Page 14 of Ink Me Three Times
"Strongly in favor," she deadpans. "Especially the blue ones."
Penny gasps. "Those are the best ones!"
"Obviously."
They’re already a team.
"So," I say, nodding toward the couch. "Here’s the gist. I work early shifts at the shop a few days a week and take walk-ins on weekends. My business partners are scheduling tyrants, so hours might move around a bit. You’d have Penny Monday through Friday, maybe the occasional Saturday if I’ve got overflow. I prep most of her meals, so it’s mostly snacks, games, a couple meltdowns. Standard chaos."
Ivy takes a slow sip of her coffee. "What about her mom?"
The question isn’t cruel. It’s gentle. Careful.
"Not in the picture," I say, tone clipped without meaning it to be. "So it’s all on me."
I see something flicker in Ivy’s eyes. Is it pity? It doesn’t feel like it, which is nice.
But she just nods once. Doesn’t push.
We move to the couch, and Penny plops herself down between us like a self appointed chaperone, still holding Trouble the bunny like he’s her emotional support attorney.
Ivy sinks into the cushions like she’s not quite sure if it’s okay to get comfortable… legs crossed, mug balanced in one hand, her eyes flicking around the room like she’s taking notes for a mental escape plan just in case.
I tell her more about the schedule. How Penny doesn’t eat bread without a fight, how nap time is more of a "vague hope" than a guarantee, how bedtime requires at least three books, two lullabies, and one negotiated treaty.
She listens. Actuallylistens. Doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fill the silence with fake enthusiasm or performative "oh wow"s like some of the other interviews I’ve had.
She just nods, asks smart questions, scratches Penny’s back absentmindedly while she talks.
And I hate how much I notice that.
The way her fingers are gentle but firm. The way Penny instinctively leans into her. The way Ivy softens, just a fraction, when the kid laughs like she’s not used to being the safe one. Like she’s used to bracing for impact.
I ask her if she has any other work lined up in town and she says no, not yet. Says she’s just… taking a break. Doesn’t say from what. Doesn’t have to. There’s a heaviness in the way she says it. The kind that doesn’t come from a bad job or a bad week.
She’s been through something.
I should back off. Should just take the interview for what it is.
But curiosity’s a bitch. And so am I.
"So," I say, "what brought you to Coyote Glen? You know… besides the thriving nightlife and endless opportunities."
That earns me a look. Dry. Amused. A little dangerous.
"My brother. And well… my life fell apart."
I blink. "That’s… honest."
"You asked."
I grin. "Fair."
She shrugs, but her mouth quirks like maybe she’s not totally immune to my bullshit.
"I mean," she adds, glancing at me over the rim of her coffee mug, "I don’t have a car yet, but I’m walking distance from here, so schedule wise I’m wide open. Early mornings, late nights, whatever you need. I’ve got nowhere else to be."
That hits me in two places at once. Relief, because the shop has been a scheduling nightmare lately. And something more dangerous. Interest.
