“I don’t eat carbs, honey.”
Andi looks back at me. “What are carbs?”
A loud gasp draws our attention back to Ivy. “Carbs are the devil.” She looks down at Andi. “Something you should be very aware of. If you’re not careful, you could end up looking like Isabelle.”
Andi beams. “I hope so. She’s pretty.”
Ivy’s expression tells me everything I need to know about her. She hasn’t changed. Not one bit. As a matter of fact, she may be even more judgmental than she was in high school.
“So, pizza?” I ask, holding up the box.
Ivy’s head pops up and a smile appears. A big fake one. “Sure, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
Choosing not to overthink her words, I walk around her toward the front door. I push it open and let the girls go first. When they’re through, I follow them in, shutting the door as I go. “Andi, grab some plates, would ya?”
“Sure, Daddy.”
While we set the plates, silverware, and glasses out, Ivy walks around my living room looking at our things. “You keep a tidy house.” Then she laughs. “Or should I say Janine keeps a tidy house.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m surprised little miss perfect, Izzy Harmon, isn’t over here showing you what a good wifey she’d be.” She smirks. “It must be true, then. The wedding’s off?”
I choose to ignore her comments because she has no idea what she’s talking about. Even before Bruce’s accident, I’d never think of Isabelle as a typical farm wife. No, she’s a farmer. A good one.
“Isabelle tried to dust, but Daddy got mad.” I didn’t even hear her approach, the sneaky little ninja. “But she told Daddy—”
“Andi.” I interrupt her before she says something we can’t come back from. “Time to eat.”
“Yay!” my kid cheers. “I’m hungry. Come on, birth mother, let’s eat.”
Oh, shit. I want to laugh, but when I look over at Ivy’s face, it’s all pinched and perturbed. “Birth mother?” she asks me.
I shrug. What can I say to that? “Let’s eat.”
And we do. Well, Andi and I do. Ivy just picks at the small slice I set on her plate. “How many pieces is that for you, Andrea?”
“Andi,” I correct her. Again.
She shrugs. “Three or four.”
“I think that’s enough. You’ll regret it when you get fat.”
Andi stops midchew. She looks at me, then at Ivy. It’s like I can see the wheels turning in her pretty little head. And I don’t like where they’re going. Slowly, she places the remaining piece of pizza back on her plate. She grabs a napkin like she’s going to wipe her mouth, but I can see her pushing the bite out.
“Eat your food, baby girl. You work hard on the farm every day. You need to eat for energy.” I point my thumb at Ivy. “She’s only talking about people who sit on their butts all day.” I side-eye Ivy after that last sentence. Because that’s what Ivy does. Or what she used to do, but I assume that hasn’t changed. She sits while she does her nails or redoes her makeup for the twentieth time, and she sits when she watches the boob tube. Ivy DeLucas is a sitter. Even with my words, Andi still uses the napkin to hide the bite she just spit out. It fucking pisses me off.
Andi looks at me. Her brows are furrowed with worry. “But Isabelle works hard and she’s still fat.”
Okay, that’s it. I’m fucking pissed. “Andi, you’re done. Go get your shower and get in bed. And you”—I point at Ivy—“go home.”
Simultaneously, they both say, “B-but….” Andi adds, “Daddy” and Ivy says, “Nash.”
“Now!” I shout at Andi and point toward the hallway. “I’ll talk to you in a minute. As soon as yourbirth motherleaves.”
Andi doesn’t wait. She jumps out of her chair and runs toward her bedroom. I can’t tell if she’s crying, but my guess is I scared her enough to cause tears.
I watch Ivy stand and grab her purse. “What didIdo?” she snaps as she click-clacks to the door in her high fucking heels. Jesus, who wears high heels on a farm? Ivy DeLucas, that’s who.
