Chapter 6
Chapter six
Ivy
“I still don’t understand why he took you. He never expects me to accompany him on business trips. Do you think he’s on to us?” I can almost picture Sloane, her forehead creased, chewing on her thumb.
I switch to speaker and throw my phone down on the bed, scrolling through the abundance of movies the five-star hotel’s TV system provides.
“If he was, why would he take me to London? He’s too frigging busy to be carrying out an elaborate revenge plan.”
I can’t lie, she makes a good point, but I keep quiet; Sloane tends to over-worry.
“And all he asked you to do was take minutes?” she asks for the millionth time.
“Yep,” I say, ignoring the part where he pressed me against the glass and threatened to murder Dominic Bexley if I so much as looked at him. I’m still trying to process it myself. Just the thought of it has heat pulsing through my veins.
“I sent you the audio of the meeting,” I add. “Did you get it?”
“I did. I’ve already emailed you the minutes,” Sloane replies, as efficient as ever. After the meeting, I looked over my typed ramblings and knew they wouldn’t make the cut.
Last night, I had just arrived at the hospital to visit Sloane and Elsie when Dane’s text message came through. I almost dropped the phone in shock. Sloane almost died of shock.
At first, she thought I’d misread the text.
But after rereading multiple times. She confirmed that I was not seeing things.
Then, after a mini meltdown and saying fuck more times than she’s ever uttered, I thought she might cry.
And Sloane never cries. Even when her pet hamster, Brian, kicked the bucket.
After she saved six months’ pocket money to buy him the hamster equivalent of a condo in Malibu, he keeled over the next day.
Ungrateful bastard.
“How’s Elsie?” I ask.
“She’s doing a lot better. Her temperature is finally dropping. She’ll be allowed home the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s great. I can’t wait to see the little munchkin.”
“And you know what that means, Ivy? When you get back from London, I’ll be able to return to work.”
Oh...
“Yay.” I inject enthusiasm into my tone as my heart sinks. Which is ridiculous because any longer and I’d be found out for sure. To be honest, it will be a minor miracle if I get through this trip.
I brush it off. It is only lust. I mean, the man is as hot as a Molotov cocktail, but he’s still Dane. Cold. Hard. And entirely off-limits.
“Hey, guess who I saw the other day?” Sloane says, disapproval sneaking into her tone.
“Well, from the sounds of things, it’s not Santa Claus.”
“Brody. He was skulking around our apartment when I dropped by to pick up some clean clothes for Elsie.”
“Damn, I forgot. Before my new double life as you, I said he could drop by.” I hold my breath, bracing myself for the onslaught.
“Ugh, Ivy, I hope you’re not letting that man back into your life.”
“I’m not. We’re just friends.”
“He left you in pieces last time.”
“I know, Sloane. Like I said...friends.” I reassure her. “And he is part of my friendship group, so I can’t avoid him.”
“Mmmm,” she says, unimpressed. “I thought he was living out in LA?”
“You hoped,” I tease. “He’s got a new DJ-ing residency at Vice nightclub in the Meatpacking District. And I swear, guides’ honor... friends.”
“For now.” She huffs.
“No, I wouldn’t put myself through that again. You know me.”
And I wouldn’t.
Brody West is bad news. The kind of bad news that rides a beast of a motorbike.
Spins vinyl for a living. And single-handedly keeps the Betty Ford Clinic in business.
The whole sex, drugs, and rock’ n’ roll cliché.
Terrible as a boyfriend. Fun as fuck as a friend.
We were loved-up in college until he took a gig for a music festival upstate.
When he came home, it was like the success had gone to his head.
I sensed him pulling away, and it wasn’t long after that he announced he was off to LA ‘because it matched his vibe, and that was that.
Yeah, fuck him.
I always pick the wrong guys. The kind who should have a walking red flag stamped across their Tinder bios.
Mom always says the Vale women are cursed in love. And with that cheery philosophy, she sent us out into the world with the bar set so low it was practically underground—before disappearing into a haze of crystals, tarot cards, and whatever commune happened to be calling her name that year.
Most of our childhood was swallowed by her and Dad’s messy divorce. Years and money burned on legal battles that had nothing to do with us and everything to do with punishing each other. Even custody became about winning, not about parenting.
Dad drifted away when the fight was over. Mom drifted into herself.
So Sloane and I clung to each other. We were—and still are—the only constant in each other’s lives.
Mom taught us that men can’t be trusted. That given the chance, they all cheat. Then Dad proved her point. And, like some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy, we kept gravitating toward men who fit that mold. Prince Charming was just a stupid fairy tale.
So when Brody bailed, it was expected.
But it still hurt. That part always does.
The room phone rings, the shrill sound startling me.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, clutching my chest. “Give me a sec. Sloane.”
“Ms. Vale, this is reception. The document has arrived. Mr. Black instructed us to call you.”
“Thank you. I’m coming down now.” I hang up and pick up my cell.
“Gotta go now, Sloane. I have to pick up a document from reception for Dane.”
“What document?” Sloane says, forever in work mode.
“I’m not sure, but he asked me to put it in his safe, so it must be important.”
“Probably a draft contract or notes from the Finance Committee,” she muses. “He has several meetings lined up—anything needing a hard copy would have been couriered. There might even be briefing notes for a parliamentary hearing. You should find notes about it in the pink folder.”
“Sure thing, I’ll check.” I don’t tell her I haven’t looked in her precious colored folders once. In fact, they’ve done nothing except weigh down my luggage.
“And Ivy,” she adds in her mother-knows-best voice. “Don’t lose it. Dane doesn’t misplace things. Ever.”
“Yes, ma’am. Look, I should go. I’ll call you later.”
I end the call, run a brush through my hair, and make sure I am semi-presentable before I take the elevator to reception.
When I arrive, the concierge is waiting with a sleek black envelope and a spare keycard, exactly like Dane promised. My pulse hammers as I take it up to Dane’s suite, the envelope clutched like it’s a priceless antique.
A quiet hush greets me as I slide the card and push open the door.
His suite is two floors above mine and twice the size, with a lounge area and an adjacent bedroom separated by a door.
Even with his permission, being alone in his hotel room still feels wrong.
The area smells faintly of leather, and a darker, spiced note that must be his cologne.
I inhale before I can stop myself, then roll my eyes at myself.
The safe sits discreetly in the corner cabinet. I crouch, punching in 1-8-0-7, and the green light flashes.
I lock the document in the safe with a satisfying click and let out a breath as I rise back to my feet.
My hand reaches for the door handle, but I pause, curiosity getting the better of me.
I should leave. I know I should leave. But my feet don’t move.
Instead, my gaze skims the room, greedy in a way I shouldn’t be.
I’m about to leave the room when my eyes snag on the dresser through the open door of the bedroom.
A heavy watch gleams on a tray, its brushed steel face catching the light.
Beside it sits a slim case of cufflinks, probably worth more than my entire wardrobe.
I creep through and linger there a moment too long, then—because apparently I have no survival instinct—slide open the top drawer.
My cheeks flare hot. Condoms. An entire box, discreet but impossible to miss. My throat tightens, and I snap the drawer closed as though it burned me.
Jesus. I should definitely leave now.
But then the heavy glass of his cologne bottle catches the light.
I trail my finger along the edge, popping the cap without thinking.
One inhale, and my stomach dips. It’s him—musky, expensive, threaded with something darker that lingers, a scent that shouldn’t feel intimate but does.
I close my eyes for a beat too long, then snap them open, horrified with myself, because what kind of idiot gets lightheaded over a man’s aftershave?
The sharp beep of the key card slot jolts me back to reality.
Shit. Shit, shit, and double shit.
“Fuck.” Dane’s curse is low, frustrated. A second scrape, another mutter, “Come on,” and then the door clicks open.
Panic takes over. How can I explain being in the bedroom? I drop flat, wriggling under the bed, my hair catching on the carpet fibers as I shove myself into the narrow gap. My chest heaves in the stale air as the door thuds shut behind him.
His footsteps are unhurried but heavy, each one pulsing through the floor.
A jacket lands on the chair, cufflinks clink against wood, fabric rustles as he yanks his tie loose.
When he pulls his shirt over his head, I get a flash of tanned skin and muscle that makes my throat go dry.
Broad shoulders, abs cut hard by discipline, every line of him a testament to strength and control.
His phone buzzes, and he reaches for it, tossing it on the dresser.
“Julian.”
“How are things?” His brother’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“We have Bexley,” Dane says matter-of-fact, like it’s already handled.
He sinks into the armchair, long legs stretching out, the shadows shifting as Dane exhales, leaning back, forearm resting casually on his thigh.