Page 1 of When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday
Prologue
“Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.”
Oscar Wilde
Ivy
HowdidImeetJack Holiday, or Mr. Holiday, as most people call him? This question never stops. You know who he is, right? Of course you do. Everyone does. King of the silver screen, box office gold, sexiest man alive—according to every majorpublication.
But to me? Mr. Holiday is just Jack. The guy who waters my plants when I’m out of town and shows up with ice cream and cookies when PMS strikes or heartbreak hits. In other words, he’s my best friend.
So, how did this come to be? Well, it started seven years ago in a hair salon of all places. It’s true. This was back before he hit itreallybig—though, let’s be honest, he already had an ego the size of his home state of Texas. Which, for the record, is where I was living. And still am.
My aunt Jane owns a salon in Austin—one that will be mine someday. For now, I manage it. But when I met Jack, he was twenty-seven, and I was just twenty-four, still styling hair on the floor at Muse and Mane. I wasn’t even supposed to be working the day he walked in.
He’d been in plenty of times before—almost on a weekly basis. Like I said: He was full of himself. But I’d always ignored him. Meanwhile, everyone else—stylists, customers, delivery guys, probably the HVAC tech—fawned over him like he was God’s gift to humankind.
Everyone called himMr. Holidaybecause that was his shtick.
“Just call me Mr. Holiday,” he’d say.
You would think people would be turned off by that, but oh, no. They melted at his feet. And he ate it up like a five-course meal.
But on that day, Jack wasn’t exactly basking in the adoration. In fact, he was irate. Gloria, one of the major fawners, got a little too distracted by him, and she mixed his color allwrong, turning his normally golden-brown locks a delightful shade of Garfield orange.
He was dyeing it for a role. The role of a lifetime, actually. A big-budget action thriller calledShadow Protocol—the one that eventually launched Jack into everyone’s orbit.
But not with that hair.
(By the way, I have pictures of his orange hair. I keep them around to try to keep Jack humble and remind him that once upon a time I saved him from looking like an orange construction cone.)
Does it keep him humble? Please. Jack has now fully convinced himself that no one—and I mean no one—has ever pulled off orange hair better than he did.
Well, that cocky attitude was in major panic mode that day, and poor Gloria thought for sure she was going to get fired. I’d just happened to drop by because I’d forgotten my favorite lip gloss that belonged in my purse, not at work. Ladies, you know how your lip glosses being in the wrong place can throw off your entire rhythm. The wrong shade at the wrong time is just chaos.
Anyway, while I was getting said lip gloss, and noticing the disaster going on in Gloria’s booth—and, okay, snapping some pictures as sneakily as possible—Gloria came running up to me in tears.
“Please, please, please help me, Ivy,” she begged. “You’re the best hair colorist in the salon. You have to fix his hair.”
She waved erratically in Jack’s direction.
I peeked over her shoulder, and Jack was standing, beet red in the face, staring into the mirror, looking like he mightpuke. I had to say, I kind of took some pleasure in it. So much so, I was going to decline. I felt like Jack needed to be brought down a few notches. But . . . my aunt intervened.
Aunt Jane pulled me aside. Beautiful and sassy Aunt Jane, my dad’s little sister who never had kids of her own and treated me and my three older siblings like her children. Everyone said we looked alike with our dark wavy hair and bright-blue eyes. The blue eyes were a Wells trait.
“Ivy, I know how much you say you can’t stand him,” Jane whispered with a glint of mischief in her eyes, as if I were just putting on an act and had secretly succumbed to the man.
Honestly, it was no act. I couldn’t stand Jack Holiday, or men like him in general. Sure, he was beautiful, with his classic leading-man look—tall, athletic, and effortlessly charming, with striking green eyes and a strong jawline. But it was apparent he wanted to be worshipped, and I, for one, would not give him the pleasure.
“I can’t stand him,” I drove that point home.
Jane sighed, clearly exasperated. “Okay, honey. Anyway—Mr. Holiday is going places.”
(Even my aunt had been taken in by his charm. Honestly, who goes around asking people to call youMr.Holiday?)
“He’s already brought some heavy hitters here in Austin through this salon—mysalon, and somedayyours,” she reminded me. “Can you imagine what he’s going to tell people if we—meaningyou—don’t fix this?”
Jane may have never raised kids, but she knew how to guilt-trip like only a mom could.
