"I have a proposition for you. Why don't we work late tonight, dinner on Sparks, and you can take the day off when I fly out?" I want to be productive but I still don't need to instill bad habits into the fresh intern.
She smiles, nods yes, and hands me a stack of takeout menus from a desk drawe. Three of the five are for Thai restaurants—my favorite.
I feel like Olivia and I could be friends after this.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Holland
Slate hangs his headout the truck window, cracked enough for him to put his paws and head outside but not enough for him to jump out—that’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
We’re parked outside of arrivals, waiting for Ivy to walk out those glass doors. She texted about twenty minutes ago, saying she was waiting for her luggage.
I can’t wait to see my girl. It’s like Slate knows we’re waiting for her because he’s howling, in public, causing quite the scene—not the first time and won't be the last.
Between keeping the offer a secret and my routine being turned upside down with Ivy traveling for work, it’s like my bones don’t fit my skin. I told my therapist and she again reminded me of the anxiety and how keeping secrets is not in my best interest.
Believe me, I know.
Ever since I told Ivy about Hazel, the terrible trip home where I heard the news that would change my life forever, in detail, it's like a small door has opened, and I find myself sharing more. It might just be with Ivy, sometimes Bea, but each time makes me feel a little lighter—a little more like I can comfortably fit in my bones.
Slate tries to jump out the window and I know that he sees her. I hurry to the passenger side, before Slate chokes himself, open the door, grabbing the leash at the last moment.
She kneels down, on the questionable sidewalk, and let’s Slate run into her arms. People walking past her are looking at us with a mix of what the hell and how cute. I’ve got one foot in each camp.
“Slaaaaate,” Ivy croons and hearing her voice is like a cozy blanket—one that brings relief from a constant chattering of your teeth.
I take in the moment; it may not be soothing, like Hazel always taught me, but it’s one I want to remember. The sound of travel and traffic are in the background but seeing Ivy and Slate together like this, squeezes my heart.
I feel like when you date someone, there’s supposed to be those moments of doubts, questions you may or may not be able to answer. Truthfully, once she found her way into my soul, closed off and ice cold on its best day, it was over.
There’s no one else for me. And I fucking love it.
When she stands up, her green eyes are filled with tears, because she wouldn’t be my Ivy if it wasn’t a tearful hello.
Instead of saying anything, I reach for her hand and pull her close to me. Her lower lip shakes as she tries to smile and I put an end to that by putting my mouth on hers.
Her lips, soft as ever, feel like home. The grin taking over my lips is inevitable, and she laughs as I smile into our kiss. She wraps her arms around my neck, pushing her hips closer to me—Slate jumps up and down, getting both of our thighs.
I almost forget we’re in public until I hear someone whistle as they walk by. We’re those people. Never in a million years did I think I’d be someonewho elicits that kind of reaction outside an airport—both with Ivy and the stranger passing by.
“I missed you,” she says, looking up at me.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I reply, kissing her forehead and wrapping her up.
Slate, exhausted from theoverstimulation and car ride, sprints into the house as soon as I take his harness off. He finds his bed, does some lazy circles, and plops down.
“The hardest life,” Ivy jokes as we step inside. “I’m going to put all of this away.”
Not surprising—she’s the quickest unpacker I think I’ve ever met. Ivy takes her bag and heads for our room. I sit at the small table in our kitchen, thinking about the folded up check and offer sheet tucked away in a drawer. Having her and this piece of paper in the same place makes my skin hot.
I can't do this another minute. I have to tell her—come clean.
As soon as I make the decision, her voice cuts through my guilt trip. “Holland, why are you still downstairs?” she asks, her voice suggestive.
Fuck.
Taking the stairs, two at a time, I walk into our room to find Ivy wearing lingerie, kneeling on the bed, with her legs tucked under her ass. The emerald lace is a contrast to her milky skin and almost a perfect match to her eyes—the ones I could get lost in.
