Page 18 of Fighting

“Hey, you leave Mom’s cooking out of this,” I cry, debating whether it’s too early to dig into the leftovers. “Anyway, like I was saying…” I really lay this on thick for my sister’s amusement. Or my own. Same difference. “I need to know what Nessa told you about us before I see her. Spill it, girlfriend,” I say, affecting a feminine lilt.

“There’s no tea to spill. She thinks what she always has. That you’re a dumb playboy who thinks too highly of himself and has too much money?—”

“And who’s amazing in bed and made her come?—”

“La-la-la. I can’t hear you,” she shrieks. Though a moment later, her tone softens. “You’re really hung up on her, aren’t you?”

My heart thumps heavily in my chest. “Yeah. I am. And I’ll win her over eventually. Just you wait and see.”

“There’s my delusionally confident big brother.”

“I could do it, you know. If I wanted to.” I huff. “I could be a good boyfriend. I’m a good brother, aren’t I?”

Sighing, she finally relents. “You are a great brother. You know I tease you because I can… and also, you are an idiot.”

“But a great one.”

“Back to your question,” she says, her tone gentle. “Nessa did not mention that the two of you are dating. More importantly, can you really outbid him? That asshole really hurt her. I’d love for someone to chase him out of town.”

Chuckling, I reply. “You’re in my apartment. Look around. Need I say more?”

“Touché. What comes next?”

“I’m going to make her fall in love with me.”

Mateo:

You sure I can’t take you some place nice for dinner before this meeting?

Ivy:

No thanks.

Mateo:

I promise to be a gentleman.

Please

Ivy:

I’m tired. Let’s just get this over with.

That last textis like a knife to the gut. Just what every man wants to hear, that she wants to get it over with.

She’s here.

She’s standing on the porch, her hair pulled up in two light bulb–looking knots on top of her head, though the ends cascade down her back.

Yeah, I’m studying her from the window. So what?

With a steadying breath, I open the door and step to the side, inviting her in.

She unbuttons her gray peacoat, and I take it from her and hang it in the front closet.

“It’s gotten chilly so fast. I feel like this happens every September. One day, it’s summer, and the next, boom, pull out the winter gear.”

Her voice is casual, flippant, like she’s trying to come across as unaffected by my presence. But her outfit gives her away. And damn, this girl is absolutely trying to kill me. She’s wearing a soft pink silk slip dress with an oversized light gray cable-knit cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. She’s been here a million times—it’s my sister’s house, after all—so out of habit, she bends down and unties her combat boots, giving me a view of the seam on the back of her sheer black tights and lifting her skirt ever so slightly. Fuck me; seriously. Please fuck me.

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