Page 3 of When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday
Jack craned his head ever so slightly to face me, his expression unreadable but his confidence unwavering.
“Let me guess—he has plenty of male buddies who would be more than willing to take him to the airport. Or he could easily hire an Uber. But I bet he told you something along the lines ofhe wants to see you one more time before he leaves . . . and he has something to tell you.”
Annoyance prickled through me. Michael had said something along those lines. But that didn’t mean anything. Michael was like a brother to me. We’d lived in the same condo building for the last couple of years, and we bonded over our love for pickleball and OREOs.
We loved the cookies so much, we made videos ranking our favorite OREO flavors, testing out each new one as it hit the shelves and debating whether it was worthy of love or immediate rejection. Some of those posts had tens of thousands of views and comments. Probably because Michael was a hottie doctor.
Which reminded me.
“Many women adore Michael. He has a new date practically every week. Never once has he asked me out.”
Thank goodness. That would be awkward. While Michael was attractive and probably the nicest guy I’d ever met, Ididn’t have any romantic feelings for him. Not even one spark.
My revelation did nothing to wipe the smug look off Jack’s face. His expression only deepened with amusement.
“Does he ever see any of these women more than once?”
I bit my lip, reluctant to answer. If I admitted he didn’t, Jack would feel way too satisfied. But then I straightened my shoulders and stood tall—well, as tall as you could get when you’re five foot five.
“Well, no, but that’s because he’s focused on his work and his charitable causes.”
Jack leaned in ever so slightly, as if he were delivering a final blow. “Or he’s just waiting for you to come around.”
I shook my head, refusing to believe this conceited stranger. I didn’t care if he’d starred in some Netflix films and a few canceled sitcoms.
“Absolutely not. We’re just friends.”
Jack turned, a smirk playing on his lips. “I think I’ll have to agree with Oscar Wilde on this: ‘Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.’”
He quoted it like it was his personal mantra. (He still does, by the way.)
I crossed my arms. “Oscar Wilde didn’t say that. One of his characters did.”
Jack shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“It also doesn’t mean that itis. It’s a work of fiction.”
“Men and women being just friends is a work of fiction,” he countered.
I let out a short laugh. “Well, maybe in your world, Jack Holiday. But we mortals are just fine with the concept.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I’ll prove it to you.” The words slipped out before I fully thought them through.
Jack’s eyes danced in the mirror’s reflection, practically taunting me. “And how do you propose to do that, Ivy?”
I hesitated, scrambling for an answer. The need to prove him wrong swelled inside me, threatening to spill over. It was irrational to feel this way toward a stranger, but something about him crawled under my skin—like an itch I couldn’t ignore. And I needed to scratch it. Badly.
The man, as far as I was concerned, needed to be knocked down a few notches. And why I thought I should be the one to do it? I had no clue. But someone had to.
In my sea of irrational thoughts, this brilliant plan popped into my head and out of my mouth: “You know what, Jack? We’re going to be friends.Justfriends.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Jack’s fine features, like he hadn’t heard me or simply didn’t understand.
Oh, please let him not have heard me.I regretted the words instantly. I didn’t want to be friends with someone like Jack. Surely, he didn’t want to be friends with me either. I couldn’t imagine we had anything in common.
But then . . . something lit up in him, like I’d offered the challenge of a lifetime, and he couldn’t pass it up.
