“Quit with that, Holland. I see you all the time," she lovingly snaps over her shoulder. Ivy laughs and it echoes in the lobby.
“Any fun stories about the city? How is Vivian? Is she dating anyone? We’ve been texting, did she tell you?” Ivy watches Bea with love in her eyes.
We slide into a booth, Ivy and Bea sitting next to each other, and me across. Without being asked, the bartender sees Ivy and immediately brings over a mug of fresh hot chocolate with a small dish with anything and everything you may want to add to your cup: marshmallows, sprinkles,peppermint sticks, butterscotch chips, a ramekin full of caramel, and another full of whipped cream.
Everyone knows Ivy is a sugar fiend. She’s also the reason we put the hot chocolate on the restaurant menu, and added the mini bar for guests to add whatever they’d like. Ivy tested it out one day while I was running an event and she was working on some stuff for Sparks in the restaurant. Not only do guests love it, but it’s one of the things they post most about reviews when they stay at the lodge, or at least that’s what Ivy tells me. I stay off the internet as much as possible.
After we place our lunch orders, Bea says, “Tell me everything about the event.”
Ivy’s shoulders immediately slump, as she rolls her head side to side, stretching her neck. “It’s been a mess.” The light falls from her face. “No matter what, anything that can go wrong has. I feel like I may not be the person for this thing.” Her voice dwindles almost to a whisper as the sentence trails. She seems to slump further into the booth.
This reminds me so much of our first night here—how she reacted when that drunk idiot Royce Jones came in, making her uncomfortable. My blood pumps thinking about how what he did later was much worse, forcing himself on Ivy, while I was in the other room.
It also reminds me how Bea has the knack for getting someone to talk about anything. She's been at the lodge, and damn near part of my family, for twenty-seven years—we just celebrated her anniversary last week.
Between hot chocolate refills, Ivy launches into the saga which is a long list of unfortunate events and mishaps—everything from rice sculptures, invitation delays, and people backing out of committed work. She does this thing where she rolls her eyes and makes an excuse for someone else, claiming responsibility, when it’s nowhere near her fault.
My heart stings while I take in this version of Ivy. The one I haven’t seen in a minute—shrinking, doubtful, and ridiculously hard on herself. My own shoulders slump as I think about the secret I’m keeping, how I need to tell Ivy. How I need her to help me make this decision.
She’s got so much going on, I don’t want to pile on more to my girl who is already struggling to stand. Maybe I wait until the event is over? We can talk about it when she’s home, for good. That seems like the best course of action.
I hope.
CHAPTER TEN
Ivy
4 DAYS UNTIL REDCARPET EVENT
I’m walking the red carpet, my hair slinking down my shoulder, pulled to one side with a jeweled barrette. It’s finally here and I feel like I can breathe a little. The paparazzi is out, just like we’d hoped, as people start to arrive.
I go to take a step, but my shoes aren’t quite right, as the back slips off my heel—they might be a half size too big. How did I miss that? The toes of my high heels keep kicking the front of my dress, which now seems like it’s a bit too long. I roll out my shoulders, making sure the top of my dress isn’t caught on something—making sure it’s on right.
My hands go to brush the front of the dress and the crimson red polish is chipped on one finger. How in the world? I just got this gel manicure yesterday; there’s no way it’s already chipping. While I look closer at the nail in question, little fucking traitor, I almost trip because my dress really is too long.
The sounds of clicking cameras are loud in my ears, followed by laughs and snickers from others on the carpet. My almost fall didn’t go unnoticed. I take in a deep breath, trying to soothe my racing heart, but instead, I choke on air. I try to cover my mouth as fast as I can but the cough isoffensively loud and if people missed my earlier discretion, theydefinitelyheard this.
I try to focus on something at the end of the walk. My brain needs a focal point before I lose any of the remaining composure I have left. Someone turns around, tall and wearing a designer suit, and it’s like he moves in slow motion. When he sees me, his mouth creeps up into a grin which is too wide for his face.
Royce.
I gasp and feel the color leave my face.
When Royce takes a quick step towards me, I lean back and almost stumble. I go to turn and walk back to where I came from, anywhere but here. I can’t be here with him. He’s supposed to be in jail. This time, my heels get caught in my dress and I do fall on my hands and knees.
As I’m trying to catch my breath, a hand grips my upper arm—trying to pick me up.
And then my eyes snap open.
“Ivy,” Holland says, words deliberate and firm. “You’re having a nightmare… I think.” He moves hair from my forehead, his thumb ending up on my jaw, slowly moving back and forth. I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. The blood pounds through my anxious veins.
It was all a dream. I let out a slow breath and let my head fall back on my pillow. “What time is it?” I ask, after I’ve gotten myself together enough to form a coherent sentence. Holland’s golden eyes, like honey, ground me even further.
“It’s 6 AM. I’m going to the lodge–I know you wanted to work this morning. This place is all yours.” He kisses my forehead. “There’s breakfast downstairs and butterscotch cake on the counter. Don’t be afraid to eatreal food before the sugar.” Holland shakes his head but he’s the one who helps feed this sugar addiction.
“You’re too good to me.”
“When you’re ready for lunch, come by the lodge,” Holland suggests as he stands from the bed. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a light blue long sleeve, the one that’s soft and has the waffle texture I like so much.
