Page 29 of Writing On The Wall

“Woman! Would youget downfrom there?”

She wobbles for a moment, then straightens as if it’s no big deal that she just nearly toppled off her Cat-in-the-Hat tower. “Ethan, you’re being silly,’ she reassures me with a smile. “This spot has the best lighting. I’m taking creative liberties. You’ll thank me in editing.”

“I don’tcareabout the lighting, Ivy. You’re not filming from up there!” I grind out.

“Would you take off your bossy pants for one minute? I’m already up here!”

“Not for long,” I declare, stepping forward and wrapping my arm around her thighs. I lift her from her perch, and the tightness in my stomach eases once she’s finally safe.

Everything she does feels like torment for me.

She lets out a small yelp of surprise as I pull her closer, her body pressing against mine as she clings to my shoulders. When her feet touch the ground, I release her, needing a break from the sizzling current between us. But I’m still unable to resist pushing her buttons, so I lean in with a cocky smile. “I’ll just pretend you didn’t ask me to take off my pants.”

She scoffs in disgust. “Ugh! Figures that’s the only part of that sentence you’d hear. And stop manhandling me!” She steps back to dust herself off before flexing her fingers.

“Stop testing the laws of physics, and I won’t have to!”

“Can we just get on with this?” She forces a smile. It’s one that says I’m still firmly in the asshole box and not likely to escape the label any time soon.

I have to work extra hard to turn on the charm once she starts recording again because I’m still thinking about how much she annoys me by doing something reckless every few minutes. But there’s also that tiny niggle of self-consciousness making me hyperaware of her irritation with me.

I don’t think I like this awareness.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IVY

C.J. is onto something with her theory about the weather turning kids into little gremlins. The wind was gusty and unrelenting this morning, and my kids were bonkers. The silence in my car is a stark contrast to the deafening chaos of my classroom today. I had my “weather contingencies”in place, but the kids walked in wild and ready to flip tables.

If only I had a water heater that worked, I could end my day with a nice soak in a hot bath and go to bed with relaxed muscles. Not to mention, it’s freaking hair wash day tomorrow.

“Ugh,” I groan aloud. I forgot to mention the broken water heater to Ethan when he made his fixit list the other day. I’m sure he’d have used it for more ammunition for his argument that I shouldn’t be living here.

I near my driveway and release a whimper at the sight of Ethan’s truck parked on the road. What in Sally Field’s hair is he doing here?

Holy cow, I’m in a forced-proximity trope! Except the forced bit seems almost voluntary lately, which only makes this all the more confusing. At first, I thoughtEthan and I were on the same page about sucking it up and riding this thing out for the sake of Colton and Ember. It felt like we’d made an unspoken agreement to get the renovations and wedding planning over with so we can return to mutual annoyance at best. But I think I may have legitimately upset him yesterday. I hate this ugly sting of regret. Why is he suddenly acting so broody when all we’ve ever done is insult one another? Our dynamic has been the same since we met, and I don’t remember either of us inviting feelings into this agreement. He’s supposed to help me fix the house to relieve some of his future sister-in-law’s stress, and all I have to do is accept his help and put up with his grumpy disposition—absolutely no feelings necessary.

I put my car in park and release a long exhale before quickly applying some tinted lip balm, then I cringe internally when I catch myself checking my appearance in the mirror.

Why are you prettying yourself, ma’am?

But I’m not making myself look cute. This is self-care. Because my lips were dry. I remind myself of the very clear roles I just reestablished for Ethan and me.

My hand smooths over the pastel-pink bow in my hair as I take a fortifying breath. With a sense of renewed determination, I haul my giant teacher’s bag over my shoulder and approach the house. The front door is closed, but I can see Ethan through the screen as I climb the steps. I trip on the last one, cursing my stupid heels.

I’d usually remove my shoes the moment I step inside, fearing I’ll end up with Barbie-like calf muscles from never walking flat-footed. But today, I’m temporarily distracted by the man in my home—the tall, sweaty, muscular man.Oh my.

Someone pass me a hand fan, because my cheeks are feeling rather flushed. Maybe I’m getting a cold, because it certainly can’t be Ethan King giving me the cold sweats, can it?

I watch as he crosses out the top line of the giant list on thewall, and I get stuck in a trance after staring at his back muscles for too long. His cap is on backward, and he sticks a strange-looking pencil behind his ear as he turns to face me.

My eyes dart over to inspect his masculine handwriting in an attempt to avoid getting caught ogling his rugged forearms. A wave of emotion hits me as I read the list, like a weight is lifted just knowing I’m not doing this alone. And the points he’s already checked off make this seem a little more doable.

Fix it List:

Check roof for water damage

Replace door locks

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