Page 45 of Writing On The Wall

“Today?” she turns to me, eyes wide and sparkling. I feel like I’m getting closer to earning another genuine smile.

“We need to get the measurements first, and they won’t get delivered today, but, yeah, you could choose the ones you want.”

“I’d love that,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting a little more.

Getting there.

“You’re measuring,” I tell her, picking up her fractional tape.

“Oh, okay.”

The way she keeps nibbling on her lip is slowly becoming my undoing. With every one of these cute little things she does, it’s beginning to feel more and more like she’s got me under her spell.

And that doesn’t bode well for my future plans, because I never counted on getting bewitched by a woman who’d capture my attention this way, especially not one who has a boyfriend.

Ivy measures the space for the cabinets, each dimension she relays contributing to the proud grin forming on her lips. And every time she flashes that smile my way, it’s another jolt to my insides, my brain saying,you’re in trouble.

“Seeing as this is your area of expertise and you know the industry, could you have a look at the budget I got from Gran’s lawyer and tell me what I can afford to get done?”

“Sure.” I nod over a hard swallow. She looks adorable, covered in dust and her hair bow slightly askew. I follow her to the living room, where she pulls a file from a side table and hands it to me. Then our eyes meet for an electric second when my hand makes contact with hers.We can’t have any of that,Ithink, clearing my throat and gently tugging my hand back. I take out my phone to calculate some rough estimates for each task on our fixit list. Ivy watches me through the corner of her eye while she fluffs pillows and straightens things in the room.

“Okay, this is definitely doable, assuming no major issues turn up.” I announce.

She moves closer to look over my shoulder at the paperwork, and it takes a surprising amount of effort to concentrate on the paper in front of me as I go over the figures and not to turn and gape at her again. Once I’m done, I slide my hands into my pockets, suddenly forgetting what it is I normally do with them. Ivy stares up at me earnestly, rambling about paint colors and fanning herself with the collar of her shirt. I respond on autopilot, my mind stalling as my fingers toy with the ribbon that’s still stashed in my pocket.

It’s not okay to have this kind of response to a woman who’s in a relationship.Shut it down, King.

I suggest taking Ivy’s car to the store, seeing as mine’s loaded with evidence of her solo demolition. It would be better for my state of mind if we took separate cars, or better yet, if I hadn’t suggested we do something together in the first place. But I can’t think of a valid reason to cancel the plans I suggested without seeming a little unhinged, so I force all these weird feelings I’ve started having way, way down as we drive to the store. It’s mostly silent in the car, and Ivy seems preoccupied with her own thoughts as we walk into the home improvement store together.

We quickly find ourselves perusing cabinets, Ivy running a hand along each surface she passes. This is followed by a small head shake or a nod of approval. And I’m like a puppy, doting on her whims.

“These are the ones I can afford?” she turns to me with a raised brow.

“Yup. So, tell me about Ross,” I blurt out, opening a cupboard and swinging it shut to test its soft close features.

“Your segue game is strong, King.”

“I am strong, thank you,” I retort, flexing my arms.

“That’s not what I—” she rolls her eyes when she catches my smug grin. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“He’s older, right?”

She’s wearing those ridiculous platform shoes again, but she still stretches onto her tiptoes to reach an upper cabinet, huffing when she can’t extend her hand far enough to touch the highest shelf. “Yeah, although it doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”

“Why not?” I prompt, grabbing a nearby step stool and placing it beside her. She pushes the corner of her glasses up, staring at me while I offer her a hand, the other behind my back like a nineteenth-century footman.

She steps up, letting go of my hand to execute a little twirl on the stool.

‘Woman,” I growl, my arms bracketing the space around her.

But she ignores my protest to answer my question. “Because I feel like I’ve always been the one having to take care of him and rescue him when he gets into trouble.” She hops off the step with a bounce.

“He lands in trouble often?”

“No, well,yes, but he doesn’t mean to. He just needs…I don’t know what he needs.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know how to help him anymore.”

I’m no expert on family dynamics, but she’s clearly carrying a lot of responsibility that isn’t hers to bear.

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