“Choose your words carefully, Emmanuel Kofi.”
He’s still smiling, but he promptly shuts up.
Admittedly, the game is something I haven’t thought about in years. Ivy’s willingness to play only makes me surer of her curiosity about me.
A curiosity I intend to use.
“You like that I have secrets,” I say, confident. I’ve a knack for knowing what women want, and I’d bet on being right. Despite her sharp edges, both now and last time, there’s a reason she asked about me.
It’s easy to hook my foot around the leg of her stool and pull her closer. Watch her eyes darken. “Does it make you want to peer into my dark corners? Strip me down until you know me?” It’s what I’d like to do to her.
She swallows before speaking, and I wonder if she’d deny the blush on her cheeks if I pointed it out.
“I forgot you were like this,” she says, breaking eye contact but not moving away from me.
It’s clear she’s at ease here, even without her current sartorial choices. The gray joggers and black T-shirt are a far cry from the cocktail dress and heels I remember her in, but as I imagine every piece of material gifted with gracing her body must do, it flatters her toned arms, the strong curve of her hips and arse, and the firm plain traversing the area between.
She looks grab-able. Like she can handle being tossed around. Like she’d like it.
Manny slides her a fresh drink, and as soon as it’s within reach, Ivy downs half of it in one go. A classic case of “it’s all gone tits up” if ever I saw one.
“All right, what’s the story, then?” I ask. “The one that explains why a beautiful woman is trying to drown her sorrows.”
“There’s no story,” Ivy says, but her gaze hasn’t left the half-empty glass in front of her, the glass gripped tightly in her hand. “I got fired this week and wanted to soak my sorrows at the nearest bar. Since I live upstairs, you do the math.”
Does she now? “Good to know.”
Sharing a flat with the wanker for ten years means I can read everything Manny’s not saying from a yard away. Right now, his expression saysdon’t mess around where you live, and when I smile back, it’s followed quickly byfine, but you better not mess it up.
“And I know there’s a million more important things I should be doing,” Ivy continues, unaware of our silent conversation. “Like updating the résumé I haven’t opened since college, but I just… It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Do you know I started working at Helix as an intern?” I shake my head. “Well, I did. I hadn’t even graduated yet, but they offered me the position, and I thought, why not? It’s just for a little while. Then one year led into the next, until eight years had gone by and now, I’m being booed off the stage.” She pushes the empty glass away, frowning down at her hands.
“Why the rush to jump back in, then?” I ask. “You’re allowed to take some time for yourself.”
She looks incredulous. “Oh, you know how landlords are, always expecting the rent to be paid.”
Farther down the bar, Manny coughs to hide his laugh, but he can keep his flappy ears to himself.
I change tack, turning on the stool to face her directly. “All right, then. Eight years. Why did you stay?”
Ivy rolls her shoulders, pulling her straight black hair up into a bun, exposing the bird tattoo that’s been teasing me. Turtle doves. How sweet. Somewhere in there hides a romantic.
Then she’s turning her big brown eyes on me, and the need to press my lips to her skin, to taste her, claim her, runs like a rapid in my veins. But I meant what I said to Manny. I want more than a night.
“I didn’t survive years of my mother’s exhaustive lectures to throw away a paycheck for no reason,” she says. Ah, money. I should have guessed.
“Unhappiness is a reason.”
Frustration twists Ivy’s mouth, but I have the sense she’s arguing with herself, not me. “Everyone’s unhappy at work. What makes me so special?” She raises a finger at me. A tiny wrinkle dimples her nose as she pouts. It’s adorable. “Don’t answer that.”
There’s a story here. One she’s practically tripping over herself to tell, even as she holds herself back.Beneath her soft clothes and natural suspicion, there’s an ache for adventure.
Christ, I want to undo her.
“What am I saying?” She slides the empty glass away from her. “From what I’ve heard, you avoid work like the plague.”
It’s an old wound. One she cannot know is regularly poked at by my own kin. But it stings, nonetheless, knowing she sees me that way. On instinct, I find myself staring back down at the invitation I’ve been ignoring. “I know enough,” I say. “What are you searching for?”
She bows out of whatever internal fight she’s having, letting out a sigh. “Do you ever think about all the versions of yourself that you never became and wonder if they’re out there somewhere?” she asks, twisting the glass this way and that under unadorned fingers. “All these lives unlived, unknown to us. What if I chose the wrong one? I just keep thinking about all the choices I didn’t make. What if I’d never taken the job? Maybe I’ve spent eight years doing the wrong thing and I never realized it. Maybe I would have met the love of my life by now instead of living on autopilot and rationing my free time like a chipmunk during winter.”
