Page 26 of The Writer
“A few things. I met this crazy woman and—”
“Crazy? I am not—”
“Who said it was you?” I interject, just to wind her up. “I’m kidding. But what you said about family got me thinking. It’s been a long time since I was back, and it was time. Your little skirmish gave me some perspective.”
“Huh.”
“How do you fancy a drink?”
“A drink like our last drink?” My mind flicks back to the fucking fantastic sex we had after our drink, and I can’t deny I’d object to a do-over.
“I’d like to buy you a drink first, but you know I’m a sure thing. We’re in the same city again. It would be a shame to waste that chance.”
“I’m free Friday night. Meet me at The Clock Tower Club at nine p.m. I promise you won’t need to rescue me this time. I think after all that time in a warzone, you could do with some fun.”
“Text me the details, and I’m there. Oh, and Ivy, try and behave yourself until then.”
I hang up before she can have the last word. Something I’m sure she’ll be pissed about, but now I have something good to look forward to. Because I already know what fun with Ivy feels like, and I can’t fucking wait for round two.
Chapter Eight
IVY
Practically falling into the building’s lobby, I dump the numerous food shopping bags and head for the mailbox. I haven’t even checked it since I got back. It’s been a bloody whirlwind of catching up with family, phone calls and meetings with the other associated press, and getting drunk. If I get the mail and start sifting through it, maybe I’ve got a chance of getting onto the work I should be doing. That being investigating the dead author.
I haul out several letters, packages, and parcels, and push them into any available space left in the bags so I can head up to my apartment. The final sound of my own door slamming behind me signals some much-needed peace after the day I’ve had. I look up at the clock—seven forty-five. How did it get to that time? I need to get a wriggle on. I’ve got a bunk up with a hunky man at nine.
Food shopping put away, and I pile the letters and parcels on the side for another time. Tomorrow will have to be the beginning of my search. For now, I’ve got some more fun to have. I wander to the bedroom, stripping my clothes off as I go, and get into the shower.
Thoughts of Blake’s body run through my head while I scrub off the day’s dirt. There’s no denying his appeal, and having received the unexpected phone call, I’m happy to oblige another night of no-strings-attached sex. Still, odd that he’s phoned so quickly. I thought he was going to Columbia. And now he’s back here?
Another half an hour picking out something super sexy from the back of my wardrobe and sorting my hair, and I start applying make-up. Not my normal MO, but tonight, and after my more female-friendly night out with Jenna, I’m on a mission to get laid again. Not that I suppose I need any help considering the state I was in in Kabul, but this is London. Competition is fierce on these streets, especially in the club I’m taking him to tonight.
By the time I look up from doing that, the clock is at eight forty. Shit. I order an Uber and wonder how long it’s going to take to get me to The Clock Tower this time of night, on a Friday. Too long. A text gets sent through to his mobile, telling him to ask for Anton at the door and tell him Ivy Broderick sent him. And then another text goes through to Anton telling him to take Blake through to the private lounge. I get a thumbs-up back from Anton almost instantly, and nothing from Blake. Not helpful, but I grab the last of my things together and shove them in my small clutch, slinging the light, metal strap over my body.
I’m out the door, down the stairs, and waiting for the Uber within minutes. Thankfully, he arrives swiftly, and before I know it, we’re zipping through all the back streets to try and get there on time. It’s not going to work, as proved by the stop-stall journey, but I suppose it gives me time to perfect the last of my makeup and toss my hair around. Thick hair isn’t something I’m blessed with. Not many blondes are, but at least the curling iron has given it some body tonight.
It isn’t until we eventually pull up that I begin to question why I’m so bloody consumed with making sure I look good tonight. A short dress and heels? Although, for this venue, it’s a near necessity for varying reasons, but still, it’s plainly ridiculous. He’s just a man. A hot one, yes, but … I don’t know. Maybe it’s the nature of what we went through together over there. Maybe that gives him something over other men I’ve spent time with. Protector. Ugh. Hero status again.
I don’t need a hero.
Certainly not in London.
I get out and look at the hordes of guests already queueing up for entry. Most of them won’t get in for another hour or so. Not in that line anyway. Me, however? I walk to the other side of the building, smiling at Anton as he holds his arms out to me.
“Ivy,” he calls, wrapping me up in a hug. I take the strong arms and smile again, happy to have something familiar wrapped around me. We’ve known each other since Uni, back when his dreams of owning this place were nothing but fantasies and too much pot. “Where have you been?”
“Kabul. And working. How are you? And Jonas?”
He opens the door and walks me in. “Good. Wedding next month. You're still coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Is my date here?”
“He is, and that’s a fine slice of male you’ve got there. Not gay, sadly.”
“No, and there’s not one thing sad about that fact. I can testify that he is all straight male. Besides, wedding?”
He chuckles and pushes me towards the private area steps, winking. “As if I’m ever not looking.”
