Chapter Seventeen #3
All the lights were off in the Underwood house except for the ones on the Christmas tree in the window. Austin hadn’t thrown up on the drive home, but Grant had secondhand nausea from listening to Ivy mother his brother.
“I just thought of something,” Ivy said once they’d finished struggling to lift Austin up the porch steps. “How are we going to get him upstairs to his room without waking your parents?”
They stared at each other.
“I have no idea,” Grant finally said. “Do we leave him in the downstairs bathroom? At least if he pukes, it’ll be easier to clean up.”
“But he’ll be uncomfortable.”
“I think he’s going to be uncomfortable no matter where he sleeps,” Grant pointed out. “He’ll wake up with a hangover so bad, he’ll wish he was dead.”
“Should we at least get him some pillows and a blanket?”
Grant sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”
Austin leaned heavily on Ivy, his face fitting nicely in the space between her shoulder and chin. “You’re so good to me… Mmm… You smell real good, too.”
Ivy wrinkled her nose. “You smell like bad choices.”
“You’re a good choice,” Austin slurred.
“You need to go to bed,” Grant told him, hauling Austin’s weight into his arms.
“I texted her like you told me to,” Austin whined.
Grant regretted that. If he’d kept his big mouth shut, Austin never would have texted Ivy and they never would have gone on a date, and—this was an important point—he never would have kissed her first. He also regretted not talking to his brother about his own interest in Ivy.
Specifically, how he wanted to take her on dates at least once a week for the rest of their lives.
They made Austin a nest on the bathroom floor with pillows and blankets from the couch. Ivy took back her scarf and rolled Austin into something called the recovery position. She left him the trash bag and ice, then lifted the toilet seat before shutting the door as softly as possible.
They tiptoed to the porch, where Ivy wrapped her scarf around her neck.
“What do you think happened?” she asked. “Does he usually drink that much?”
Even though it was the perfect moment for a smear campaign, Grant couldn’t lie to her.
“No. He’s too weight-conscious right now. I asked Vince and he didn’t know, either.”
Ivy crossed her arms. “I wonder which friends he was with if none of them would take care of him. It’s such a shitty thing to do.”
“Austin’s always had pretty shitty friends. I don’t think any of them have grown into better people.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Ivy glanced toward her house. “I should go home.”
“Why?” Grant asked. He then quickly amended it to, “Besides it being fucking freezing out here.”
“Because I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than freeze your ass off talking to me.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing right now.”
Ivy looked toward her house again, but he saw the smile she was trying to hide.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk tonight,” he pointed out. “Do you want to, maybe, I don’t know, get together again so we can actually talk without Kurt shushing us and my brother almost puking on us?”
“I’d really like that.” And then she gave him a smile that reminded him of summer sunshine. Was it cold? Because he wasn’t cold anymore.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I’m right next door. I couldn’t get lost if I tried.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
She nodded, and they walked the short distance from his house to hers with only the sound of the snow crunching under their feet between them.
He let her go ahead of him up the porch steps, following her close enough that if she slipped, he could catch her.
Right as she reached the top step, she stopped abruptly and spun around.
Instinctively, Grant wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from falling, and her hands slapped against his chest, her balance jeopardized by either her turn or his attempt to keep her steady.
With the few inches the steps gave her, they were almost eye to eye and nose to nose.
“You know,” she began, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, “my mom puts mistletoe in her wreaths.” She slipped her fingers under the collar of his jacket, and Grant couldn’t muster the brainpower to breathe.
Every single facet of his being was focused on Ivy, even the parts that were supposed to be keeping him alive.
Screw organ function, she was touching him!
But he must have been tongue-tied too long because she added, “It’s supposed to protect the home or something. ”
Grant tightened his hold on her and managed to tack together enough brain cells to say, “I thought it was for kissing.”
“It is.” Ivy’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, and she started to lean in.
A car door slammed and she jumped, shattering the moment.
“Thanks for the ride!” Piper shouted to someone.
It looked like Lorelai was about to be the only sibling he was on speaking terms with.
“Good night,” Ivy whispered, patting his chest. Reluctantly, Grant released her, and she darted inside before Piper noticed her.
“Isn’t it a little late for caroling?” Piper called across the lawn.
He sighed and trudged back across the property line. “It’s a little late for you to be yelling. Where were you?”
“A bonfire at the McClearys’. A lot of people were there. You should have come!”
The spicy, cinnamon scent of Fireball hit him. She was tipsy, edging toward drunk, but he was cold and out of patience.
“If you can’t make it up the stairs, you’re going to have to spend the night in the bathroom with Austin.”
Piper frowned. “Why is Austin in the bathroom? Is he drunk?”
“Got it in one.” Grant helped her up the front porch steps and opened the door for her. “Make sure you drink some water before bed.”
Piper patted his cheek roughly. “You’re a good big brother.”
“You’re a rotten little sister.” He ruffled her hair. “Play something with a thumping bass beat tomorrow for Austin.”
As he walked back to his truck, Grant thought about all the ways his plans had gone sideways tonight.
There was that interrupted moment in the theater, and Ivy’s melancholy after learning Mr. Donaldson planned to sell.
And of course, there was Austin. That fuckin’ guy.
Would he ever stop being such an unholy pest?
But for every one moment that had gone awry, there were two seared into his brain as picture-perfect.
Ivy walking up to him outside the theater.
The forgotten locket around her neck. The press of her fingertip against his own.
The way she’d turned to him for comfort, and the way he’d been there to comfort her.
The almost-kiss could go in either column, really. Because while he hadn’t gotten to feel the press of her warm mouth against his—hadn’t gotten to see her lips pink and swollen from the kind of kiss that would have curled both their toes—she had leaned in, her intentions clear as day.
Ivy Weaver wanted to kiss him. He’d take the win.
And besides—tomorrow was another day. He had plans to make.