Page 27 of Wasted On You

“What time?” she asked, grabbing his cup and depositing both of them into the sink.

“That’s my girl.” Ollie grabbed his coat from the chair where he’d flung it. “Doors open at six for cocktail hour. I expect to see you no later than seven.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and grinned. “Wear something nice. I have a bit of a reputation to uphold.”

She tossed a rag at him, but he ducked it easily, and with a chuckle left before she had a chance to say something snide. Ivy sighed and headed for the bedroom. She had nothing appropriate to wear, which meant three things.

One, she headed to town and spent more time than she wanted shopping in one of the local boutiques while avoiding anyone she knew. Two, she drove to Bozeman and spent more time than she wanted to, shopping a wider selection of boutiques where she’d hopefully not run into anyone she knew. Or there was the third option. Millie Sue Bridgestone’s closet. Her friend wasn’t home at the moment—she and Cal had gone out of town for a few days. But that didn’t mean a thing. Ivy had the code to their place.

She looked down at her cell and called her friend. Millie Sue’s closet was the winner.

Which was why at exactly six-thirty that evening Ivy rolled up to the community center in a sleek SUV, with a driver and champagne and everything. It was fancy, and she’d already had two glasses of bubbly when she stepped out of the vehicle—all provided by Oliver. It was the least he could do, and she accepted the driver’s hand as he helped her up the stairs.

The driver was a young man she knew from town, Kevin Baker. He gave her an appreciative once over as Ivy reached the top step, which she ignored—the kid was barely twenty, and well, shewasengaged, even if it was fake. There were appearances to keep up and all that. She gave a small wave and, thankful for the champagne to fuel her evening, headed inside.

The foyer was decorated with black material strung across the ceiling, speckled with white twinkling lights. There were Christmas trees, presents, an elf or two, and Mr. Paulmert, who had to be nearly one hundred years old, parading the room dressed up as Santa. There were a bunch of town folks milling about, all of them excited and chatting before heading into the main room. She skimmed over them and winced inwardly because the first person she saw was her mother.

The second? Mary Margaret Christchurch.

Not in the mood for either of the women, Ivy turned in the opposite direction. She took exactly two steps and spied the Darlingtons. Normally, they were in Florida this time of year, and though she loved them dearly, they were pretty much the last people she wanted to chit-chat with.

Along with their son, that is.

With no choice but to head inside, Ivy made a beeline for the banquet room and headed for the bar. Was it smart to drink on an empty stomach? Especially one already dealing with those pesky butterflies? Hell no, but she needed the liquid courage because if Mike Paul’s parents were here, the chances of him attending were pretty damn high. Which was something she hadn’t thought of when she’d agreed to Ollie’s proposal. Mike Paul had never been the kind of guy for these sorts of things—he usually donated directly to a cause—but then she hadn’t been around Big Bend for years, so what did she know?

People change.That’s what he’d whispered in her ear the other night.

“Shit,” she muttered as she pulled up to the bar. This was a bad idea, and if she didn’t like Ollie so damn much, she’d bail. Instead, she exhaled slowly and ordered a white wine. While she waited for the bartender to grab it for her, Ivy heard a low wolf whistle. She glanced to her right and spied Ryland Bridgestone with a beer in his hand. Seriously? If Kevin Baker was a kid, then Ryland was still a baby.

“Looking good, Wilkens.”

She had to smile at that. He was a perfect mix of his brothers, Cal and Benton. And Mike Paul, she thought, but whatever.

“The only person who calls me that is your brother, so stop.”

“Looking good,Ivy.”Ryland winked. God, the kid was blessed with the kind of looks that spelled trouble.

“You’re not twenty-one,” she said dryly, eyeing the beer in his hand.

He moved to her side and leaned against the bar. “I will be someday,” he grinned, that Bridgestone charm emanating from him effortlessly.

“Two years from now.”

His smile widened. “You gonna tell on me, Ivy?”

“Finish that and no more.” Her tone was no-nonsense.

“You’re no fun.”

“This night will be no fun if Manley sees you.”

“Shit.” Ryland stood taller and glanced around. “He’s here already?”

“Yep. Saw your father and Martha Pullman in the foyer.”

Ryland downed the rest of his beer and set the bottle on the bar. His eyes, bluer than any of his siblings, crinkled as he gave her a salute. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He frowned. “Where’s Kip?”

“On a plane.”

“Want some company?”

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