Page 11 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
My assistant buzzes. "Ivy Stone is here."
"Send her in," I say, already rising from my chair.
She walks in with easy poise, the sway of her hips unhurried and devastatingly precise. Light glints across the floor as she moves, catching on the gleam of her hair and the subtle sheen of her lips. The glass walls reflect her from every angle, multiplying the effect. She doesn’t just brighten the room, she claims it. My breath catches, and I feel it everywhere, low and hot and reckless.
"Hi," she says, a little breathless but smiling. There’s warmth in her voice, a flicker of something close to trust.
"Hi," I echo, clearing my throat and trying not to look too long at the way her blouse shifts when she moves.
She slides into the chair across from my desk. Her eyes scan the space, glass walls, matte black fixtures, a minimalist bar cart in the corner.
"This place looks exactly like you," she says.
"Is that a compliment?"
She tilts her head, eyes flicking toward the built-in shelving. "It’s just so... deliberate. Everything’s curated. It feels like you’re trying to project something you’re not. Like this office is wearing a suit and tie, but the man behind the desk would rather be in worn boots and rolled sleeves."
I lean forward, elbows on the desk. "You’re not wrong."
She smirks, flipping her hair back behind one ear. "So what’s the job?"
I hand her the folder I’ve been holding onto for two days.
"It’s a rebrand. Full campaign direction. Product identity, digital overhaul, brand tone, and messaging realignment. Thecompany’s expanding overseas and needs to get serious about its image. You’d lead the creative direction from inception to execution. Shape the entire visual language, set the emotional tone, and define the brand voice that carries across every platform, print, digital, experiential,” I explain.
She opens it and starts flipping through the pitch deck. Her fingers brush the pages with care, but her expression is focused, measured. Before I can say more, a few members from the startup team knock and enter the room. Introductions are made. Ivy’s professional, poised, instantly magnetic. One of the junior execs, a marketing VP in an ill-fitted blazer, leans in too close as he thanks her for considering the role. Ivy politely smiles, but I catch the tilt of her head, the shift in her body language. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn't lean in either. Still, the sight makes my pulse spike.
My jaw clenches. I rise, taking a step closer than necessary.
"Ivy’s going to elevate your entire campaign," I say coolly. "Let’s not waste her time."
The guy steps back. Ivy glances at me, surprised and amused. I don’t look away.
"What’s the budget? The timeline?" she asks, pivoting.
"Aggressive. Launch in six months. High six figures. You’d have full creative authority. I’ll handle the exec side."
She lifts a brow. "You trust me that much?"
"I trust you more than I trust most of the people I pay seven figures."
Her mouth twitches. "I’ll want to bring in my own team."
"Done." I say.
She studies me again, searching my face. I can feel her scrutiny like a touch, intimate and quiet. "You’re not doing this out of guilt, are you?"
"No. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve a chance to build something real. Even if you already have your own firm, this is different. This is personal."
She nods slowly, lips parting with a tentative but unmistakable smile. "Okay. I’ll do it."
The energy between us warms, stretching taut across the space like silk drawn over skin. She rises in one smooth motion, straightening her blouse as she reaches for the folder with her fingertips. I rise too, heart pounding, and walk her toward the door, matching her pace.
"Thank you, for trusting me," she says, pausing just before crossing the threshold, her voice low but sure.
"You earned it," I reply, the words slipping out more tender than I intend.
She walks toward the elevator. Her hand brushes mine when I hand her the folder. It’s the lightest touch, but it scorches.
