Page 78 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
39
IVY
The ocean murmurs outside our window, like it’s trying to lull me back to sleep. But I’m already awake. Not fully, just hovering in that dreamy space between waking and wanting more of him. My arm stretches across the sheets, reaching instinctively for Jack. But the bed is empty.
The linens are still warm where he was. My body aches, in the best kind of way, thoroughly used, thoroughly loved. I stretch slowly, the soreness deep in my thighs a quiet reminder of last night, of the way he touched me like he couldn’t bear not to. Like he had something to prove. Like he had something to lose.
I sit up, brushing hair from my face, and let my feet touch the cool tile. The floor sends a little jolt up my legs, chasing off sleep. I walk across the room slowly, trailing my fingers along the edge of the dresser, the carved bedpost, the suitcase he never fully unpacked. I pull one of his button-downs from the floor and shrug it on, rolling the sleeves past my elbows. The cotton still smells like his skin.
I pass the mirror on my way to the balcony. For a moment, I catch my reflection, bare legs, Jack’s shirt hanging open at the collar, sleep-mussed hair, skin still marked from his mouth. Itshould look messy, undone. But all I see ishis. I never imagined belonging to someone could look like this, soft, bare, whole.
The slider to the balcony is cracked open, letting in a breeze that smells like salt and citrus and something darker. I hear the clink of ceramic, then the unmistakable vibration of a phone screen turning over on a table. My stomach tightens without warning. It’s nothing. But the kind of nothing that feels like it’s holding its breath. I step outside. He’s there.
Standing at the railing, shirtless, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other holding his phone like it’s a grenade he hasn’t decided whether to disarm. His back is tense, carved and still, every muscle in quiet suspension. The ocean glitters behind him, vast and unbothered, waves curling against the shore in slow rhythm like a heartbeat I can’t quite sync with. A seagull calls in the distance, sharp, abrupt, too loud for how still the morning feels.
I move to him barefoot, careful not to make too much noise on the wooden deck, and slide my arms around his waist from behind. I press my cheek between his shoulder blades, letting my body melt into his. His skin is warm and smells like the sun and something undeniably his, like cedar and sleep.
He doesn’t startle. He just brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it, but he doesn’t turn.
“You disappeared,” I murmur.
He finally looks over his shoulder, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Everything okay?”
He hesitates. “Yeah. Just work. Santiago being Santiago.”
And there it is, that sliver of distance. The one that wasn’t there last night when he was inside me, whispering things he never lets himself say out loud. It’s small. Subtle. But I feel it. Like the weight of something waiting.
“You’re doing that thing,” I say.
“What thing?”
“Where you pretend everything’s fine, but you’ve already written a dozen worst-case scenarios in your head.”
He exhales a low breath, like I’ve caught him. “I just wanted today to last a little longer. That’s all.”
I slip around him until we’re face to face, his body blocking the rising sun. His jaw is tight. His eyes flick back to the phone.
“If something’s wrong,” I say, “I want to know. I need to know.”
“Ivy…”
“No.” I take his hand. “If we’re doing this, really doing this, then we don’t hide things. No disappearing. No protecting me with silence.”
His throat works like he’s swallowing something heavy. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. Yet.”
“That’s not your call,” I say, quieter now. “Not anymore.”
We stand there, the space between us suddenly full of things unsaid. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to dig. I just want truth. I want the man who held me last night like I was everything. Not the one who disappears behind walls.
Jack stares past me for a moment, into the horizon. A couple walks by below us on the beach, laughter drifting up on the breeze. I envy the simplicity of it.
“I know you’re scared of breaking this,” I whisper. “But shutting me out is what will do it. So tell me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But I see it, the crack forming behind his eyes. Then, slowly, he sets the coffee down and reaches for me. I let him pull me between his legs as he sinks into the lounge chair, and I straddle him instinctively, knees on either side of his thighs, the shirt riding up my legs as I settle in. His hands rest on my waist. But his mind is still somewhere else.
“I didn’t want to ruin this trip,” he says finally. “Not after everything we’ve just gotten back.”
