I stare at the screen. The time glows back at me: 1:47 AM. Numbers. Clean. Logical. Numbers don't kiss you back, but they don't break your heart either.
Tokyo. The board. The deal.
The reality of my life crashes back in, washing away the fire and the scent of her.
I am Brooks Taylor. I have a plan. I have a deadline. I have a name to protect.
And Ivy Sullivan is a liability. She is a distraction. A beautiful, brilliant, intoxicating distraction who is here for eight weeks and not a second longer.
If I kiss her, I complicate everything. If I kiss her, I give her leverage. If I kiss her, I might not want to let her go when Labor Day comes, and I cannot afford that kind of weakness.
I stand up.
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess. My legs feel like concrete. My chest aches.
I look down at her. She is flushed, disheveled, clutching her wine glass like a shield. She looks hurt.
Good. Hurt is safe. Hurt keeps the distance.
"We have the story," I say. My voice is tight, clipped. Professional. "Rehearsal dinner. Grey suit. Shared ambition. It works."
Ivy blinks. I watch the vulnerability in her eyes harden into something cooler. She puts the mask back on.
"Right," she says, her voice flat. She scrambles to her feet, grabbing her notebook. "We're good. I should... I'm going to go to bed. I have to prep my wardrobe for the interview."
"Good idea," I say, turning away to check an email I don't care about. "Big day tomorrow."
She walks to the bathroom door. Her eyes are on my back. I wait for her to slam the door and the inevitable snarky comment.
She pauses.
"For the record," she says softly.
I don't turn around. "What?"
"It was a navy suit," she says. "At the wedding. You looked good in it."
The door clicks shut.
I stand there in the silence, staring at the dying fire, listening to the rain hammer against the roof.
I look down at my hands. They are shaking.
I pick up the orange Hermes notebook from the side table, the one she noticed, and throw it into the fireplace.
It burns bright and fast.
I turn off the lights and lie down on the couch. I told her I'd take the bed, but I can't. Not tonight.
If I sleep next to her tonight, I won't sleep at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IVY
The morning after you almost kiss your fake fiancé is, historically speaking, awkward.
The morning after your lips almost touch the man who is actively blackmailing you into a fraudulent engagement is a level of awkwardness that requires its own circle of hell.
