Page 8 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Jack:She’s here. Next door. In my sweater. Nothing underneath. Legs tucked under her. I can't think straight.
Rhys:So go in there.
Jack:Can’t. She’s not ready. Not for what I want to do to her.
Rhys:She left Derek. That says ready to me.
Jack:She’s vulnerable. Soft. I want her, but not like this.
Rhys:Just don’t wait too long. Women like her don’t stay single forever.
I smirk faintly at the screen, then set my phone down. I glance at her door again, then turn and step into my apartment.
The scent of espresso greets me, but tonight, it feels faint. I loosen my tie, toss it on the counter, and pour a bourbon, two fingers, slow. The amber liquid catches the kitchen light as I bring it to my lips. The first sip burns clean. I don’t stop it.
I walk to the shared wall between our units. I press my palm against it. The plaster is cool beneath my hand. My skin warms it. She’s on the other side. Breathing. Moving. Existing just out of reach. The envelope was supposed to set her free. It wasn’t meant to land her here, on the other side of my life, haunting me with nearness and absence.
I change into joggers and a worn tee. Go through the motions of brushing my teeth, rinsing the day from my skin. The steam from the shower does nothing to clear the ache from my chest.
5
IVY
My phone won’t stop buzzing. The screen lights up again:
Wilson Scandal Explodes—Runaway Bride Or Publicity Stunt?
News alerts, messages, pings from numbers I haven’t saved in years. Some are reporters. Most are worse, “concerned” acquaintances who want the inside scoop dressed up as sympathy. I toss the phone face-down onto the marble kitchen counter. The headline still burns behind my eyes.
A photo of me, blurry, and grainy, taken from across the street, staring out the window of Graham’s apartment. Someone must’ve tipped them off, maybe a doorman with a camera phone and no loyalty, or maybe it didn’t take much. One blurry shot of me in Jack’s building was enough to send the press sniffing in every direction. Of course they recognized it. Jack’s building. Jack’s scandal.
The kettle whistles on the stove. I pour the water into a chipped ceramic mug and watch the steam rise in delicate ribbons before vanishing into nothing. I wish I could do the same, evaporate, just for a moment.
I drift through the living room, the soft wool socks I borrowed from Graham making no sound on the hardwood. The television stays off. I can’t bear to hear what they’re saying about me, can’t stomach the sound of my life becoming someone else's talking point.
My feet carry me to the window again. I part the curtain just enough to peek outside. Cameras are already gathering like vultures. Flashbulbs pop even though I’m not outside. Not yet. I press my back to the wall and close my eyes.
The front door unlocks, and I hear it before I see him.
‘Ivy?”
Graham’s voice cuts through the haze, low and steady. I turn as he steps into the apartment, carrying two takeout bags and a look that says he’s already read every story.
“You hungry?” he asks, walking past me to the kitchen.
“I should be,” I say. “I’m not.”
He nods, setting the food down. “You’ve been in every story today. Every room I’ve walked into had your name on someone’s lips.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t say I told you so. He never does. He just starts unpacking containers, handing me a fork even though I haven’t asked.
“I saw the one with this building in the background,” he says after a moment.
“Of course you did,” I reply.
He looks at me, searching. “You okay?”
