Chapter 13 Ivy
The gravel crunches under the SUV's tires as we pull into the vineyard, and I blink awake to golden afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. My cheek's pressed against Caleb's shoulder, and Green Day is playing through one earbud.
"Welcome back, Drool Queen." His voice rumbles through his chest.
"I do not drool," I mumble, sitting up and pulling out the earbud. "And I know for a fact I was listening to Taylor Swift when I dozed off."
"Your phone was right there. It was self-defense against another replay of 'Lavender Haze.'" He grins. "And you definitely drool. Like a sleepy puppy."
I pinch his arm, hard enough to make him yelp.
"Children," Dottie calls from the front seat, but I can hear the smile in her voice. "Behave."
The estate unfolds like a southern romance cover.
Whitewashed columns rise two stories high, supporting a wraparound porch complete with rocking chairs and hanging ferns.
Twinkle lights adorn the ancient oak trees, their branches draped with dogwood blossoms swaying in the late spring breeze.
Beyond the main house, neat rows of grapevines stretch toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, their fresh spring leaves a vibrant green against the red clay soil.
"Oh my word," Dottie breathes, pressing her face closer to the windshield. "Isn't it just adorable?"
Greg parks next to a row of identical rental cars, already muttering about needing another coffee. As we pile out, stretching cramped muscles, the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass wraps around us.
"Y'all must be the Millers!"
A tiny blond tornado in four-inch heels comes clicking across the gravel drive, brandishing a glittery clipboard. She can't be much taller than me, even with the heels, but her presence fills the entire driveway.
"Welcome to Thistlewood! I'm Kristal, your wedding coordinator slash activities director slash personal fairy godmother for the week!
" Her voice hits notes that probably make dogs perk up three counties over.
"You're just in time for the drinks and our late lunch—unless you're gluten-free, or spiritually opposed to prosciutto, in which case I can pivot. I'm very nimble."
"Coffee?" Greg asks hopefully.
"Freshly brewed!" Kristal chirps. "And wait until you see the pastry spread! But first, let's get you settled. I have your room keys right here . . ." She starts digging through an enormous tote bag.
"Where are Matt and Sarah?" Dottie asks.
"Oh, they're out on a horseback ride through the vineyard. So romantic!" Kristal sighs dreamily, still rummaging.
Next to me, Caleb snorts. "I would pay actual money to see Matt on a horse."
"You know . . ." I tap my chin thoughtfully, "this reminds me of a certain someone who got all grumpy when Austin offered to teach me how to ride. What was it he said again? Something about keeping me steady with his hands on my—"
"For fuck's sake." Caleb's voice drops low enough that only I can hear, but there's a familiar tension in his jaw that makes me want to push harder. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Let me think . . ." I pretend to consider it. "Probably not. Especially since you made up a hay allergy to stop me."
"I was trying to save you from breaking your neck," he mutters as his hand finds my lower back. "Besides, that guy was about as subtle as a brick through a window."
"Oh, and you're the expert on subtle?" I lean into him.
His fingers press into my spine, just for a second. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Almost as much as you enjoyed glaring holes through Austin's head?" I grin up at him.
"Keep pushing, Shortcake," he whispers in my ear. "See what happens."
"Aha!" Kristal's voice breaks through, making us both jump. She pulls out a set of old-fashioned brass keys. "Here we go! The main house is just gorgeous. Original hardwood floors from 1892, can you believe it? And the antique . . ."
I tune out her gushing, suddenly aware of how completely out of place I am in this pristine setting.
While Kristal looks like she was photoshopped into existence, I resemble someone who got dragged backwards through Walmart's clearance rack.
My fingers find their way to my hair, trying to subtly pat down what I'm sure has evolved from a messy bun into some kind of abstract blue bird's nest during my car nap.
There's a crease on my cheek from Caleb's shoulder, and I don't even want to think about what my mascara situation might be right now.
"Here you go, honey." Kristal hands keys to Dottie, who passes them to Greg. "You're in the Magnolia Suite on the first floor. And for you two lovebirds . . ." She holds out another key to Caleb.
"Oh, we're not—" I start, but she's already moving on.
"Now, why don't y'all freshen up before lunch? Sarah's mama will have my head if anyone's late for the first family meal."
The main house is even more impressive inside.
High ceilings with exposed beams arch overhead, while vintage Persian rugs soften the wide-plank floors.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over butter-soft leather sofas and hand-carved cherry wood tables, their surfaces dotted with embossed books and delicate silver frames.
"Second floor, end of the hall," Kristal calls after us. "The Sunset Suite!"
Caleb leads the way up the creaking stairs, our footsteps muffled by plush carpeting. "The Sunset Suite?" he mutters. "What's wrong with just calling it Room 4?"
"Don't be such a grump." I trail my hand along the smooth banister. "This place is gorgeous."
"It's a lot." He adjusts the grip on our bags.
We reach the end of the hall, where double doors with brass handles await. Caleb fumbles with the key but finally opens the door.
The room is beautiful. Stunning, even. Whitewashed wood beams cross the ceiling. Gauzy curtains frame French doors leading to a private balcony. There's a cozy reading nook, a vintage vanity, and . . .
One bed.
One very large, very romantic bed.
With rose petals.
And what appears to be towels folded into the shape of swans.
Making a heart.
"No," Caleb says flatly. "I specifically asked for two beds. I specifically told Matt—"
"Well, well." I lean against the doorframe, trying to ignore how my heart's doing backflips. "If you wanted to get me into bed, Miller, you could've just asked. No need for the elaborate setup."
"Please." He rolls his eyes. "If I was trying to seduce you, I wouldn't need a ploy for that."
The confidence in his tone catches me completely off guard, and my mouth opens, then closes, and I'm pretty sure I've turned the color of a stop sign.
"I . . ." My voice comes out higher than normal. "That's very . . . confident of you."
His grin widens. "Just honest."
"Right. Well." I clear my throat, desperately needing to escape. "I'll go talk to Kristal. They probably just gave us the wrong room."
"Why is there champagne on ice?" He gestures to a silver bucket by the bed.
I back toward the door before he can see how flustered he makes me. "I'll be right back."
Kristal's tucked into a small office off the main foyer, surrounded by binders, and talking rapidly into a headset.
"No, the string quartet needs to be here by four for the sound check, and—oh! Hold please!" She spots me and hits a button on her headset. "Sugar! Everything okay with the room?"
"About that . . ." I try to sound casual. "There seems to be a small mix-up. We were supposed to have two beds?"
Kristal's perfectly lined eyes go wide. "Oh my stars!" She grabs her glittery clipboard, flipping through pages frantically. "No, no, no. This is . . . oh sugar."
"It's not a big deal," I start, but she's already in full crisis mode.
"This is all my fault! See, that room was supposed to be for Sarah's maid of honor and her boyfriend.
He's one of Matt's groomsmen, but they had this horrible breakup last week.
Something about a yoga instructor and a juice cleanse, I don't have all the details, but .
. ." She takes a deep breath. "We had to shuffle everything around, and Matt said his brother would be fine with the Sunset Suite.
This is the only room available, as we already have done so much shuffling this weekend to keep everyone happy. "
"I get it."
"I am mortified." Kristal clutches her clipboard to her chest. "Sarah's parents will not be happy. The whole room situation is already so delicate with the breakup drama, and—" Her headset beeps. "Oh god, that's the florist. The peonies are wrong. Everything is wrong!"
She looks like she might cry.
"Hey, it's okay." I touch her arm gently. "Really. There's a couch in the room. I can sleep there, no problem."
"But—"
"Seriously. It's fine."
"You would do that?" Her eyes well up. "You are an angel. A room-crisis-solving angel!" She throws her arms around me in a perfume-scented hug. "Everyone says the bride is the crazy one but let me tell you, it's the parents. It's always the parents."
Her headset beeps again.
"I have to deal with this peony situation, but you," she points at me with her sparkly pen. "You are a lifesaver."
I head back upstairs, rehearsing how to break the news. When I push open the door, Caleb's sprawled in an armchair, scowling at his phone.
"I texted Matt," he says without looking up. "That jackass knew you were coming. Mom told him weeks ago."
"Yeah, about that," I perch on the bed. "So, there was some last-minute room shuffling because of wedding party drama."
"What?" His head snaps up. "There has to be—"
"Nope. But it's fine!" I pat the couch cushion. "This is totally my size. It'll be perfect."
"Absolutely not." He stands up. "You're not sleeping on a couch for a week."
"Well, I'm not letting you sleep there either." I cross my arms. "The bed's huge. We could share."
Something flashes across his face, too quick to read, before he looks away.
His eyes drift to the bed, lingering just a second too long.
Heat creeps into my chest, tightening until it's almost hard to breathe, but before I can process it, he's already deflecting.
"You probably kick in your sleep. Or hog all the blankets. "
"Bold assumption for someone who's never shared a bed with me." The words slip free before I can bite them back, and the air between us shifts.
I watch his throat work, trying not to think about how the late afternoon sun catches his jawline. "You take the bed. I'll be fine on the couch." His voice comes out rough.
Caleb moves toward his bags, brushing past me in the small space between the bed and door. The familiar scent of his cologne—warm and woodsy—wraps around me; the same smell that always clings to my throw pillows after he crashes on my couch. I take a step back, suddenly needing air.
"I'm going to shower before lunch," I announce. "That okay?"
"Yeah, go ahead. Let me just dump my stuff in there and it's all yours." His eyes narrow. "I need to have some words with my dear brother about communication skills."
"Play nice."
"Never."