Page 92 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
45
IVY
The apartment smells like coffee, warm and rich enough to make me forget there’s anything outside these walls. Jack stands at the kitchen counter in a white shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, pen in hand, leaning over the seating chart like it’s a boardroom strategy session. His weight rests on one hip, his free hand braced against the marble. The pen hovers, taps once, then makes a precise notation in neat block letters.
I pad in, barefoot, my hair still damp from the shower. I watch the way his shoulders tighten when he concentrates, then loosen when he decides. It’s a tell, focus, then release.
“You can’t put Rhys next to Graham,” I say, drifting to his side.
He tilts his head toward me, eyes still on the chart. “Why not?”
“Because they’ll spend the entire night talking about warehouse lighting. And I’m not letting them hijack our reception to debate lumen output.”
That earns a small smirk. He offers me the pen like it weighs something. “Fine. Who gets stuck with Graham?”
I slide two place cards across the chart, the paper rasping softly against stone. “Put him with Mia. She’ll talk his ear off about Rome and won’t even let him say the word ‘lux.’”
Jack studies my swap, then nods slowly like he’s granting approval to a treaty. “Acceptable.”
We move on to the menu. He argues for classic steak and potatoes with the steady cadence he uses when he thinks he’s winning. I counter with pistachio-crusted salmon and roasted citrus, pairing it with a salad that will make his father’s associates suspicious and my friends delighted. He watches my mouth while I describe the glaze. I watch his when he almost smiles.
We compromise on a dual entrée, safe enough for his side, interesting enough for mine. It’s easy like this, our elbows brushing as we lean over the same piece of paper, arguing about signature cocktails and whether the dance floor needs lighting gels while the rest of our lives sit forward on the calendar. I want more mornings like this: the only negotiation over dessert tables instead of security protocols.
The buzzer cuts through our little world, sharp against the low sound of the fridge.
“I’ll get it,” I say, squeezing his forearm before I go.
His phone buzzes in his pocket at the same time, and he mouths Santiago as he turns toward his home office, the glass-paneled door already cracked open, the desk lamp throwing a warm circle across paperwork and cables. He moves with that controlled purpose I know, fast without feeling hurried, calm on the surface while a dozen decisions line up underneath.
I open the apartment door to a courier in a navy beanie holding a plain square box wrapped in brown paper.
“For Ivy Stone,” he says, checking a clipboard before handing it over. No return address. No logo. His eyes flick past me like he’s already gone.
The box is heavier than it looks. My fingers curl tighter as I carry it to the table. The paper tears under my nails; the cardboard lid lifts with a soft suction. Inside, tucked into crisp white tissue, is a framed photograph.
Claire sits on a park bench in a pale blue coat, holding a toddler-aged Emma in her lap. Emma’s cheeks are flushed, her knit hat has floppy ears, her hand is clutching the edge of Claire’s sleeve like she’s anchored there. The muted greens and brick red behind them are pure England. I turn the frame over. A yellow sticky note clings to the back:Family belongs together.
The handwriting is deliberate, each letter drawn more than written, too careful for sentiment. My pulse trips. This isn’t a keepsake. It’s a message. Someone had access to Claire’s private moments. Someone wants me to know it.
In Jack’s home office, his voice is a low line through the glass, controlled, clipped, negotiation-speed. I hear the scrape of his chair, the thud of a file closing. The instinct to walk in there with the frame lifted in both hands is strong. But he’s already juggling too many fronts: Emma’s flight, the mole inside the foundation, his father circling the story like a hawk who prefers the preface to the truth.
I set the frame face down on the table, my palms flat to either side until the pressure steadies me. Then I slide it into the drawer next to the placemats and spare candles, the domestic beside the dangerous, because I can’t look at it and think straight. I’ll tell him tonight, when we can talk without this becoming another fire in a room already full of smoke.
My phone buzzes: calendar reminder, client meeting in forty minutes. Armor time. I swap my sweater for a navy dress, step into low heels, twist my hair into a knot. Lipstick last, blotted, reapplied. I watch my hands in the mirror until they stop trembling.
As I pass the doorway to Jack’s home office, he glances up mid-call. The blinds behind him are angled against the afternoon glare. A legal pad sits open, dense with his square handwriting.
“You’ll be back for dinner?” he asks, palm half-covering the phone.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
He gives me a look that holds, stay safe, I love you, I know you, and then he’s back to the call, pivoting, negotiating.
***
The meeting is downtown in a glass-walled conference room with a view of the Hudson, February haze turning the water to pewter. The table is polished enough to mirror the recessed lights. Two assistants perch near the door with tablets. My client, Madeline Clarke, greets me with a handshake that’s firm and brief.
She moves like a person who runs her calendar the way other people run sprints. Her blazer doesn’t wrinkle when she sits. A gold pen clicks once in her hand before she sets it parallel to the table’s edge.
