Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wyatt
Istare at the ceiling, lying back on the sofa at my parents’ place, one hand behind my head, the other holding my phone against my chest. It’s just after noon, and I know Ivy’s at that other listing, with him.
My jaw clenches as I picture her walking some guy through a half-renovated house while he pretends to care about driveways and bathroom fittings just for an excuse to spend time with her. The idea sits heavy in my chest.
I have no right to be this worked up. We’re not together. This whole thing was supposed to be an act. That was the deal. But who am I kidding? I’ve never been pretending, not for a second. She just doesn’t know that.
I glance at our message thread and contemplate messaging her, just something casual, just to check in, but I stop myself. I offered to go with her last night, but she turned me down. She was nice about it, but still.
I push off the couch and rake a hand through my hair, pacing the living room like it might burn off the energy coiled tight under my skin. I hate this, feeling frustrated, guessing at what’s going through her head. Wishing I knew if any of this means as much to her as it does to me.
Because it doesn’t feel one-sided. Not when she wore my jersey like it was made for her, and not when she melted into me on the dance floor, like the rest of the world had faded away.
Still, here I am, driving myself crazy while she shows a house to a guy who’d probably give anything to turn the viewing into something more.
I wish I knew how to handle this. On the field, I know exactly what I’m doing. But Ivy? She’s not just a game. She’s the whole damn season, and I don’t want to screw this up.
I check my phone again. Still nothing. No message. No update. I let out a groan and toss it back onto the couch. I should hit the gym, go for a run, something to clear my head. But deep down, I know there’s only one thing I want right now, and she’s not here.
“Go throw the ball around with your dad before you pace a hole through my carpet,” Mom calls from the doorway. I sigh, caught out.
She saw the photos just like everyone else.
Ivy and me, looking like something we’re not.
Or something we’re not supposed to be. Naturally, she asked what was going on.
I told her the truth, or at least part of it.
That we were pretending, that it was all just to avoid a reality show I never wanted to be a part of.
But Mom saw right through the act. She always does.
I ended up spilling everything, including the part where Ivy was showing that guy a house today.
She said what I knew she would. Talk to her. I didn’t know if I could. I still don’t know if I can.
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy, Wyatt,” she says, as if reading my mind. “But you won’t stop unless you talk to her.”
I blow out a breath, frustrated. “And say what? What if I read this wrong? She’s basically family, Mom. If she doesn’t feel the same way, I risk ruining everything.”
Mom gives me one of those knowing smiles, the kind that somehow sees straight into your head. “She didn’t look like she was pretending in those photos. I’d bet she feels exactly the way you do.”
“You think so?” I ask, hope creeping into my voice before I can stop it.
She nods. “I do. But you’ll never know unless you ask.”
I wrap my arms around her, gratefully. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll go and find Dad.”
I find Dad out back, pacing the same worn patch of grass where we used to spend hours tossing the ball when I was a kid.
This spot holds a lot of memories. Some of my best, in fact.
He was always in my corner, and when I got drafted into the NFL, I think it meant just as much to him as it did to me.
It’s been a long time since we’ve done this, but it’s always helped clear my head.
“Think you still remember how to throw with your old man?” he jokes, eyebrow raised. “It’s been a while.”
I smirk and wind up, launching the ball like we did this yesterday. It hits him square in the chest.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He laughs, tossing it back with a little less force but just as much accuracy.
We settle into a familiar rhythm. It’s quiet and easy with no need for words. It feels good being out here, focusing on the ball instead of the noise in my head.
After a while, he speaks. “You want to talk about it?”
I shrug. “Not much to say.”
He gives me a look. “Son, you’ve been throwing that ball like it’s the guy Ivy’s out with. You sure there’s not something to say?”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. I guess Mom told him. “She’s just doing her job. I know that. This guy likes her, though. I shouldn’t be jealous, but I am.”
“Sounds as though you like her too.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah. It threw me for a loop. One second, she was just Ivy, someone I’ve known forever, and then suddenly, she was all I could think about.”
Dad nods and steps in a little closer, his expression serious. “So, what’s holding you back?”
I hesitate. “If I say something and she doesn’t feel the same… it’ll change everything. Our friendship, the way things are with Ash, with the family. I don’t want to mess that up.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then sets the football down and claps a steady hand on my shoulder.
“If you don’t tell her, you’ better be okay watching her fall for someone else. Can you live with that?”
The answer comes out before I even think about it. “Hell, no.”
He smiles, the kind of look that says he already knew. “Then you know what you need to do.”
Before either of us can say anything, the sound of tires crunching on the gravel cuts through the air.
Dad glances over his shoulder toward the front of the house, then back at me. “That her?”
“Maybe,” I say, already moving toward the side gate.
My dad’s words replay in my head as I make my way around the side of the house. The truth is there’s no way I can stand by and watch Ivy fall for someone else. If I want any chance of stopping that from happening, I need to tell her how I feel before it’s too late.
As I round the side of the house, my breath hitches when I see her step out of the car.
She looks effortlessly stunning in a black pencil skirt that hugs her ass, a cream silk blouse that’s tucked in just right, and black heels that make her legs look even longer.
Her hair’s pulled back in a hair tie, and oversized sunglasses are perched on her nose. I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Hey,” I say, stopping in front of her. “How’d the viewing go?”
She makes a face, and unease coils in my stomach. “Not great. He didn’t love the house, so I’ll keep looking.” She pauses. “I finished up quicker than I thought, so I figured I’d swing by and we could head to the other viewing together, if that’s still okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” I nod. “Was he... respectful?”
She waves it off like it’s nothing. “Yeah, he was fine. He saw the photos online like everyone else, so when I told him I was dating someone, it made sense.” She lets out a light laugh. “Besides, I don’t date clients anyway. That was never going to be a thing.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. Any intention I had of telling her how I feel dissolves right then.
Maybe that was her way of drawing a line, of making it clear without needing to have the awkward conversation.
Either way, I hear it loud and clear. That’s the second time she’s said it.
She doesn’t date clients. And right now, that’s exactly what I am.
An hour later, we pull up in front of the house Ivy’s arranged for us to view. I haven’t even gotten out of the car yet or set a foot inside, but I already know I love it.
“Damn, Ivy. This place is something else,” I say, still staring through the windshield.
She doesn’t answer right away, and when I glance over, her expression is a mirror of mine, like the house caught us both completely off guard.
“It really is beautiful,” she says. “It looks like something out of Bridgerton.”
“Bridgerton?” I repeat, a little lost.
She gives a small laugh and waves a hand. “It’s a British period drama. There’s a house in it that looks just like this. The wisteria reminded me.”
I follow her gaze and notice the cascading purple flowers covering the front of the house, draping across and framing the front door like something out of a storybook.
Her voice brightens. “Come on. Let’s go see the inside.”
“Is the agent meeting us here?” I ask.
She holds up a key with a grin. “Nope. His wife just had a baby, so he gave us the go-ahead to look around. It’s empty anyway.”
I watch her climb out of the car, the excitement practically radiating from her, and a slow smile pulls at my lips. She sounds more excited than I do, and even though I haven’t been able to tell her how I feel, I’m here. With her.
That has to be enough for now.
I won’t be a client forever. And maybe the more time we spend together, the clearer it’ll become, to her and to me, that whatever this is between us… it could be something amazing.
When Ivy unlocks the oversized front door and pushes it open, we both freeze in the doorway, quietly stunned.
We’d seen the listing photos, but they didn’t come close to capturing this.
The entryway is massive, with sunlight spilling across a real wood floor that gleams beneath years of dust and wear.
My head tilts back automatically, my eyes tracing the elegant, curved staircase that winds to the second floor.
The place is dated, no question, but there’s something timeless about it.
With a little work, it could be incredible.
To the left, an arched opening leads into what I’m guessing is the living room. To the right, if I’m remembering the listing right, there’s a study and a snug. The kitchen is at the back, along with a dining room and laundry space.
“Where do we start?” Ivy asks, her whole face lit up with enthusiasm.
I smile, loving how animated she is. “Kitchen?”
“Perfect. This way.”