When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday

Prologue

“Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.”

Oscar Wilde

Ivy

How did I meet Jack Holiday, or Mr. Holiday, as most people call him? This question never stops. You know who he is, right? Of course you do. Everyone does. King of the silver screen, box office gold, sexiest man alive—according to every major publication.

But to me? Mr. Holiday is just Jack. The guy who waters my plants when I’m out of town and shows up with ice cream and cookies when PMS strikes or heartbreak hits. In other words, he’s my best friend.

So, how did this come to be? Well, it started seven years ago in a hair salon of all places. It’s true. This was back before he hit it really big—though, let’s be honest, he already had an ego the size of his home state of Texas. Which, for the record, is where I was living. And still am.

My aunt Jane owns a salon in Austin—one that will be mine someday. For now, I manage it. But when I met Jack, he was twenty-seven, and I was just twenty-four, still styling hair on the floor at Muse and Mane. I wasn’t even supposed to be working the day he walked in.

He’d been in plenty of times before—almost on a weekly basis. Like I said: He was full of himself. But I’d always ignored him. Meanwhile, everyone else—stylists, customers, delivery guys, probably the HVAC tech—fawned over him like he was God’s gift to humankind.

Everyone called him Mr. Holiday because that was his shtick.

“Just call me Mr. Holiday,” he’d say.

You would think people would be turned off by that, but oh, no. They melted at his feet. And he ate it up like a five-course meal.

But on that day, Jack wasn’t exactly basking in the adoration. In fact, he was irate. Gloria, one of the major fawners, got a little too distracted by him, and she mixed his color all wrong, turning his normally golden-brown locks a delightful shade of Garfield orange.

He was dyeing it for a role. The role of a lifetime, actually. A big-budget action thriller called Shadow Protocol—the one that eventually launched Jack into everyone’s orbit.

But not with that hair.

(By the way, I have pictures of his orange hair. I keep them around to try to keep Jack humble and remind him that once upon a time I saved him from looking like an orange construction cone.)

Does it keep him humble? Please. Jack has now fully convinced himself that no one—and I mean no one—has ever pulled off orange hair better than he did.

Well, that cocky attitude was in major panic mode that day, and poor Gloria thought for sure she was going to get fired.

I’d just happened to drop by because I’d forgotten my favorite lip gloss that belonged in my purse, not at work.

Ladies, you know how your lip glosses being in the wrong place can throw off your entire rhythm.

The wrong shade at the wrong time is just chaos.

Anyway, while I was getting said lip gloss, and noticing the disaster going on in Gloria’s booth—and, okay, snapping some pictures as sneakily as possible—Gloria came running up to me in tears.

“Please, please, please help me, Ivy,” she begged. “You’re the best hair colorist in the salon. You have to fix his hair.”

She waved erratically in Jack’s direction.

I peeked over her shoulder, and Jack was standing, beet red in the face, staring into the mirror, looking like he might puke. I had to say, I kind of took some pleasure in it. So much so, I was going to decline. I felt like Jack needed to be brought down a few notches. But . . . my aunt intervened.

Aunt Jane pulled me aside. Beautiful and sassy Aunt Jane, my dad’s little sister who never had kids of her own and treated me and my three older siblings like her children. Everyone said we looked alike with our dark wavy hair and bright-blue eyes. The blue eyes were a Wells trait.

“Ivy, I know how much you say you can’t stand him,” Jane whispered with a glint of mischief in her eyes, as if I were just putting on an act and had secretly succumbed to the man.

Honestly, it was no act. I couldn’t stand Jack Holiday, or men like him in general.

Sure, he was beautiful, with his classic leading-man look—tall, athletic, and effortlessly charming, with striking green eyes and a strong jawline.

But it was apparent he wanted to be worshipped, and I, for one, would not give him the pleasure.

“I can’t stand him,” I drove that point home.

Jane sighed, clearly exasperated. “Okay, honey. Anyway—Mr. Holiday is going places.”

(Even my aunt had been taken in by his charm. Honestly, who goes around asking people to call you Mr. Holiday?)

“He’s already brought some heavy hitters here in Austin through this salon—my salon, and someday yours,” she reminded me. “Can you imagine what he’s going to tell people if we—meaning you—don’t fix this?”

Jane may have never raised kids, but she knew how to guilt-trip like only a mom could.

Still, I wasn’t quite ready to cave. “Why don’t you fix it? No one here is better than you.”

I was sincere—Jane could do things with hair I’d never seen before.

“Now, darlin’ . . .” She broke out her fake Texas drawl. Jane was born and raised in Aspen Lake, just like me. “My job is to help make sure you fly and are successful. I believe in you. Now get over there and fix that man’s hair.”

Wow. She. Was. Good. But I had one more card in my back pocket to use. Or so I thought . . .

“It’s my day off.”

She just smiled and flitted off, apparently not caring. Ugh. Fine. I supposed Jack’s and my paths were meant to cross. And cross they did.

I still remember like it was yesterday: I threw on an apron and marched over to him while trying to gulp down my pride. It took a lot of gulping and reminding myself that my future was at stake.

It had always been my dream to own a salon one day.

When I was a little girl, I would set up a beauty parlor in my room and pretend to do my family’s hair.

As I got older, I actually started doing their hair for real.

I had a knack for it, just like Aunt Jane.

So while my siblings were off being an architect, an investment broker, and a lawyer, I was doing my part by making sure people felt beautiful and comfortable in their own skin. That was my gift.

That day, I had to use my gift on the most arrogant person I’d ever met—and yes, have still ever met. Sure, I adore him now, but that’s a miracle considering this is how our first exchange went:

“Hi, I’m Ivy. Let’s see what we can do to fix your hair.”

Jack turned away from the mirror and flashed me his debonair smile, his panic suddenly disappearing.

“Hello, Ivy,” he drawled in a real Texan accent while gazing deeply into my eyes, trying to reel me in and charm me like he’d done to everyone else in the salon. “You can call me Mr. Holiday.”

For half a second, I saw the appeal. Up close, he was an incredible sight to behold.

And a good drawl is sexy. So sexy I might have even stopped breathing—just briefly.

My brain stalled, caught somewhere between logic and foolishness.

Then it kicked in, sounding the necessary alarm: Do not fall for the Jacks of the world.

The men who loved themselves more than anyone or anything.

Sure, Jack has since proven himself to be the most thoughtful friend, but I didn’t know that then. And the jury is still out on whether Jack loves anything or anyone more than himself.

“Not a chance, Jack,” I scoffed, forgetting for a moment the influence he wielded in this town. And that every eye in the salon was on me. But there was no way I was calling a man who was practically my age Mr. anything.

Did that deter him? Oh, no.

“So, you know who I am.” He planted himself in the salon chair, smirking at me through the mirror.

I wanted to tell him he was pretty cocky for a guy who currently looked more like Archie from the old comic strip than a Greek god.

Okay, fine, he still looked like a Greek god. Annoyingly so.

I held my tongue—along with my snickering—as I ran my fingers through his luxurious orange hair, studying it and trying to formulate a plan to fix the disaster.

Maybe, just maybe, I let my fingertips linger a second too long, indulging in the ridiculous softness of it.

The man had arrogance, but he also had excellent hair.

When I realized that I was getting caught up in his gorgeous trap, I dropped my hands and stuttered out, “I think we need to apply a warm filler first, and then we’ll go from there. We need to hurry. I have plans for this evening.”

Jack tilted his head, grinning as though my plans were suddenly his business. “And what are those?”

“If you must know, I’m taking my friend Michael to the airport,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately even. “He’s a doctor, and he’s headed to South America for six months to help treat underprivileged children.”

The man was a saint—nothing like the Jacks of the world.

Jack spat out a laugh, his disbelief apparent. “Friend?”

I blinked at him. We’d known each other for all of two minutes, and he was mocking me?

“Do you need me to define the word for you?” My tone came out sharper than I intended.

Judging by the amusement in Jack’s mesmerizing eyes, he didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t. In fact, he appeared to thrive on my irritation.

“I was thinking perhaps your friend Michael might need some help with that definition. I guarantee he’s angling to be more than your friend.”

My eyes narrowed. “Considering you don’t know Michael or me, that’s a ridiculous assumption.”

Jack craned his head ever so slightly to face me, his expression unreadable but his confidence unwavering.

“Let me guess—he has plenty of male buddies who would be more than willing to take him to the airport. Or he could easily hire an Uber. But I bet he told you something along the lines of he wants to see you one more time before he leaves . . . and he has something to tell you.”