Page 62 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“I used to think love had to be earned,” I whisper. “Proven. Performed. But this?” I glance down at our joined hands. “This feels like something I didn’t have to beg for. And that terrifies me in the best way.”
His thumb traces a slow arc across my palm. “Then we’re both terrified.”
We stop at a corner deli on the way home, the kind of place that still smells like warm bread and linoleum, where nothing feels curated. Jack insists we split a pastrami sandwich and grab two bottles of cream soda, and we eat it in the car with the windows rolled down. For a moment, we’re just two people in love with nothing urgent ahead.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” I say, unwrapping half the sandwich and handing it to him.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Now. While it’s still just us and the dust and the ideas.”
He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. Then: “When I was sixteen, I snuck into a competitor’s charity gala. Fake name. Borrowed tux. I’d heard rumors one of their board members was siphoning money through offshore accounts. I wanted proof.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I got caught. My father nearly lost it. But I kept the notes I took that night. That’s when I realized I didn’t want to inherit power. I wanted to understand it. Question it.”
I reach over and brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “That’s both ridiculous and kind of hot.”
Jack leans closer. “You’re the only person who’s ever thought financial espionage was sexy.”
“Only when you do it in a suit,” I murmur, stealing a quick kiss.
We drive home slow, windows open, fingers laced like a promise. At a red light, Jack shifts in his seat, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel for just a second before relaxing. He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes, then turns fully toward me. “I think this space might save us, in a way.”
“From what?” I ask.
“From forgetting,” he says. “From letting what we just went through define everything that comes next.”
I reach across the console and touch his cheek. “Then let’s fill it with something better.”
“We will,” he says. “We’ll build something that belongs to no one but us.”
I smile. “And we’ll leave the doors open, just enough for others to walk through it too.”
He leans in and kisses me, slow and certain. “That’s the whole point, Ivy.”
I hold his gaze as the light changes and he drives on. “Then let’s make it count.”
32
JACK
The morning light cuts through the warehouse windows in sharp angles, throwing long shadows over the concrete floor. Dust drifts lazily in the golden shafts, catching the stillness like it’s trying to hold onto something. I stand in the center of the space, hands in my coat pockets, listening to Ivy’s voice echo from across the room as she speaks with the first contractor.
“It’s not just about functionality,” she says, gesturing toward the rear wall. “We want something that invites people in but also reminds them they’re stepping into something new.”
Her tone is even but firm, her presence commanding without arrogance. I catch myself staring.
The contractor, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and steel-toed boots, nods, jotting something into his clipboard. I barely register his words. I’m still caught in the way Ivy’s hand rests on her hip, the light playing off the strands in her hair, confidence radiating from her posture. It hits me again, what we’re building here is more than a space. It’s a future. And I want to protect every part of it.
By noon, we’ve met with three architectural teams. Ivy’s taking notes in a slim leather notebook, and I’ve already mentally eliminated two firms. One presented an impressive portfolio, but spent too long talking to me and barely addressed Ivy. Another pushed an aggressive timeline with zero regard for the zoning complexity we flagged earlier.
The third team, led by a woman named Pilar Chen, catches our attention. She listens carefully, asks the right questions, and sketches while we talk. Her renderings are thoughtful. Her tone, confident but collaborative, makes me think she actually understands what we’re trying to do.
After the teams leave, we collapse on the old staircase that leads to the mezzanine, sharing a lukewarm espresso from the deli down the block.
“What do you think?” I ask, watching her flip through her notes.
