But there, dominating the center of the open room, is the problem.
A bed.
A massive, four-poster, California King bed.
It is piled high with crisp white duvets and enough throw pillows to suffocate a small army. The frame is dark mahogany, sturdy and imposing. It looks soft. It looks luxurious.
It looks like a trap. I scan the room for alternatives. A couch. A daybed. A chaise lounge I could curl up on. Nothing. Just one bed, centered, impossible to avoid.
"One bed," I say, my voice flat. "Let me guess. Your mother arranged the accommodations?"
"Probably," Brooks admits, walking in and dropping his suitcase by the door. He walks over to the bed and pokes the mattress. "She wants grandkids. She thinks forcing proximity accelerates the process."
"Well, she's wrong," I say, dropping my bag on the floor with a thud. "This accelerates nothing but my desire to commit a second felony."
Brooks checks his watch and swears softly. "We don't have time for this. It's 12:50. If we're late, she'll eat you alive."
"I need to freshen up," I protest. "I've been in a car for three hours."
“You look fine,” Brooks says. He shrugs into his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels. “Actually, you look perfect. Which is annoying.”
I blink, thrown off balance by the compliment, however backhanded it was.
He turns to the door. "Leave the bags. We have to go. Smile, darling. The curtain is going up."
I look at the bed one last time, that massive, unavoidable expanse of white linen, and swallow.
"Fine," I mutter, following him out. "But tonight, I'm building a pillow wall."
CHAPTER SIX
BROOKS
The silence in the SUV on the way to the club is heavy enough to crush a lesser vehicle.
Ivy is staring out the window, her posture rigid. She's wearing sunglasses that are too big for her face, likely borrowed from Savvy, and clutching her purse like it contains state secrets.
I'm trying not to look at her. Specifically, I am trying not to look at the stretch of bare leg exposed when the slit in her white linen dress falls open, or the way the fabric drapes over her shoulders. It is proving difficult. She smells like vanilla, a scent that is rapidly filling the confined space of the SUV.
I shift in the leather seat, adjusting my suit jacket.
I rub my temple. The concussion is a dull roar in the background, muffled by painkillers and adrenaline.
"We're here," I say as the car pulls up to the valet stand of the Southampton Beach Club.
Ivy takes a deep breath. She turns to me, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. Her eyes are wide, but clear. She looks like a soldier checking her parachute before a jump.
"Okay," she says. "The mother. Betty. Give me the dossier."
"She's not a spy target, Ivy."
"She's a hostile entity. Give me the intel."
I sigh. "She values pedigree, punctuality, and pearls. She hates loud laughter, public displays of emotion, and people who don't know which fork to use. She will ask you about your family. Keep it vague. She will ask about your education. Tell the truth; she can background check you. And she will ask about the wedding."
"Our wedding?"
"Yes. We're aiming for June. The Plaza. Black tie. Classic."
