Page 95 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I step into the kitchen. Ivy turns at the sound, pencil pinning her hair, sleeves pushed up, bare feet against the tile. The sight lands like a hand settling on my sternum.
“How bad?” she asks.
“Manageable,” I say, because today it is. “Breach is cut. Building’s getting tightened tonight. Santiago’s tracking the courier shell and the guy from your meeting. And Derek’s done. He can’t reach us anymore.”
***
The bag on the island is labeled Emma in Ivy’s neat print. I tap the soft-blue notebook peeking out. “You went out.”
“Client meeting,” she says. “And a few first-night things. Nothing permanent. Just… soft landings.”
Soft landings.I tuck the phrase away like extra breath.
We eat at the counter, sharing the same plate. My knee bumps hers, she doesn’t move away. The small domestic rhythm of it calms the room more than any security detail. When I reach for the last bite, she lets me take it like she always does, and my chest goes warm at the familiarity of that grace.
“I’m going downstairs,” I say, rinsing our forks. “Make sure retraining isn’t just a memo.”
“I’ll come.”
“No.” I lean in and press my mouth to her temple; the pencil pricks my cheek and I don’t care. “You make the room look like a room. I’ll make the building act like a building.”
Her eyes hold mine a beat, weighing whether to fight me on it. She nods. “Text me if you need backup.”
“I always need backup,” I reply.
***
The lobby smells like marble. I don’t leave with a promise, I leave with a plan, names, faces, logs, no exceptions. Couriers sign. Every time. If there’s a question, call upstairs. By the time I step back into the elevator, the concierge’s hands shake less. Progress, measured in millimeters.
On the way up I hit two more calls: the foreman… “add the rail and the bay; leave room for a long shelf by the south windows”… and my attorney, every custody paper prepped and duplicated so my father can’t wedge a thumb into the hinge and call it a door.
When I return, the spare room is open and alive. Slats laid out like bones. Allen keys lined like silver fish on the sill. Ivy kneels by the headboard, reading instructions that don’t deserve her attention but get it anyway. She glances back, and a strand slips from the pencil; I catch it with two fingers and tuck it behind her ear. Her pulse beats warm at my knuckle. I don’t rush the hand away.
“Help me?” she asks.
“Always.”
We move together the way we didn’t have to practice, her steadying the bracket, me driving the screws; her palm splayed on the wood, my forearm braced beside it. Our shoulders bump. Once, twice. She smiles without looking up and I feel it in my ribs.
When the last bolt seats with a quiet, satisfying thunk, we stand back. The lamp waits on the floor in its tissue. The notebook rests on the windowsill, soft spine catching the late light.
“A space built for more than just sleep, for her to feel at home,” I say.
Ivy smooths the duvet with the flat of her palm, long strokes that calm the fabric and me with it. “Tomorrow,” she says.
“Tomorrow,” I echo, and the word settles in my chest like something solid and right.
My phone pings. Santiago:Update—shell trail confirms funding through boutique risk firm; also pulled partial still from garage cam: silver watch, left wrist, small scar on index knuckle. Sending packet.
The grainy image follows, just enough to make a circle on the map. I text back:Tomorrow, JFK. Two-car pickup. Route C then B. No stops.
He replies:Done.
I slip the phone away. Ivy is aligning the corners of the duvet like she’s drawing a line straight through the day. I step beside her and set my hand on the windowsill where the notebook waits. The glass is cool. Her shoulder leans into mine, warm.
“After she’s here,” I say, “I’m going to end this.”
Her fingers lace with mine, no flourish, just certainty. “After she’s here,” she says, and the calm in her voice is a place I can stand.
