44. the ball’s in your court
CHAPTER 44
THE BALL’S IN YOUR COURT
LINCOLN
If I thought waking up to her in my apartment was pleasant, waking up to Ivy curled around me is electrifying. This is what I missed out on after the masquerade.
This is what I’ve been searching for.
She’s always beautiful, but the mornings provide an extra glow, illuminating her from the inside out. “Did you sleep well?” I brush the hair off her cheek, watching her eyes flutter closed before she blinks back at me.
“Mmm,” she hums with a smile. “I’m angry at how nice this bed is. Do you think there’s a way to sneak it back with us? I could get used to waking up like this.”
So could I, and it has nothing to do with the mattress. She comes willingly when I press my fingers into the hot give of her skin and hook her thigh over mine. “I’d recommend holding off judgment. You haven’t tried my bed yet.”
Ivy licks her lips. “That’s true, but if it turns out your bed is better, how am I supposed to go back to sleeping in mine?”
“You don’t,” I say, my voice low and rough with sleep. Leaning down, I kiss along her jaw. “If you think I’m going to spend another night sleeping without you, I’m not doing my job right.”
She exhales a sigh, melting against me. There’s nothing I want more than to peel off her clothes and take my time in devouring her, but I need to know where she stands first. Still, I can’t help but test the boundaries a fraction, crushing her to me, letting her feel how hard I am, tasting the sleep lingering on her skin.
I can feel the fight in her. I’d rather she threw caution out the window, but that’s a decision Ivy needs to make on her own. Whatever it takes to convince her that I want this, I’ll do it. The rest is up to her.
When she pushes back, I let her roll away, but I don’t hide how much I want her.
Soon, I’ll ask her to clarify what this is, leaving no doubt in her mind that I want all of her, in every way. I’m in this 100 percent, and I want nothing less in return.
By the time we slink down to breakfast, the room is nearly empty.
“About time you two joined us,” Richard says from the head of the table. He stands and throws his napkin down. “Perhaps tomorrow you can respect everyone enough to be on time.” Silence follows him as he walks out.
Arsehole.
Reed, Felicity, and Darcy are huddled together at one end, and Ivy and I make our way to them. Before I can sit, Reed has kicked my chair out, shifting it out of my hands the way he used to when we were kids.
“What the ever-loving hell was that for?” I ask.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I pull it back and sit down, filling our plates with food while Ivy pours me a tea.
“No thanks to you, I’ve ruined my diet,” Reed pouts. Felicity leans forward to loudly whisper, “He’s been stress baking gingersnaps.”
While Darce smirks into her tea, Ivy openly laughs at Reed’s misfortune while her hands are cupped around a mug of coffee that’s more milk than caffeine.
“You’re welcome,” I joke. “Eat enough of them, and it might finally dislodge the stick that’s up your arse.”
Reed sips his tea with one hand while flipping me off with the other, and it takes me back twenty years in a blink. Christ, was he a pissy teenager.
Maybe this weekend won’t be all bad.
“So how do you all spend the day?” Ivy asks, stuffing a croissant with berries before taking a bite. “Is there a game hall I haven’t seen yet, or are we to line up single file so Richard can judge us formally?”
Reed rests his elbows on the table, a bad habit he’s never grown out of. He’s dressed casually, in a blue T-shirt and mismatched navy shorts. There’s a fucking fedora on the table by his arm, and it’s killing me not to take the piss out of him for it. “I overheard Kyle mention he wants to detox in the sauna, so that counts out anything involving the pool,” he says, and I agree. “If you’re a hand at tennis, Ivy, I was going to head to the court.”
Ivy shifts eagerly in her chair. “I haven’t played since middle school, but I’ve already missed my morning run, so I’d love to join you.”
I try not to be jealous, but I’m not that much of a saint.
“Doubles?” Reed asks, turning to me with enough of a smirk that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Count me out,” Darcy says, pushing her empty cup away from her. “You’re both too competitive. But I will referee. I don’t trust either of you to not cheat.” She ignores our mutual sounds of protest. “And I, for one, do not want to scare Ivy off so soon.”
From the look on Ivy’s face, I rather think it would have the opposite effect, but it makes me happy to hear Darcy so openly welcome her.
“Felicity?” Ivy asks. “Want to be my partner?”
“Tennis partner,” I correct, not caring how nonsensical it sounds. There’s no one in this room who would need the clarification, but it makes Ivy’s cheeks flush any time I assert my claim on her, so I’ll keep doing it.
Reed rolls his eyes while Darcy laughs at me, and for the first time in possibly my whole life, I’m glad to be here.
Proof positive that Ivy makes everything better.
“Sorry, but I don’t play,” Felicity says. “Haven’t since I tore my rotator cuff in college.”
“Not to worry,” Reed says, standing. “We can rotate game play. Lincoln will likely need to rest his aching feet after one game.”
“Speak for yourself, old man. It’s not a competition,” I say. “But if it was, you would lose.”
Darcy brushes invisible crumbles off her skirt as she stands. “I hope you know what you signed up for, Ivy. A lifetime of this.”
I curl my hand around Ivy’s, knowing a single lifetime with her won’t be enough, but I’ll take it anyway.
What’s the harm in a friendly match?
Darcy would argue — and does — that there should be a ban on my family in particular being allowed to host games of any sort. We’ve never been polite enough to each other to manage losing very well.
Or winning, for that matter.
Reed — always the organizer — has everything set up for us. The first issue comes when we’re deciding who will play first. “Take a seat,” he says. “First round is on me.”
I should perhaps analyze why Ivy’s calculating smile turns me on quite this much, but I’m also worried Reed won’t go easy on her — I haven’t forgotten how quickly he blamed her when there was little reason — so I step in. “No. You’re against me. Ivy will play the winner.”
He tips his head in silent agreement, but Ivy isn’t as easy to convince, taking the racket from my hands and pointing it at the loungers, where Darcy and Felicity are spectating. “You, sit.” She swings the racket to Reed. “You, serve.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, doing as instructed.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Reed play, and while he’s a little rusty, he’s precise enough with every hit that I suspect he’s taking it easy on her. Against anyone else, he’d win easily.
But Ivy is a rocket on the court, moving faster than Reed’s expecting (faster than I’m expecting, honestly), sprinting like a squirrel to parry every backhand with one of her own.
Right around the time she’s leading three-one, the moment is interrupted by the walking shitstain that is my cousin. “Does everyone get a round with Ivy?” Kyle leers as he strides over. “Count me in next.”
I stalk toward him, my fists clenched, but Reed is over like a shot, his racket held to my chest, like that’s going to hold me back. “If you’re in such a hurry to lose,” Reed says, “then we play doubles. Ivy and me versus you and Lincoln.”
Kyle beams a winner’s smile at me as he jogs backward to the baseline, and it prickles under my skin. You haven’t won anything yet, dickhead.
As Reed and Kyle stare each other down from opposite ends of the court, I pull Ivy aside.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you,” Ivy says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s practically giddy. But we both know that’s not why I came over.
“Are you sure?”
Her whole face softens with fond concern, then the spark is back. She playfully pats my hip with her racket. “Please. Ruin a millionaire’s day? Sounds like a wish come true,” she says, winking at me before turning to call out to Kyle. “Are we doing this or what?”
I’d rather invite Boris Johnson over for a sex party than be stuck within fifty meters of Kyle on any given day, and right now, I’m as close to bludgeoning him with this racket as I’ve ever been.
Instead, I play to lose. It goes against all my instincts when playing against my brother, but it’s worth it to watch Kyle huff and puff his way around backcourt. I’m betting on him hemorrhaging before the sixth game.
As a bonus, I have plenty of time to admire Ivy’s excellent form. As well as her tennis skills.
Reed manages an impressive dropshot to make it forty-love in our third game — take a wild guess who is losing— and while Kyle is losing his shit, I get the pleasure of seeing Ivy teach my brother an exploding fist bump. It heals something deep in my bones I hadn’t realized was broken.
“What the fuck?” Kyle screams at me. “Do you want to get your balls back from your girlfriend or are you going to keep being useless?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Ivy’s expression is set to kill, and on her next serve, she shoots an ace that has Kyle twisting to reach it.
He doesn’t make it.
I wince as his foot twists under him, and the next thing I know, he’s on his back, clutching at his leg and swearing up a storm. Fuck.
Felicity is on her feet before I can get to him, running into the house for ice, while Reed pulls his phone out, no doubt calling for a doctor. Kyle’s on the floor, screaming bloody murder, but I barely hear a word.
No. My focus is Ivy, who’s gone white.