Page 23 of When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday
“It kind of is. And under any other circumstance, you’d find it hilarious. Where’s that girl?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe back in Austin, where I lost my freaking mind and agreed to this asinine plan.”
I brushed my thumb across her smooth skin, aching to touch more. Which meant I needed to treadcarefully.
“I have a plan,” I assured her. “First, we sleep on the bottom bunk together. It’s only the top bunk that squeaks.”
She whipped her head toward me. “How do you know that?”
“Tested it this morning.”
“We can’t sleep next to each other. It’s a twin.”
“I’ll let you be the little spoon,” I said, grinning.
“Oh, ha ha. Have you forgotten we’re not really a couple?”
Believe me, I wished I could. “So? We’ve crashed on each other’s couches dozens of times. Pretty sure you’ve drooled on me.”
She curled her lip, narrowing her eyes. “That was you drooling on me.”
“Hard to remember the fine details,” I teased, though I remembered exactly how it felt to wake up with Ivy in my arms—and how much I wanted that every day of my life.
She bit her lip. “Jack, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to sleep next to each other.”
“Why? Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”
Her cheeks flushed, and for a second, I wondered if my joke had actually hit the mark. This could be good.
“Nooo,” she said, dragging the word out with exaggerated flair. “Of course, I can keep my hands off you.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Other than her actually keeping her hands off me. “It solves the squeaking issue.”
“I don’t know,” she said, flustered. “I’ll think about it.”
I would, too. I wanted her in my arms far more thanshe would ever know.
“How are you going to fix the other problems? And when is it going to be safe for us to break up?” she begged to know.
I internally groaned. She was hellbent on me naming a breakup date.
I cleared my throat. “Tori’s handling the press and social media—she’ll put out any fires. And as for breaking up . . . It could be a while. Actually, we should probably plan on doing awards season together. Who’s your favorite designer? Pick anyone, and we’ll have a few dresses made.”
Ivy’s jaw dropped. “You want me to walk the red carpet with you?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? You’re my best friend. Who else would I want?”
I’d wanted to take her before, but she’d never seemed that interested—which, honestly, only made her more attractive. And the studio execs had always nudged me toward my costar, pushing the wholesell-the-movienarrative. But I was past that.
I wanted Ivy.
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe a Victoria’s Secret model? Or aSports IllustratedSwimsuitcover girl? And for your information, I don’t have a favorite designer. I shop at the Gap and, if I’m going real fancy, Banana Republic. I don’t think they carry evening gowns.”
If she only knew that she blew any of those models out of the water, or how much I loved that she didn’t have a designer on speed dial. But then that might be a different conversation. One that would just allow me to come out andsay that I was in love with her. I hated all this dancing around it, but I was desperate for us to be together.
“Don’t worry, we’ll figure out the evening gown thing.”
Ivy started hyperventilating. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not a glam girl. It’s my job to makeotherpeople look glamorous. And I can’t stand the thought of influencers judging my red-carpet appearance or comparing me to you—or worse, all your exes. Did you know that I have cellulite on my upper thighs? How’s that going to look in some figure-hugging gown?”
