Page 87 of Writing On The Wall

“And don’t mention my pants. Ethan probably won’t like that either.” I smile as he stands and shakes his head, even though there’s an eerie feeling lingering in my gut. I still haven’t found whatever Ross stumbled upon, and it’s driving me crazy. It’s got to be the missing piece of this puzzle. But I can’t ask Gran about it, because I’m ninety-nine-percent sure she has no idea the secret closet even exists, and I can’t bring myself to rope her into whatever drama Ross has created.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ETHAN

“Write this down real quick?”

“Writewhatdown?” Ivy frowns her green eyes down at me.

“I’m ‘bout to tell you, Marsh. Ready?”

“What about me looks ready to write something?”

“Ivy, if I keep crouching like this, I’m gonna end up with a back like Quasimodo. Grab the pencil.” I motion with my eyebrows and nod to the spot where my construction pencil has been lying since I first marked the wall.

“I don’t have paper,” she grumbles, pouting those kissable lips.

“Write it on the wall.”

“But—”

“Quasimodo,” I grunt.

“Okay, okay!” She rushes to retrieve the pencil, turning the flat line of her mouth toward me while I rattle off a series of numbers and species of wood.

“Why did you need the different kinds of wood written down?”

“I didn’t,” I respond with a real grunt this time as I stand.

She huffs loudly, whipping that hair around as she turns to scowl. “Then wh?—”

“To show you that you can do it. And that I don’t care how you write.”

“Icare,” she says, dropping the pencil and walking into the kitchen.

I stroll up behind her, slowly curling my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. “Baby, I think you’re the only one that does. You are not your struggle.”

She releases a deep breath, leaning back against my chest. “You’re right.”

“I’m proud of you, you know, for telling C.J., for putting yourself out there and learning to let the rest of us make life easier for you.”

She turns in my arms, snuggling closer and making me wish I weren’t covered in sweat and dust. “I feel like a kid, learning all these strategies and skills I probably should have been taught a long time ago.”

“Hmm. You feel like a woman to me.” I lean into her neck while my hands prove my point.

“Smooth,” she says, laughing softly. “What’s next once we get the floors done?”

“Spackling.”

“Is that what the kids call it these days?” She grins, lifting her chin and wiggling her eyebrows.

“You work with kids, you tell me.”

“I work with eight-year-olds, they call it ‘mom and dad wrestling with their shirts off.’ ”

“Sounds fun,” I say, my smile growing as I peer down at her and move a piece of hair away from her face. “I got you something.”

“Ooh! Is it cake?” she asks, her face lighting up. She’sridiculously easy to please, which makes spoiling her so much more fun.

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