Page 26 of Falling for Cocky Cole
"I've got the dishes," Cole says, gathering plates with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "You two should take your wine out to the patio. It's a nice night." The look he gives me isn't subtle—my brother's about as delicate as a bulldozer when he has a plan. But he's right about one thing: this is my chance. Ivy hesitates, glancing between us with those clear blue eyes that have haunted me for years, and I try to keep my expression neutral, like my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.
"Come on," I say, refilling our wine glasses. "The stars should be out by now."
I lead the way through the sliding glass door to our back patio. The evening air carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke from a neighbor's chimney. We've strung lights along the railing that cast a soft glow over the wooden deck, enough to see by without drowning out the emerging stars above.
Ivy settles into one of the Adirondack chairs, her blonde hair stirring gently in the cool night breeze. I take the chair besideher, setting our wine on the small table between us. For a moment, we just sit in silence, and I struggle to find the right words to begin a conversation ten years overdue.
"Remember when you ruined your mother's Thanksgiving turkey?" I finally ask, smiling at the memory.
Ivy groans, but she's smiling too. "How could I forget? The smoke alarm went off, and Mom came running in to find me trying to put out flames with a dish towel."
"You'd insisted on taking over that year," I recall, "to prove you could handle adult responsibilities."
"I was fourteen and thought I knew everything." She takes a sip of wine, her eyes distant with the memory. "Mom declared me completely unladylike and banned me from cooking anything more complicated than toast."
"You got into a huge argument with her," I continue, watching her face. "You said the whole 'women belong in the kitchen' thing was outdated and sexist."
Ivy laughs, the sound warming me more than the wine. "I was so righteous about it. Mom just threw up her hands and said, 'Good luck finding a husband who cooks, then.'"
"And you said?—"
"I said I'd marry a chef just to spite her." Ivy's eyes widen suddenly, her glass pausing halfway to her lips. She turns to me, realization dawning on her face. "Wait. Was I the 'lucky girl' Cole mentioned at dinner?"
I feel heat rise to my face that has nothing to do with the wine. I've imagined this conversation countless times, but now thatit's happening, I feel like that awkward seventeen-year-old boy again, tongue-tied around Ben's fiery little sister.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “You probably forgot about it the next day, but I never did. It stuck. Every time I burned something in the kitchen, I thought about you laughing and saying you’d only marry a chef.” I shrug, but it feels more like surrender than nonchalance. “So I decided I’d get good enough that maybe… you’d look at me differently.”
"So you learned to cook... because of something I said when I was fourteen?" Her voice is soft with disbelief.
I shrug, trying to make it seem less significant than it was—than it is. "I was already interested in cooking. Your declaration just... gave me extra motivation."
It’s a half-truth. Before that winter break, I’d barely paid attention in the kitchen, content to let Mom handle the cooking. But after Ben told me what Ivy had said, I started hovering beside her at the stove, asking questions, watching every pinch of salt and flick of her wrist. She laughed at first, then patiently taught me the basics—how not to scorch eggs, how to knead dough for biscuits, how to coax flavor out of a pot of stew. What began as a boyish attempt to impress Ivy slowly became something I loved for its own sake.
Ivy sets her glass down and leans over to kiss my cheek, her lips warm against my skin. "That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard, Caleb."
The gesture is innocent, friendly—the kind of affection she might have shown me a hundred times over the years. But tonight, with the truth hovering between us, it ignites something I've kept banked for too long. I catch her hand as she starts to pull away.
"Ivy." My voice sounds rough even to my own ears. "I need to tell you something."
Her eyes meet mine, wide and questioning, and I see a flash of the girl she was at fifteen, sixteen, eighteen—always looking at me with that mixture of admiration and something else I was too afraid to acknowledge.
"I've always loved you," I say, the words finally breaking free after years of careful restraint. "Not as Ben's little sister. Not as a friend. As you—this beautiful, ambitious, sharp-tongued girl who's always known exactly what she wants."
Her lips part in surprise, and for a terrifying moment, I think I've made a catastrophic mistake. Then I see tears gathering in her eyes, catching the light like stars.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" she whispers. "All those years..."
I run my thumb over her knuckles, marveling at the softness of her skin. "You always had one foot out the door, Ivy. You worked so hard to get out of Silvercreek—AP classes, scholarships, internships. I watched you fight for that dream. How could I ask you to give it up for me?"
"But it wouldn't have mattered," she says, her voice breaking. "None of it would have mattered if I'd had your heart."
"That was exactly the problem." I reach up to brush a tear from her cheek. "I didn't want you to wake up one day resenting me for being the reason you stayed. I didn't want to be the guy who held you back."
"So you just... what? Watched me leave? Dated other people?" There's a hint of anger now, threading through her sadness.
"I dated, sure." I shrug, thinking of the handful of relationships that never quite worked because none of them were her. "But mostly I just waited. Figured if it was meant to be, you'd come back someday. And even if you only came back for visits, I'd take whatever time I could get."
"You're an idiot, Caleb Carter," she says, but there's no heat in it.
