I slip the card into my pocket, knowing I’ll never look at it again, and glance at Ivy.
Patricia appears to escort Cassandra out. The door closes behind them. Ivy’s professional demeanor softens, but tensiontightens her shoulders. Not that it’s anything new. Things have been tense between us since the motorcycle ride. I look at the table I’d fucked her on. It probably didn’t help that I admitted to her yesterday that I wanted to do it again.
“Well,” she says, her shoulders dropping as she exhales a slow breath. “That was intense.”
“You were perfect,” I tell her, meaning it. “Thank you.”
“For playing my part?” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“We all wear masks when necessary," I say, thinking of how many I’ve worn myself. I stand and stride to the mahogany liquor cabinet. “Let’s celebrate. I’ll make you a Blackstone Fashion.”
“A Blackstone Fashion.” She licks her lips, and I swear, I feel it on my dick. “That sounds delicious.”
I busy myself with making our drinks, so she can’t see how she’s affecting me. Once I’m certain my slacks aren’t tenting, I bring our glasses to the table by the window.
We drink in silence, watching the sun set. The interview pressure ebbs only to be replaced by that raw magnetic pull that’s been there since the first moment I saw her—unavoidable and damned inconvenient.
After a moment, Ivy sets her glass down with a soft click. “I noticed she seemed interested in you.” Her tone is casual, but I hear an edge to it.
I wave a hand. “It’s a common tactic,” I reply dismissively. “Flattery to extract information.”
“Mmm.” She traces the rim of her glass with one finger. “And the phone number? Also, a tactic?”
The corner of my mouth quirks upward, unable to suppress my grin. “Jealous, Ms. West?"
Her brows draw together slightly, a small furrow appearing between them. “Curious, Mr. Blackstone. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I take another sip of bourbon, studying her over the rim of my glass.
“Professional curiosity,” she insists. “Your reputation preceded you, after all.”
“Ah. My reputation.” I set my glass down. “And which version have you heard?”
“The one where Thorne Blackstone leaves a trail of broken hearts from Louisville to Quebec.” She says it lightly, but there’s a question beneath the statement.
“That version is... outdated,” I admit, surprised that it’s not the line I’m feeding to her but the truth.
“Is it?”
Our gazes lock, and for a moment, I think she might say more, might push past the careful boundaries we’ve been maintaining since our night in the garage and in this room, where I can still see her splayed across that very table, her hair wild around her shoulders.
Instead, she glances at her watch. “I should check on Madison. To fill her in on how it went.”
I nod, the moment evaporating like the angel’s share of bourbon in the barrel —slowly, invisibly, and impossible to recover.
She walks to the door but pauses before opening it. “About that club Lillianna mentioned yesterday. The one with Three Pence playing?”
“Tipsy. What about it?” I ask.
“Will you be there?” The question is direct, challenging almost.
I lean into my chair, studying her. Dave's name surfaces instantly, unbidden. The asshole who couldn't wait to see her. Going to Tipsy means watching that play out up close, which is what I should want. But the part inside me that's growingstronger every day wants something else entirely and might break the fucker's nose.
“I doubt it,” I say, even as my body rebels against the words. “That’s really not my scene anymore. ”
A flash of disappointment crosses her face, quickly masked. “Right. Of course.”
I should leave it at that. Maintain the distance I’ve been trying to establish. Instead, I ask, “Do you want me there?”
