Page 1 of Falling for Cocky Cole
1
IVY
Emily's fox family is lined up on the living room rug, but today they're playing supporting roles to a rainbow procession of plastic ponies. I watch her carefully introduce each pony to the foxes before placing it in line, her small hands moving with surprising gentleness. My focus should be entirely on this moment—it's what Grant pays me for—but my mind keeps slipping back to two nights ago, to hands that weren't gentle at all, to a voice rough with want, to Cole Carter's bedroom.
"This one is Princess Sparkleberry," Emily announces, holding up a purple pony with glitter in its mane. "She's the boss of all the other ponies, but she's nice about it."
"That's the best kind of boss," I say, smiling at her. My cheeks warm as I wonder what Emily would think if she knew where my thoughts keep drifting.
Two nights ago at the Antler, I was three drinks in and spilling my guts to Cole Carter of all people. The bar lights caught in his amber eyes as I complained about falling for two men who wereoff-limits—not naming names, though I'm sure he knew I meant Grant and Caleb. His response still echoes: "I’m not your boss. And I’m definitely not your brother.” The implication was clear:I'm not off-limits.The way he said it, leaning close enough that I could smell his cologne, made my stomach flip.
And just like that, with those two simple sentences, everything shifted. The frustration I'd been carrying since coming home, the lingering sting of my breakup in Portland, the way Grant's rejection text had made me feel foolish—it all combusted into something reckless.
"Ivy? Can Princess Sparkleberry have some juice?" Emily's voice pulls me back to the present.
"Of course," I say, mentally kicking myself. "But remember what your dad said about pretend juice only for the toys?"
Emily nods solemnly. "I know. Real juice makes them sticky."
I give her an empty teacup from her play set, and she returns to her game. I return to my memory.
What the hell was I thinking? Going home with Cole Carter, the walking cautionary tale my mother specifically warned me about? I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I can almost hear my mother's voice: "That boy leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him like breadcrumbs."
But even as I blame myself, I hear the low rasp of Cole's voice in my ear. "Tell me what you want, Ivy." I feel the trace of his finger down my spine, a touch so light it made me arch toward him. And the things he said when I asked him to talk dirty—words that should have made me blush but instead made me dig my nails into his back and beg for more.
Oh God. I was drunk, but not that drunk. I knew exactly what I was doing.
I force myself to take a deep breath. It was just a one-night stand. No strings attached. Cole himself made that clear when he drove me back to the Antler's parking lot where my car was. "That was fun," he'd said with that easy smile of his. Like we'd just shared a meal instead of the most intense night of my life.
So why can't I stop thinking about him? Why do I keep replaying his confession that he's wanted me since my eighteenth birthday? "You were stunning that night," he'd said while tracing circles on my belly. "I couldn't take my eyes off you."
Was he telling the truth? The sincerity in his eyes seemed real, but this is Cole Carter we're talking about. Cocky Cole. He knows exactly what to say to get what he wants. And I was easy prey—drunk, emotionally messy, desperate for someone to want me.
But he didn't take advantage. That's the confusing part. He asked me multiple times if I was sure, gave me plenty of chances to change my mind. "I don't want you to do anything you'll regret," he'd said as he handed me the water in the living room.
That's the problem. He was being such a gentleman that I couldn't change my mind. He even strummed his guitar for me, just as I had asked. Maybe that's his strategy: never coerce, just tempt, making women feel like it's entirely their choice to fall into his bed. A perfect trap—he gets what he wants and never has to feel guilty about it.
Emily's talking to her toys, explaining some complex pony politics that I should probably be paying attention to. Her voice is animated, her pigtails bobbing as she makes two ponies argue over who gets to stand next to the mama fox.
Whatever Cole's game is, I need to stop obsessing. It was just a fling, exactly what I needed after the mess with my ex and then that awkward almost-something with Grant. A palate cleanser. A rebound. Something to remind me I'm still desirable after months of feeling invisible and unwanted.
The fact that Cole hasn't called or texted once since dropping me off confirms it was nothing special to him. Just another night, another conquest to add to his list. It should sting more than it does, but I'm almost relieved. At least one of us has a clear head about what happened.
"Ivy, look!" Emily holds up a blue pony with white spots. "This one can fly because he has invisible wings."
I lean forward, properly engaged now. "Wow, invisible wings are the best kind. Where does he like to fly to?"
"To the moon, so he can see all the stars up close," she says with absolute conviction.
For a moment, Cole Carter is forgotten as I watch Emily's imagination unfold across the living room floor. Her small face is alight with belief in her own stories, and I envy her that certainty, that ability to create a world exactly as she wants it to be.
In her world, ponies can fly on invisible wings. In mine, sleeping with Cole Carter was just a momentary lapse in judgment, not the beginning of something I have no idea how to handle. At least that's what I need to keep telling myself.
I slide down from the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me more about the moon pony," I say, and for a few blessed minutes, I forget all about Cole Carter's hands, his voice, and the way he made me feel wanted in a way no one else ever has.
My phone beepsfrom the coffee table, the sound slicing through my momentary peace. I glance at the screen, and my heart does a stupid little jump. Cole. Just seeing his name makes my fingers tingle with the memory of running them through his hair. I pick up the phone, already hating myself for the anticipation flooding my veins.
Still thinking about it?his text reads.
