"Boring," Ivy mutters. "But fine."
The valet opens the door. I step out and offer my hand to Ivy. She takes it. Her skin is cool, her grip firm.
"Clause 4," she whispers as I pull her out of the car.
"I know the rules," I mutter back, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm.
We walk up the steps. The club is a sea of white tablecloths, navy blazers, and old money. Heads turn as we pass. I nod to a few people, investors, board members, neighbors I've ignored for years.
"Smile," I murmur. "You're in love."
Ivy flashes a grin that is dazzling, convincing, and completely terrifying. "I'm delighted to be here," she says through her teeth. "I hope your mother doesn't eat me."
"She prefers her meals cooked," I assure her.
We reach the terrace. My mother is sitting at the best table, naturally. It has a view of the ocean, is shaded by a blue-and-white striped umbrella and is far enough from the bar to avoid the noise but close enough to see who's drinking too much.
Betty Taylor is sixty-five, looks fifty, and acts like royalty. She is wearing cream silk and a look of mild disapproval.
My father, Preston, is next to her, reading the Wall Street Journal on an iPad. He looks up as we approach, his expression unreadable.
"Mother. Father," I say.
Betty turns her gaze on us. It's like being scanned by an MRI machine. She looks at my bandage. She looks at Ivy's dress. Then, her gaze drops instantly to Ivy's left hand.
The bare left hand.
Ivy stiffens beside me. We missed a step. We were so busy arguing about the bedroom that we forgot the hardware.
Betty's eyebrow arches, a silent, lethal question mark.
"Brooks," she says. Her voice is crisp, like dry champagne. "You're three minutes late. And I see you've forgotten something."
"Traffic on the LIE," I lie smoothly, pulling out a chair for Ivy. "And if you mean the ring, it's currently with the jeweler. The setting was loose. I'm not risking a family heirloom until it's secure."
It's a flimsy lie, but it holds.
"Prudent," Betty concedes, though her eyes linger on Ivy's naked finger for a second too long.
"Mother, Father, this is Ivy Sullivan. My fiancée."
Ivy sits down with a grace that surprises me. She doesn't fidget. She folds her hands in her lap, hiding the ringless finger, and smiles.
"Mrs.Taylor, Mr.Taylor," she says warmly. "It's lovely to finally meet you. Brooks has told me so much about Eastmoor. The drive in was breathtaking."
My father nods. "Good to meet you, Ivy. Brooks tells us you're in... management?"
"Events," Ivy corrects smoothly. "I own a boutique planning firm. Ever After, Inc."
"A party planner," my mother says. She says it the way one might say a contagious disease.
"We specialize in high-end logistics and crisis management," Ivy says, unruffled. "Most of our clients are in finance or law. People who don't have time to manage the details, but demand perfection in the execution."
It's a clean pivot.I solve problems for people like you.
My mother hums, lifting her iced tea. "And your family, dear? Are they in New York?"
"My father was in logistics as well," Ivy says.
