Page 25 of Writing On The Wall

So my Saturdays have become mine, and my family knows not to expect me to be present unless absolutely necessary.

But notthisSaturday. Today I’m tasked with offering my help to an alligator that hasn’t been fed in too long. Although, I kind of feel like a hangry alligator, too, with my weekend being disrupted. I’d originally planned on checking in on Ivy and her house reno tomorrow, but the producers scheduled a conference call to go over some of the logistics for my pilot episode, and no telling how long that will take.

I squint as I try to make sense of the road names, leaning forward to peer under the visor at the house the GPS led me to. A mighty Spanish moss-draped live oak frames one side of the cottage-style home. The house is whimsically bathed in the yellows of morning light, and I feel a tug at my lips when I imagine a younger version of Ivy scaling the limbs of the ancient oak tree. I bet she was a menace as a child, stomping on hearts and bossing kids around like an angry little dragon.

I inhale deeply, trying to curb the last bit of my annoyance at having my Saturday hijacked. Because if my grumpy attitude were to meet the piranha-like fury of Ivy Marsh, I’m afraid we might leave a giant crater behind.

I’m careful not to shut my truck door too loudly so I can snoop out the condition of the house without alerting the ogre inside. Boxes litter the porch, and I stop to give the front-porch steps a good bounce, testing the integrity of the wood. The squeaky reply tells me that either the wood is dry or the boards haven’t been nailed down securely.

I walk around the house next, scratching at the paint and finding that the slightest wind would be enough to flake it off. The entire exterior will need to be blasted and repainted.

I continue my inspection on the other side, and Ivy passes by the window at the same time I walk by. She does a double take and flinches, before she clutches the back of a chair and lets out a high-pitched screech. I stop and offer her a friendly wave, while her comically round eyes bug out and her hands fly up to cover her mouth. That scowl still manages to do something to me, though, and the way it makes my stomach dip is concerningly addictive.

“Ethan King,” she bellows through the glass. “What.The. Heck!”

“Mornin’, Ivy June,” I reply calmly, attempting to contain my amusement.

Her stomps echo through the cottage, and the front door swings open.

The ground threatens to swallow me up as she glares, folding her arms over her light blue cropped T-shirt. She’s a pastel paint sample with her cream sweatpants and baby pink hair ribbon. And, of course, the platform sneakers. They’re not heels, but they’re technically still safety hazards.

“Explain yourself,” she demands through her teeth.

I lean casually against a tree, crossing my feet and my arms. “Well, let’s see. Where to start? You already know my full name. Ah, yes. I’m twenty-nine-years old, and I was born in?—”

“Ethan!Whyare you being a creepy McCreeperson and stalking around my house?” she asks with wide eyes and a tiny headshake.

“I came to offer my help,” I say simply.

“Ember put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“Do you want to cause her more stress and have me tell her you refused help? Help which youclearlyneed.” I gesture to the house with a wave of my hand.

Her brows pull down a fraction more, making her glasses slide lower on the bridge of her nose. She uncrosses an arm andreaches up to touch the corner of the frames. The movement reminds me of a fierce lioness pausing mid-roar to sneeze.

I run my eyes over her again. She just looks so damned cute and huggable, and I wonder whether she’d melt or explode if I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her right now.

Whoa.We won’t be doing any ofthat, King. You don’t like each other, remember?

Her fingers tap against her arm while she contemplates her predicament. “Fine,” she grunts after a while, turning back toward the house. I follow her inside, but before I make it through the door, she whirls around, that fire in her eyes lighting me up from less than a foot away.

“House rules, King: Don’t tell me what to do, don’t comment on my shoes, anddon’tbe a butthead,” she counts off on her dainty fingers, two of which are wrapped in Elsaand Grogu Band-Aids. Then she whips back around, barely scooting a chair out her path in time to stop herself from tripping.

“Am I even allowed to breathe?”

“If you can do it without being a butthead, sure.” She tilts her head with a tight-lipped smile. If there was ever someone whose feathers I enjoyed ruffling, it’s this woman staring at me like she’d relish the chance to watch me fall into a pit of lava.

“You forgot one rule,” I say, resting an elbow on the kitchen counter and ignoring the state of the place since it looks like it was abandoned mid-demolition.

“Please, enlighten me,” she adds with an eye roll.

“You’re supposed to forbid me from falling in love with you.”

She snorts out a sardonic laugh. “No chance of that, I assure you. Come on,” she turns, leading me down a short passage. “Might as well put that height to good use.”

I want to ask her why she’s so sure I’m not in danger offalling for her, besides the obvious fact that she’s already dating that doofus, Toby. But my eye catches on a mattress lying on the floor in the first room we pass.

I stop at the open doorway, blinking in disbelief at what I presume is her bed. Ivy and her swishing blonde hair and pink ribbon continue for a few steps before she notices my absence.

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