Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Amy
I’m not sure when Ivan Harley morphed into a pleasant human being last night. It was somewhere between the welcome drink and sitting down to dinner.
Our journey to the ball had been awkward, and by the time we were walking toward the country club, I was wishing I was at home. But everything changed, and I found myself laughing when I least expected to.
As I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling above me, a grin spreads across my face.
After being introduced to the highflyers of London society and listening to them droning on about stocks or shares, or whatever shit they were talking about, we ate the most exquisite meal, then Ivan purchased five nights in Thailand for an insane amount of money.
We drank champagne and danced to the dreamlike band until the early hours.
For the first time in months, my cheeks ached from happiness. The whole experience was completely surreal and exactly what I’ve been needing. Never in a million years did I think it would happen with someone like him.
He'd dropped me off at my apartment and walked me to my front door. When he’d cupped my face and kissed me goodnight, the warmth of his hand lingered long after he left.
I find myself looking forward to Christmas Eve, seeing him again out of a business setting. The flutters in my stomach agree.
Perhaps we could find some companionship in each other—we are both in our forties and alone, after all.
A knock at my door surprises me. I glance at the old-fashioned bedside clock with Minnie Mouse at its center. It was my sister’s, and it’s still going strong.
Ten o’clock on a Sunday. Who would be visiting me now, I think, feeling annoyed. Chances are, it is one of my errant nieces or nephews. It wouldn’t be the first time Savannah has appeared at my door, drunk and too frightened to go home to her father.
Since Bex’s death, he’s been harping on about alcohol safety, and sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop.
But Bex struggled with alcohol in her twenties and thirties, and he’s terrified his girls will fall the same way.
I’ve tried to explain to him that lecturing won’t work—girls will be girls—but he doesn’t listen.
I jump out of bed and run to the source of the knocking, swinging it open, expecting to find a teenager on the other side.
To my shock, a man stands there dressed in a green uniform with the word Blooms on the breast pocket.
In his hands, he’s holding a huge bouquet of red roses.
“Amy Corrigan?” the man asks. I nod. He holds out the flowers and drops them into my waiting arms. .
My eyes scan the stems and arrive at twenty-four in total.
“Have a nice day.” I retreat into my apartment and place the gift on the dining table, walking around to assess it from all angles.
A small white envelope is tucked between the stems. I pinch it from its hiding place. Simple black writing, neat and tidy, is scrolled across the front with my name. I take the card from inside and read:
Thank you for a lovely evening. I look forward to pretending to date you in the coming weeks. Ivan xoxo
I stare at the note and the flowers. A ridiculous smile fights its way to my lips. My pulse trips over itself, somewhere between thrill and panic.
The bodybuilding community is small, and Ivan Harley comes with a warning label. There’s a long list of women before me who have been wined and dined, then dismissed.
He’s a charmer; I know this. He also doesn’t like to lose. For months, I barely looked in his direction as he chased me for my gym and my body. Rejecting him was amusing, fun even. I thought of all those poor women I’d heard about, and I wanted to right the wrongs.
Now, I see it was my way of trying to take back some of the control I’d lost in my life; payback for the way Terry treated me.
After last night, though, I question whether whatever this is between Ivan and me is a game or if there’s something more.
He’d had every opportunity to turn last night into something more physical.
He didn’t. His restraint unsettles me. His gentlemanly ways are more dangerous to my heart than any flirtation.
I grab my phone from the bedside table and dial his number. It diverts to voicemail, and his deep voice advises me to leave a message, that he may call back if he considers the call an important one. I chuckle at the arrogance. Typical Ivan.
“Hello, Ivan,” I purr into the handset. “I wanted to thank you for the stunning roses that were delivered to my door this morning. It was most unexpected. I appreciate you compensating me for my fake dating skills.” As I smirk to myself, I disconnect the call.
It’s nine in the evening when my phone finally springs to life and his name lights up the screen. I let it go to voicemail. He can wait. It rings again, and I ignore it. Then there’s a knock on my front door.
I’m dressed in my tartan fleece pajamas with my hair scraped into a knot on top of my head. The dogs and I have been wrapped up in blankets on the sofa since early afternoon, watching trash TV. The Cupcake Wars contestant just dropped her tray mid-round when my door rattles.
After dragging myself from my seat, I stroll over to the door and peer through the peephole.
Ivan stands on the other side with his arms folded across his chest. Shit, he can’t see me like this; I look as if I’ve crawled out of a bog.
He raps the door again with his fist. Jeez, the man has no patience.
Considering my options, I decide that letting him see me in my current state is less of a risk than the neighbors being brought out of their homes by incessant knocking on a Sunday evening.
“Ivan,” I say as I swing open the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m visiting my girlfriend,” he responds. “Isn’t that obvious?” He lifts his hand to the side of his mouth, mocking secrecy, and whispers, “Well, fake girlfriend, but that’s only a minor detail.”
He strides past me into my apartment as I watch on, awestruck and stunned. The scent of rain and cologne follows him inside. He’s dressed as if he’s been attending a board meeting in a sharp navy suit and crisp white shirt.
“Thank you for the roses,” I say, and his gaze lands on them sitting, pride of place, in the center of my dining table. “They’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful flowers for a stunning woman.” We look at each other for a moment, the tension humming like static. I’m not imagining it; this is happening. “You looked incredible last night.”
“It wasn’t my dress,” I admit. Why I told him that, I have no idea. I wanted to fill the sexually charged silence with words.
“No? Did you hire it? It fitted you perfectly. In all areas.” My stomach clenches while my heart skips at the compliment. He noticed my areas. I bite down the giggle threatening to betray me.
“It was my sister’s.” He stills for a moment. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say to that. “We’re twins, not identical, but very alike.” He already knows this, but saying it aloud feels like keeping her alive a little longer.
“I’m sorry you lost her,” he replies, his words sincere and honest.
“Life has a funny way of turning out sometimes,” I tell him, and he nods. Wanting to divert the subject from Bex, I ask, “Were you working today?” and signal to his clothing with my hand.
“Only a few meetings, tying up some loose ends on a property I’ve purchased.”
“Do you normally work Sundays?”
“I work whenever I need to. Unfortunately, business never stops. Sometimes I wish it would take a sabbatical.”
He runs his hand through his dark hair. He looks tired, and his eyes are heavy. The movement loosens his collar, and for a split second, I see the man beneath the polish.
“Any refreshments available?” he asks, grinning. “I was going to invite you out for a few drinks, but I see you’re settled for the evening.”
I flush, embarrassed by my attire. Warmth creeps up my neck as I tug the sleeve of my pajama top lower.
“I have some wine in the fridge, but I’m not sure it would be up to your standard,” I say, lifting my eyebrows.
“As long as the company is decent, I’ll cope.” His gaze drifts over me, slow and deliberate. “And so far, it’s looking pretty good.”
“I’ll go get drinks,” I manage, my throat tight. “You take a seat.” I signal to one of the sofas. “I’ll only be a moment.” Still unsure as to the purpose of this visit, I scurry off in the direction of the kitchen.
As I glance over my shoulder, he’s removing his suit jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. Then he takes a seat as instructed. The dogs swarm around his feet looking for treats, and he ruffles each one’s ears in turn.
“You must be grateful to have them here,” he calls.
“Who?”
“These two. The mutts at my feet.”
“Yes, they’re good company on dark nights.
I’ve never lived on my own, and with Katie, my flatmate, now in the U.S.
permanently, I’m glad the dogs are here,” I say as I wander back into the living room holding two wine glasses by the stems and a bottle of wine.
“They’re Katie’s really, but I’ve inherited them now.
I’ve told her, even if she returns, she’s not getting them back. ”
“I’ve always wanted a dog,” he says, his gaze fixed on his new four-legged friends. “But with work and no one else at home, it never seemed possible or fair.”
“These two are low maintenance, and they have each other. I don’t feel so bad when I leave them, but with not working just now, it isn’t an issue.”
“Companionship is an important quality of life,” he says. His gaze meets mine, and he smiles gently. “It’s something I’ve never truly had.”
I blink, not knowing what to say, stunned by his admission. His throat works as if swallowing the confession back down, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“Anyway,” he mumbles, “what are your plans for work moving forward?”
I place the two glasses on the coffee table and fill each to the brim with white wine. “I’m not sure,” I respond. “The gym’s gone, and I’m back to square one.” Once I grab my glass, I sink into the seat beside him. He leans forward to collect his, and we both take a sip.
“Not bad,” he says with a nod. “I’ve had worse.”
“Three bottles for a tenner at the liquor store,” I admit, and he chuckles.
“Would you consider taking a role in one of my gyms?” he asks.
“I’ve seen you teach and the results in your clients.
I know a good gym instructor when I see one.
You could be placed in one of our private establishments with a few key clients.
The pay is good, and the workload is relatively low.
It would give you plenty of time to focus on your own training, too. ”
“Really?” I reply, surprised. “Would that not be inappropriate with our fake relationship?”
“We’ll never see each other in the workplace. I only visit irregularly, and that’s to meet with the manager. Is that what this is — a fake relationship?”
“What else could it be?”
He lifts his free hand to my face, cupping my cheek, running his thumb over my lower lip. Our eyes meet; I swear he can see through me. “Do we have to decide now? Can we not just see what happens?”
My breathing hitches. “I suppose so.”
“Good,” he says, placing his lips on mine. The kiss is soft, gentle, and intimate… and over too quickly. My body aches for his touch again. “Christmas Eve, I’ll pick you up at seven. Now, I need to go before I push my luck.”
I snort.
He withdraws, then drains his glass in one swig before putting it on the table in front of us.
“Until then.”
He stands, grabs his jacket, and strolls over to the front door, disappearing through it without a backward glance. I stare after him, my lips still tingling. Whatever this is, it’s no longer pretend.