on Labor Day. It's a lock."
"Good."
My father turns to look at me. His expression is appraising, rare for him.
"I underestimated you, Brooks. I thought this engagement was impulsive. A reaction to the concussion. But I see now it was strategy. You needed a partner who could handle the trenches. Someone who wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty."
He nods toward Ivy, who is now charming an art collector.
"You chose well. She's a credit to the family."
Credit. The way he says it makes my stomach turn.
A week ago, I would have preened at the compliment. I would have agreed that she was the perfect acquisition. But hearing my father reduce her to a line item on a balance sheet makes me want to throw my glass into the ocean.
"She's not just an asset, Dad," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. "She's... Ivy."
My father raises an eyebrow. "Careful, son. Remember why we marry in this family, power and position. Choose wisely. The right woman will get you where you need to go."
He pats my shoulder and wanders off to talk bonds with a senator.
I grip the railing. Emotion clouds my judgment.
He has no idea how Ivy really entered my life.
The contract is clear: eight weeks, a transaction, a clean break, but when I look down at the deck, I don't see a transaction.
I see the woman who iced my head when I was in pain.
I see the woman who charged into my library and called me an idiot to my face because I was spiraling.
I see the partner who held my hand under the table while we destroyed a man's life.
I need a drink.
I head down the stairs to the main deck, dodging waiters with trays of oysters. The music is louder down here, the sun hotter.
I head for the bar, but I stop halfway.
Ivy is no longer talking to the art collector. She has been cornered near the stern by Carter Rhodes.
Carter is a hedge fund manager. He is thirty-five, has hair that is too blonde, teeth that are too white, and an ego that could sink the Titanic. We've run in the same circles for years. I have always found him tolerable in small doses, mostly because his fund buys my bad debt.
Today, he is not tolerable.
He is leaning against the railing, blocking Ivy's exit. He is standing too close. Much too close. He has a hand on the railing next to her hip, caging her in. He's grinning down at her, saying something low that makes him laugh at his own wit.
Ivy is wearing her professional, 'I am de-escalating a drunk uncle' mask. Her body language is rigid. She's holding her drink with both hands in front of her chest, creating a barrier.
I watch.
Carter leans in closer. He reaches out and touches the brim of her hat, tilting it back so he can see her face better.
"Come on, Ivy," I hear him say over the bass of the music. "Brooks is boring. He's all spreadsheets and no soul. You look like you need a little... excitement."
Ivy steps back, bumping against the railing. "I'm plenty excited, Carter. Have you tried the ceviche? It's thrilling."
She tries to slide past him, but he shifts, blocking her again. His hand drops from her hat to her arm. His fingers trace the bare skin below the sleeve of her cover-up.
"Just one drink," Carter purrs. "Later. When the suit goes to bed. I've got a tender on the beach. We can go for a ride."
Something snaps inside my chest. It's audible. Like a suspension cable shearing under too much weight.
The world narrows down to a tunnel. At the end of it is Carter's hand on Ivy's skin.
I don't remember walking across the deck. One second I am by the bar; the next, I am standing behind Carter.
I put my hand on his shoulder. I don't squeeze. I don't shove. I let my hand rest there, solid and undeniable.
"Carter," I say. My voice is very quiet. Very level.
Carter jumps. He spins around, dropping his hand from Ivy's arm. His dazzling smile falters when he sees my face.
"Brooks, my man!" he exclaims, trying to recover. "Just getting to know the lovely fiancée. You're a lucky guy."
"I am," I agree. I don't smile. I step into the space he was occupying, placing myself between him and Ivy. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her hard against my side. Her body is tense, but she melts against me instantly, exhaling a breath.
"And you," I continue, looking down at Carter, "are crowding her."
Carter laughs, nervously now. He looks around, realizing people are watching.
"Relax, Taylor. We were just chatting. No harm done."
"There is harm done when you touch what isn't yours," I say. The words are archaic. Primal. They belong in a cave, not on a yacht. But I mean them.
Carter pales. He takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender.
"Okay. Point taken. My mistake. Nice to meet you, Ivy."
He turns and flees toward the buffet, nearly knocking over a waiter in his haste to get away from me.
I watch him go, my blood still humming with adrenaline. I want to chase him down. I want to throw him off the boat.
I look down at Ivy. She's looking up at me, her eyes wide under the brim of her hat. She doesn't look scared. She looks... stunned.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice rough.
"I handled it," she says automatically. "It's fine. He's just a creep with too much money."
"He touched you."
"He touched my arm, Brooks. It's not a felony."
"Clause 4," I say, my grip on her waist tightening. "No touching without an audience."
"He's not a signatory to the contract."
"I don't care." I turn her away from the party, guiding her toward the stairs that lead to the private bow deck. "Come on."
"Where are we going? I have to charm the senator from Connecticut."
"The senator can wait. I need air."
We walk to the bow of the yacht, away from the music and the crowd. The wind is stronger here, whipping Ivy's cover-up around her legs. The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and violent violet.
We stand at the railing, looking out at the water. The silence between us is charged, electric.
"You didn't have to do that," Ivy says finally, her voice quiet against the wind. "I deal with guys like Carter at every wedding. You deflect, you distract, you find them another bridesmaid to bother."
"I didn't want to deflect," I say. "I wanted to break his fingers."
She turns to look at me. She takes off her hat, her hair blowing loose around her face.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because you're my asset," I lie. It feels clumsy now. Weak.
"Don't," she whispers. "Don't do that. Don't hide behind the contract, Brooks. Not after the way you just looked at him."
I grip the railing until my knuckles turn white. I hate that she sees me. I hate that she knows the contract is crumbling.
"You want to know why?" I ask, turning to face her. The space on the bow is small. We are inches apart.
"Yes."
"Because when I saw his hand on you," I say, the words tearing themselves out of my throat, "I realized that for weeks now, the only thing I've been thinking about is what it would feel like if it were my hand."
Ivy's breath hitches. Her eyes dilate, dark pools reflecting the sunset.
"Brooks," she breathes.
"I'm jealous, Ivy," I admit, the truth feeling like a surrender. "I'm jealous of the waiters you smile at. I'm jealous of my father because you laugh at his jokes. I'm jealous of a slimy hedge fund manager because he got within two feet of you."
I reach out. My hand hovers, then lands on her waist, where Carter touched her. But I don't just touch skin. I pull her in.
"Tell me to stop," I say, my voice low, dangerous. "Cite the contract. Tell me to go to hell. But do it now, because in about five seconds, I'm going to forget every rule we wrote down."
She stares up at me. Her chest is heaving. Her heart races against mine. She puts a hand flat on my chest, over my own thudding heart.
"The end is coming up fast," she whispers.
"I know."
"If we do this... it ruins everything. The leverage. The clean break. It all gets messy."
"I know."
She rises on her tiptoes. Her hand moves from my chest to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Screw the clean break," she whispers.
And she kisses me.