"There's no point—"
Matt leans in close, voice dropping. "You sure about that? Because Carter's been talking about 'wearing Ivy down' all week. You really want to leave her dealing with that alone?"
I glance over. Carter's already got his shirt off, practicing what he calls his 'sex face' in the window reflection.
"She can handle herself," I mutter, but my fists are clenching.
"Sure," Matt agrees easily. "But should she have to?"
Goddammit.
He's right. Carter's the type of guy who doesn't understand the word 'no' when he's sober, let alone drunk. And Ivy's too nice to tell him to fuck off properly.
"Ten bucks says I get her number," Carter announces to the group. "Twenty says she's not sleeping alone."
Fuck. She's not mine, but tell that to the fucking animal pacing in my chest.
"Fine," I growl, standing up. "But I'm keeping my clothes on."
"So that's five of us," Jefferson counts, then smirks. "Unless anyone wants to go wake up Wyatt and his convenient migraine? Though I guess one ass-kicking from Matt this week was enough for him."
"Leave him," Matt says, voice hard. "He's lucky a headache is all he's nursing after the way he has been acting all week."
I knock back the rest of my whiskey, the burn matching the heat crawling up my neck. This is stupid. This whole night is stupid. And I'm about to do something even stupider.
Because Ivy deserves better than Carter's brand of attention, and even drunk me knows that. Hell, especially drunk me knows that. And, if I'm being honest, I want to see her. When I'm around her, everything else fades away—the noise in my head, the constant pressure, all of it. Maybe that's selfish, but it's the most honest thing I've felt all night.
"This is the bestworst idea you've ever had," I snicker, stumbling after the guys through the estate's east wing. The whiskey's hitting just right, making everything funnier than it should be. We'd spent twenty minutes in Jefferson's room, practicing what he called, "the ultimate strip routine," but looked more like a bunch of drunk frat boys having seizures.
"Formation, little bro!" Matt whisper-shouts, yanking me behind some potted plants. I nearly knock one over, catching it while trying not to laugh too loud. The fancy parlor's been transformed into something between a spa retreat and a sorority party gone wrong.
Sarah and Ivy's voices ring out, completely off-key but full of drunk conviction.
"Holy shit," Dean breathes, taking in the scene.
I peek around Matt's shoulder, both of us barely containing our laughter. Mary's passed out on a velvet chaise lounge, mouth open, one arm dangling toward a cocktail glass. Someone's drawn a handlebar mustache on her face with what looks like liquid eyeliner, andthere's a tiara perched crookedly on her head. Meanwhile, Delilah's dancing on the coffee table, red curls bouncing.
"Magnolia would have a stroke," Jefferson snickers, already unbuttoning his dress shirt. He'd made us all change and practice taking them offseductively, which mostly resulted in Matt getting tangled in his sleeves.
"Look at my girl," my brother whispers, and I follow his gaze to where she's dancing with Ivy. Sarah's wearing a barely-there silk slip under her pink robe that has him drooling, while Ivy . . .Christ.Her robe's falling open to reveal a vintage-style cami that hits all her curves right, making my mouth go dry.
"Is Virginia throwing up?" Dean squints.
I glance over to where she's hunched over a clay plant pot, mascara streaking down her face as she heaves.
"Hit it!" Jefferson yells, and the whiskey makes me forget why this was ever a bad idea. A Britney song kicks in through Dean's portable speaker, and we're all moving like a synchronized disaster of epic proportions. My body remembers the ridiculous routine we practiced, even if my dignity's begging me to stop.
I nail the spin and catch Ivy's eye mid-turn. She's doubled over on the sofa arm, tears streaming down her face, and something about her laughter makes me want to be even more ridiculous. So I do, throwing myself into the next move with Matt, both of us attempting body rolls. Dean's two beats behind everyone, Carter's aggressively thrusting at thin air, and Jefferson's treating this like his Broadway debut.
"Take it off!" Ivy shouts, and I miss the next move. She's leaning forward now, eyes sparkling. "You too, Miller! Don't be shy!"
"You couldn't handle my signature moves, Shortcake!" I call back.
But I'm saved from proving how uncoordinated I am because Sarah's champagne goes flying, and Matt breaks formation, stalking toward her. His fingers fumble at his shirt before he justrips, and the sound of expensive fabric tearing mingles with delighted shrieks, buttons scattering across the hardwood.
"Oh my god," she wheezes, clutching her sides as he flexes dramatically. When he turns around, she smacks his ass, causing him to yelp and almost fall over. "You're still the worst dancer I've ever seen."
"Babe," Matt grins, pulling her close until they're chest to chest, "you love my moves."
