"Lust," she says, grinning. "Plays better."
I nod. "It does."
I take her hand, threading our fingers together, and steer her toward one of the side paths that cuts behind the hedges. No announcement. No audience. A clean exit the staff is trained not to question.
The party noise fades behind us as we cross the lawn at a brisk walk, the music dissolving into night air and cicadas. When we reach the small service drive, I signal to the on-call driver stationed there for exactly this kind of discretion. He opens the door without comment.
Ivy laughs as she slips off her heels and slides into the car, barefoot and unburdened. As we pull away, my phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don't look.
I glance at Ivy, flushed and radiant, hair loose, ring catching stray light.
My phone buzzes again. Three times. Four.
I reach down and turn it off.
CHAPTER NINE
IVY
There is nothing quite as humbling, or as spiritual, as eating a double cheeseburger in a couture emerald silk gown while sitting on the hood of a black SUV.
The driver is inside Marvin's, eating at a corner table with his back to the window. Out here, it's us and the neon.
The burger joint, Marvin's, is a Hamptons anomaly. It is a roadside diner situated precariously between a Tesla dealership and a luxury surf shop. It has flickering neon lights that buzz with a menacing electric hum, grease-stained paper bags that turn transparent upon contact. It smells of salt, exhaust, and fried onions.
It's paradise.
I take a bite that is arguably too large for polite society, close my eyes, and groan.
"Good?" Brooks asks.
I open my eyes. He is sitting next to me on the hood of the car, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed. His tuxedo jacket has been discarded in the backseat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that have no business being thatdistracting, and his bow tie is undone, hanging loose around his collar like he's the lead in a romance novel cover shoot.
He is holding a vanilla milkshake and looking at me with a mix of amusement and something darker, something I can't quite place.
"Good is an understatement," I say, wiping a smudge of ketchup from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand because I refuse to risk the silk. "This is a religious experience, Brooks. If I could marry this burger, I would. I'd tackle a groomsman for it. I'd write it into my will."
Brooks chuckles, the sound low and rich in the night air. He takes a slow sip of his shake.
"I'm jealous," he says. "I don't think you've ever looked at me with that much adoration. And I'm the one paying for the burger."
"You're delicious, Brooks, but you're not a carb."
He freezes mid-sip. He lowers the cup slowly, turning his head to look at me. His eyebrows are raised, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm delicious?" he asks.
I freeze mid-chew.
My brain replays the words on a loop, cranking up the volume each time. Did I just call the client—the blackmailer, the enemy, the man whose reputation I am contractually obligated to save—delicious?
"I meant... financially," I stumble, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, hotter than the grill inside Marvin's. "You know. Rich. Asset-rich. A delicious portfolio. Liquid assets. Diversified bonds."
"Right," Brooks says, his voice dropping an octave. The smirk widens into a grin. "My portfolio."
He reaches into the paper bag sitting between us, pulls out a fry, and eats it. He does it slowly, maintaining eye contactthe entire time. It is the most aggressive act of french fry consumption I have ever witnessed.
The air between us, which had been light and fun and fueled by the adrenaline of the gala, suddenly thickens. It feels heavy. Charged.
