Page 41 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
At ten o'clock, I opened my email to find a message from her: Mr. Walsh, I've come down with something and won't be able to make it in today. I apologize for the short notice. I expect to return tomorrow if I'm feeling better. - Ivy
The formal tone stung more than it should have. After last night, after the intimacy we'd shared on more than one occasion, she was back to calling me Mr. Walsh.
The rest of the morning dragged. I reviewed quarterly projections without absorbing the numbers. I attended a conference call where I contributed nothing meaningful. I foundmyself staring out my office window, wondering if Ivy was truly sick or if she was avoiding me after last night.
Had I pushed too hard? Moved too fast? She'd seemed willing, even eager over the past month. But maybe in the cold light of day, she'd reconsidered. Maybe she'd decided that her father's best friend was exactly the wrong person to get involved with.
The thought made my chest tight with familiar disappointment.
By lunch, I'd accomplished nothing productive. I tried returning calls, but couldn't focus on the conversations. I tried reviewing contracts, but the legal language blurred together. Everything felt distant, irrelevant.
Meranda had done this to me once—consumed my thoughts until I couldn't function properly. But that had been different. She had been calculated, strategic in her affections. She'd known exactly how to make me want her, then used that wanting to manipulate business decisions in her favor.
Ivy wasn't calculating. If anything, she seemed almost afraid of her own feelings, constantly pulling back whenever we got too close. But maybe that was part of the game. Maybe I was being played again, and I was too desperate for connection to see it clearly.
My phone buzzed with a text message and I swiped to unlock.
Nick 9: 15 AM: Drinks after work? You look miserable.
I glanced up to find him standing in my doorway, having apparently been watching me stare blankly at my computer screen, and I scowled at him.
"I'm fine," I grumbled.
"You're a terrible liar. O'Malley's at six?"
I wanted to refuse, to go home and brood in private. But the alternative was spending another evening replaying everymoment of last night, analyzing every word, every touch, every expression on Ivy's face.
"Fine. Six o'clock."
O'Malley's was crowded for a Thursday evening, filled with other professionals drowning their workplace frustrations in whiskey and beer. Nick had already claimed a corner booth by the time I arrived. He'd ordered for both of us—bourbon neat for me, craft beer for himself.
"So," he said as I slid into the booth across from him. "Want to tell me what's eating you?"
I took a long sip of bourbon, feeling it burn down my throat. "Work stress."
"Bullshit. I've seen you handle hostile takeovers and board revolts without blinking. This isn't work stress."
Nick had known me for fifteen years. We'd started as competitors, ended up as friends, survived my scandal and his divorce. He could read me better than most people, which made lying to him pointless.
"It's complicated," I said finally.
"The best things usually are."
I stared into my glass, swirling the amber liquid. How could I explain this without sounding pathetic? How could I admit that I'd spent the day obsessing over a woman who might be avoiding me?
"There's someone," I said.
"I figured. Anyone I know?"
"Bill Whitmore's daughter."
Nick's eyebrows shot up. "Ivy? Your assistant?"
"You know her?"
"I know of her. Bill's mentioned her a few times over the years. Said she'd been living in Maine, raising…" He paused, his expression shifting. "Well, he said she'd been living in Maine."
"She came back because of Barbara's cancer."
