Chapter Thirty-Five
Ivy
I'm sprawled across the living room floor of our apartment in Anchorage, documents arranged in careful stacks around me. The afternoon sun angles through the window, catching dust motes above the boxes Madison and I still haven't unpacked. There’s so much to do.
It’s four weeks since I officially moved to Kentucky. And twenty-six days until I open the doors of my law firm.
The lease agreement swims before my eyes. Again. I blink, pulling my focus to the paragraph about commercial liability requirements, but my brain keeps drifting to paint colors, office furniture placement, and whether the consultation room needs those sound-dampening panels.
Ivy West, Environmental Law.
My name on the door.
My clients.
My firm.
Not “one of Bill’s girls.” I fucking hated it when he called the female attorneys that.
I’m also not “that woman who slept with a client” to make partner. Another example of Bill.
This is all just mine.
My phone buzzes against the hardwood. New York number. Bill.
Christ. Has thinking about him conjured the man like a bad penny?
I stare at it for two full rings. Then my stubbornness sets in. And the fact that I'm finally in a place where he can't touch me makes me answer.
"Ms. West, I hope the transition has been treating you well." He wants something.
The audacity. This man dangled my career over a cliff and called it opportunity. He congratulated me on my strategic thinking when he thought I'd delivered him a client using my body. And now he's calling, chatting like we’re friends.
"Bill." I keep my voice flat. "What do you need?"
A beat. He doesn't like being read that easily. "I'll be direct. Blackstone Bourbon has terminated their retainer. Effective immediately." He clears his throat. “I was hoping you might still have some influence there.”
I should gloat at the humble pie he’s eating, but an important question has to be answered. "When did this happen?"
"Shortly after your departure." A pause loaded with implication. Like it's my fault. Like I broke something on my way out.
Shortly after. Which means weeks ago. Which means Thorne did this weeks ago and never said a word. Not in any of the careful emails about EPA paperwork. Not in the phone call about bourbon recommendations.
He just did it. Quietly. Without telling me.
"Ms. West, are you listening. This is eight million dollars in annual fees. If there's anything you can do to—"
The gall of this man. “You put me in an impossible position. You used me as a bargaining chip and called it mentorship. You congratulated me on my instincts when you thought I'd traded my integrity for a partnership. And now you're calling me to clean up the mess." I pause. "Do you hear yourself?"
Silence. He's coming up with a new strategy.
"Ivy, I understand you're—"
"I'm not interested, Bill." I look at my name printed at the top of the lease. Ivy West, Environmental Law. "I can't help you. I won't help you. Don't call again."
I hang up and breathe through my nose until the anger settles. I stare at my phone. The last call before Bill was Thorne.
He’d cancelled the contract weeks ago—had done it shortly after I moved out. He didn't tell me. Hasn’t said a word.
Because he didn't do it for credit. He didn't do it to win me back or to prove something. He did it and then he let it sit there, unclaimed, with no expectation of anything in return.
I set the phone face down on the hardwood and sit with that for a moment.
And he’s on his way back. He's somewhere past the Ontario border right now. He mentioned wrapping up the last of Quebec two days ago. I've been doing the math without meaning to, like the way you check a weather forecast you can't stop refreshing even though you know it won't change.
We talk most nights now. But it’s safe topics, careful questions about my firm prep and his relocation home. Last week, he called to tell me about a bourbon he thought I'd like. We talked for an hour about nothing important. Small steps. Careful ones. But steps forward.
The front door crashes open with teenage enthusiasm.
"Ivy!" Madison's voice carries that pitch that means news, big news. "Guess what?"
She's in the doorway, backpack sliding off her shoulder, phone clutched like it holds state secrets. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with something between excitement and mischief.
"Thorne's back! Like, back, back. He got in this morning.”
My pen stops moving. My hand flattens against the paper. What if six weeks of careful emails and safe phone calls means we've circled back to acquaintances? What if he's moved on?
"Back?" I keep my voice neutral, gaze on the insurance paperwork.
"From Quebec! For good!" She drops her backpack and rushes over, nearly stepping on my zoning permits. "I texted him asking if Tracy and I could come swim, and he said yes.” She's practically vibrating. "Can you drive us? Please?"
I sit back on my heels, buying time by straightening document stacks. He’s back.
"He said it was okay?" I ask.
"Yes! I told you, I already texted him." She drops cross-legged beside me, grinning. “Tracy is going to die.”
The pitch in her tone snags my attention. “Um, why?”
"She has the biggest crush on him. It's hilarious.” Madison's nose wrinkles. "And gross. I mean, he is my half-brother and old.”
I smack her arm playfully. “Hey, he’s only a couple of years older than me.”
“It’s okay, women age better than men.”
“All I’m hearing is that I’m a decrepit lady.”
“I wouldn’t say decrepit…,” her grin turns wicked, “yet.”
I snort. “Brat.”
She taps her nails on her knees. “She isn’t the only one who has a crush on Thorne. So does her mom. And my other friend’s mom.”
“Wow, he has quite a fan club.”
“Are you jealous?”
I tilt my head. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”
“I’m trying to get you to admit you still like him. That you want to get back with him.”
My skin prickles. “Still playing matchmaker, are you?"
"Duh. Obviously."
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “When does Tracy want to go?”
"Now! Well, after I change." She's already standing, heading for her room. “I told Thorne we'd be there by four, so we need to leave in like, twenty minutes.”
"Madison, wait—"
But she's gone, feet pounding up the stairs, leaving me alone with paperwork I can no longer pretend to read.
Thorne's back. For good.
My phone is under a stack of papers. I could text. My thumb hovers over his contact still saved as "T" with that bourbon glass emoji Madison added months ago. I press call.
After two rings, he answers. “Ivy.” The way he says my name, like warm honey mixed with expensive bourbon, makes me a little drunk.
"Hi." Why do I sound breathless? "Madison said she texted about swimming?"
"She did. Four o'clock works. Do you need my driver to come and get her?”
“No, I’ll bring her.”
Something clatters in the background, like he’s setting something down. "How are you?"
“Great. Busy with the firm opening." I twist the lease document between my fingers. "Madison mentioned bringing her friend Tracy. Is that okay?”
"Also fine. The more the merrier." Another pause. "Would you want to come over with them? Stay for a bit? We could celebrate your firm opening. I have champagne."
My heart does that stupid flutter. I nearly shout, “Yes!” but manage to bite my tongue to keep the exclamation in.
He must take this as hesitation because he adds, “We could catch up properly, not over email about EPA paperwork or on the phone. I've missed talking to you in person.”
I close my eyes. We've been texting semi-regularly.
He asks how the firm prep is going, and I ask about his trip to Quebec to pack.
Last week, I sent him a photo of Marley sprawled across my lease documents with one paw covering the signature line.
Caption: Someone thinks I work too much.
He responded hours later with his own desk—stacks of half-filled boxes behind his laptop, which displayed what looked like a remediation report.
Caption: Someone else might have the same problem.
Small steps. Careful ones. But steps forward.
"Okay. I’ll stay for a bit." A thrill runs through me.
“Perfect.” His smile carries through the phone. "I'm looking forward to it.”
I grin. “So is Tracy.”
“Why? Does she like swimming a lot?”
I suck my lips between my teeth, holding in my laugh. Let them go, and say, “She has a massive crush on you."
Silence. Then: "What?"
“Apparently, she talks about you constantly. Turns bright red whenever Madison mentions you."
"Christ." He sounds genuinely mortified. My grin is so wide it hurts my cheeks. "I thought she was shy. Like, really shy. She can’t string three words together when I ask her anything."
"That's not shy. That's heart-eyes emoji in human form." I'm enjoying this far too much. "Madison says Tracy normally doesn’t shut up."
He groans, then chuckles. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re coming with them.”
“And why is that?”
“You’ll protect me from being objectified by a teenager."
My laughter mixes with his. “I’m happy to be your hero. I'll see you shortly.”
"See you then."
Less than a minute later, Madison thunders down the stairs in her swimsuit and cover-up. "Ready?"
More than ready. I grab my keys off the table by the door. “Let’s go.”
Tracy is waiting on her front porch when we pull up, bouncing on her toes. "Hey!" She yanks open the back door and slides in, her beach bag clutched to her chest like a shield. "Thanks for driving us, Ms. West."
"Ivy's fine." I catch her eyes in the rearview mirror. She's pretty. Freckles dust her nose and cheeks, and nervous energy radiates off her. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail. "Excited to swim?"
"Oh my God, yes.” The grin that spreads over her face is as wide as Madison’s earlier. “Will your brother be swimming with us? I bet he looks great in a swim—”
“Ew, stop.” Madison holds up her hand.
“I’m just saying—”
“But I’d rather you didn’t.”