Page 28 of Writing On The Wall

That head of dark brown hair is thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a throaty laugh. “You’re somethin’ else, Ivy June,” he says, shaking his head. “But seeing as literally everyone else in my life is busy this weekend, I guess you’ll do.”

I scoff. “Rude!”

“Sorry,” he cringes, rubbing his chin. “I meant, thank you. I could really use your help, if it won’t kill you to be civil for an afternoon.”

I glare at him, folding my arms. “Yeah, well, sometimesexposure to pathogens is good for the immune system…in small doses.”

Why did I sign up for this?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ETHAN

“Did you press record?” I ask, leaning against Ivy’s kitchen counter.

“Well, now you’re gonna need to edit this out, ‘cause yes, I know how to press a red button, Ethan,” Ivy retorts, heavy on the sass.

“You’re a real peach, Marsh.” I smile flatly. “Okay, walk with me,” I motion with a tilt of my head, followed by a wink. She leans out from behind her phone, pretending to gag. I shake my head, turning on my charm as I address the camera directly and do my best to imagine Ivy’s not the one filming me right now. I give a tour of the living room and kitchen, explaining what we plan to do to the rest of the house. Once we make it back to the kitchen, I signal for her to stop recording.

I’m feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious as I clear my throat. “How was that?”

“It was great. I’m not so confident in my camerawoman skills, though.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. And this isn’t anything they’ll actually use. It’s more of a ‘pre-sizzle’reel for Glenn to get a better ideaof my persona in front of the camera. I’m flying to Frisco later to film the actual screen test.”

“Look at you with the production jargon.” She snorts. For some reason, she’s still clinging to that giant D-bag image of me in her head. I don’t know how or why we’ve trapped ourselves on this axis, stuck sharing the same orbit while unable to move away from seeing the worst in one another, but her response still ticks me off.

Yeah, okay, maybe I’ve been a tad crabbier than usual today, but she seems intent on keeping me in a very one-dimensional box, regardless of what I say or do.

And for the record, it actually took some in-depth Googling of all the terms Glenn’s been throwing at me to understand half of what he says. Ask me about load-bearing walls or stock forecasting and I’m good to go. Or better yet, let me build something with my hands. That’s the part of this show I’m excited about—having a large budget and a small timeline to make people’s dream homes come to life.

I scratch my brow with my thumb, recognizing the need to step away before I end up snapping at Ivy in an attempt to defend myself. Not that it would do any good.

“Yeah. I, uh…I’ve gotta grab a pair of gloves from my truck before we film that mock demolition. It’ll just be some B-roll, like a minute of pulling out one of the cabinets.”

Ivy looks up from her job of rewatching footage on the phone. Her eyes sweep over me like she’s trying to read my mood. “Okay…should we try it from a different angle? Switch it up?”

“Sure.” I nod, breezing past her. As I walk down the porch steps I hear her sarcastic “Why, thank you, Ivy, how thoughtful of you,”in her deep, faux-Ethan voice again, making the corners of my mouth curl up without permission.

I locate the pair of gloves in the back of my truck before Istall for a few minutes by quietly reorganizing a toolbox. I’m delaying going back inside, psyching myself up for whatever I’m going to do that will affirm my asshole status in Ivy’s mind. Why am I so bothered by what she thinks of me anyway? That’s half of my frustration—that I care in the first place.

Don’t overthink it, King. Just get this over with.

I finally walk back into the kitchen, and I freeze, my jaw clenching as my nostrils flare to stifle a growl.

“Whatare you doing?” I grind out in a low voice.

Ivy stands with one heel-clad foot on a step stool, which is precariously placed on a rickety chair, and the other foot balancing on the counter. She glances up from the phone, her brows slightly furrowed.

“Waiting for you,” she says matter-of-factly.

I keep my feet planted and my movements slow, because I’m legitimately afraid of what will happen if I cause her to react and turn this trapeze act into a worst-case scenario. “Ivy, were you by any chance a circus performer or a gymnast in your former life?”

Her nose scrunches up with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

I close my eyes, running a finger over my brows. “I’m trying to understand why you think this is a good idea.” I gesture to her setup with my palm.

The corners of her lips dip down as she leans over to survey her location, and I instinctively jump forward.

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