"Absolutely not," Ivy says. "That sounds litigious."
She flips a page in the notebook, thinking.
"Okay," she says. "Serious version. We need a story that survives daylight."
I nod. "One that doesn't rely on the tackle."
"Correct." She taps the pen. "So here's the framework. We met through Mark and Laurie while they were planning the wedding. Professionally. Over months. That part is believable."
"It holds," I say.
"The wedding is when people noticed," she continues. "Not when it started."
"Important distinction."
"And if anyone insists on a moment," she says, "we give them one. Something quiet. Public. Unremarkable enough to be believed."
I lean back. "Laurie's bridal shower."
She glances up at me. "That works."
"It does," I say. "Set it."
Ivy closes her eyes, not to remember, but to assemble. When she opens them, she isn't looking at the notebook. She's looking at the fire.
"You were bored," she begins.
Her voice drops a register, becoming smoother. Storyteller mode. "It was three months before the wedding. The bar was crowded. You were standing in the corner, away from the toasts, checking your emails. You looked grumpy."
"I am rarely grumpy," I protest. "I am focused."
"You were scowling at an iPhone," she corrects. "You looked... separate. Like you were in the room, but not part of it. You were wearing a grey suit."
"Navy," I correct automatically. "I wore navy to the shower."
Ivy looks at me. Her gaze drops to my chest, then back up. "Grey," she insists. "Charcoal grey. With a blue tie. I remember."
I blink. Iwaswearing charcoal grey. I'd forgotten. But she remembered.
The suit color has no strategic value. It doesn't help her play the fiancée or impress my mother. She noticed it the way people notice things about someone they're actually paying attention to—not for the performance, but for the person underneath.
"Go on," I say quietly.
"I was behind the bar," she continues. "The florist had messed up the arrangements, peonies instead of ranunculus, and I was trying to fix a centerpiece before the bride noticed. I was muttering to myself. You looked up from your phone and asked if I was talking to the flowers."
"And what did you say?"
"I said, 'Someone has to encourage them, they're wilting under your negativity.'"
I smile. "That sounds exactly like something you'd say."
"And then you laughed," Ivy says. She shifts, turning her body toward me. "You put your phone away. You realized you were tired of looking at screens. You asked me if I wanted a drink. I told you I was working. You told me the bride wasn't looking."
She pauses. The rain drums harder against the roof, sealing us in.
"We sat on the patio," she says softly. "We missed the speeches. We talked for three hours. We talked about... everything."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The wine has made everything feel hazy, warm.
