Page 18 of When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday
Ivy giggled. “Oh my gosh. I seriously cannot believe they’re letting us stay in the same room. My siblings are probably so salty about it. They were nevereverallowed to share a room with anyone they brought home unless they were married. Are you sure you’re okay with this? I could make up some excuse that we’re waiting.”
Oh, hell. Was she trying to kill me?
“That’s not necessary,” I assured her, somehow, miraculously, keeping my voice steady. Fake dating the woman I loved was going to be the death of me.
“All right.” Ivy gave me a good friendly squeeze before popping off my chest. “We better get ready for bed. My mom is serious about her holiday schedule. Dibs on the bathroomfirst. And don’t even think about stealing the top bunk—it’s mine.”
Suddenly, she was treating me like I was one of her girlfriends and this was just a slumber party.
And here I’d thought I had game.
“Yeah, okay,” I grumbled, feeling my so-called charm slip through my fingers. This wasn’t going remotely how I had planned.
Ivy grabbed one of her bags and flitted off into the ensuite bathroom.
That left me to approach the Christmas tree in the bedroom cautiously. The tree stood in the corner, decorated in soft pinks and greens—the same shades as Ivy’s room. The colors had probably been trendy when she was in high school. They still seemed to fit her, though. Handmade ribbons, mini volleyball and scissor ornaments, and framed family photos—pieces of Ivy’s past—adorned the tree. But one picture stood out above the rest.
Ivy and me.
I’d never seen this photo, but I knew exactly when Jaquelyn had taken it. She’d happened to be in town when I moved into my new place. A place Ivy had helped me pick out—a sprawling farmhouse and ranch on ten acres on the outskirts of Austin. A perfect fit for a family. For Ivy and me and our kids.
She was the only woman I could ever imagine having children with. And yet, the dang stubborn woman refused to see it—the farmhouse, the land, every inch of it. I bought it forus.Hell, she’d choseneverything—the cabinets, the flooring, every single fixture. The house had Ivy woven into its bones.
Did that send her any messages?
Any at all?
If not, maybe this picture would. I carefully lifted it off the tree and gazed at us, surrounded by boxes, sitting on the floor, exhausted because Ivy had convinced me we should do the packing and transporting together—even though I could have easily paid for professional movers. She said it would mean more if I did it myself.
I’d thought she was crazy—but she’d insisted. And she’d been right. But only because she’d been there with me. That entire day, it had felt like we were a couple moving into our first place together. And I had proof of it in my hands. There we were—her head resting on my shoulder, my head leaning on hers.
We looked like lovers, not friends.
If Ivy wanted to know why her mother thought we would end up together, all she had to do was look at this photo. The evidence was clear.
Now, to get her to see it.
Chapter Five
“Can men and women really just be friends? I do not think they can without one of them, or quite often both parties, developing a romantic intention or interest at some point.”
Iyabo Ojikutu, MD
Ivy
Isnuckintothekitchen early the next morning, fully ready for the day, hoping to get a moment alone to breathe and sip some hot cocoa.
There was just something about being up before everyone and taking in the sleepy kitchen of my childhood home. It feltmagical, lit up with the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights shining in the corner. I almost hated to flip on the rest of the lights to reveal the cavernous, yet vintage-inspired kitchen decked out with top-of-the-line appliances and an island so large it could fit all of us around it.
I tried to let the magic of the moment settle my soul. Sleeping in the same room with my best friend—who everyone thought was my boyfriend—was weirder than I’d expected. Probably because Jack was too good at this. He’d effortlessly slipped into the fake boyfriend role like he was born for it.
The worst part? He was so good, I almost believed it myself. And honestly, it wasn’t fair having the most attractive man in the world pretending to be in love with me. Every touch, every sweet word was already getting to me, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.
He just sounded so dang sincere. He sounded like Jack. Not Mr. Holiday. And I wasn’t a robot exempt from a sexy man’s touch.
I’d wondered from time to time over the years what it would be like to be more than Jack’s friend. Of course, I’d quickly doused those thoughts, knowing how dangerous they could be to our friendship. But now, I was getting a supersize sample of the situation, and I wasn’t as immune to it as I’d thought I’d be.
It didn’t help that last night he’d looked freaking amazing, waltzing out of the bathroom in just pajama pants, showing off his chiseled chest with the perfect amount of hair, wearing acome kiss me good nightgrin like I was one of hiscostars in a steamy scene. And dang if I didn’t want to take a taste, just to see if the rumors—that Mr. Holiday’s kiss could make you forget where you were in space and time—were true. But then I remembered that I valued our friendship too much to play with those emotions.
