The thought pulls a slow grin across my face. I’m already looking forward to my next encounter with Ivy.
***
After the massage, I go looking for Ivy everywhere. But it’s like the ground swallowed her whole—she’s nowhere to be found.
Disappointed, I head for my car in the parking garage.
Okay. New strategy.
With a sigh, I unlock her phone. I make a point not to snoop—nothing personal—but I open her contacts. One name is marked as an emergency contact.
Sloane.
I tap it.
The phone rings once before someone picks up. “Oh my god, Ivy, did you already meet any hot hockey players?”
I blink. “…Hi,” I say, automatically amused. “This is not Ivy.”
Silence.
Then, without missing a beat: “Wow. Okay. Either you stole her phone, or this just got way more interesting than I expected.”
“I found it,” I say. “I’m calling to return it. You were listed as her emergency contact.”
“Oh.” A pause. Then, brightly, “That’s very nice of you. We can meet up, and I’ll make sure Ivy gets it back before she stages a full-scale meltdown.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We agree to meet at a Starbucks not far from here. I hang up and drive over, parking my very conspicuous sports car a block away. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel like being recognized today.
And after my initial eagerness to see Ivy again and return her phone personally, doubt creeps in. She might not take too kindly to knowing I was her so-called savior. I wasn’t exactly… gentle with her.
So maybe anonymous is better. For now.
Maybe I’ll get to know her a little first. Prove I’m not a complete ass.
Then—when the timing’s right—I’ll tell her.
Ease her into it.
The thought pulls a smile from me as I head toward our meeting point.
A woman approaches the Starbucks, scanning the sidewalk like she’s on a mission.
She spots me immediately.
Wild, curly hair. Sunglasses pushed into her hair. The kind of confidence that says she doesn’t take any bullshit.
“You must be Phone Guy,” she says, stopping in front of me.
“I’ve been called worse,” I reply, lifting the phone in question.
Her face lights up. “Bless you. Truly. Ivy is probably five minutes away from filing a missing persons report on this thing.”
I hand it over. She flips it in her palm, checking the screen like she’s greeting a long-lost pet.
“So,” she says casually, “where’d you find it?”
