A Twisted Love Story(21)

Ivy showed a lot of restraint, given how she could’ve reacted. A bit of light teasing, not the seriously jealous kind, just to let him know she had seen it. Couldn’t have missed it if she tried, actually. The next thing she knew, Ivy was alone on the side of the road. Wes can be so dramatic.

At least tonight she has her own car. This time, he was perfect for almost a week.

A week.

She can’t think of that word in Chinese.

Maybe this is all because of what his boss said. Tanner hates her; she knows that. Or maybe Wes has that dissociative disorder. Multiple personalities. Ivy has never figured it out—not in ten years—and it doesn’t help when that vein on his temple throbs. It kind of turns her on.

But one thing she does know, after all these years, is what to do when he turns into a dick.

Hurt him back.

She cuts another bite of her steak, knowing how much it bothers him. He doesn’t say anything, not directly, but he wrinkles his nose at the smell. Good. If she has to sit across the table from him, she is going to enjoy her meal. And she does love a good steak.

“That was all she asked about?” Wes asks. “The 911 call?”

Ivy takes her time chewing her steak, drawing out an extra minute. Not yet. She isn’t ready to tell him Karen looked into the car. The old one.

She can imagine what kind of reaction he would have, the range of emotions that would pass through him in just a few seconds. Shock at first, followed by confusion, and then fear. Well, fear mixed with anger. But those emotions are so intertwined it’s hard to tell them apart.

Ivy and Wes don’t talk about that night. Not ever. Their relationship has a lot of black holes, a lot of places they won’t venture down, but the night she started working at the Fine Line is by far the deepest.

It’s too painful to think about, much less discuss.



* * *



—

“Yes,” Ivy finally says. “That’s all Karen asked about.”

Wes shakes his head, picking up his wineglass and inhaling deeply. Trying to get the smell of red meat out of his nose. “But you definitely told her I wasn’t stalking you? That she has no reason to look into us?”

“I told her we spoke and everything had stopped, and that I wasn’t receiving any more weird gifts or notes.”

Not exactly the same thing.

Wes pushes back from the table, away from the smell and away from her. No scenes. Not tonight.

“I have to use the restroom,” he says. It’s a lie, and despite all the promises about honesty, he doesn’t feel bad about it. Maybe he will later, or maybe he’ll forget all about it.

Once he’s alone, in the men’s bathroom, a flood of stronger emotions hit.

Every time. Every damn time.

He curses himself out far worse than he does her, because he should know better. Never should’ve agreed to get back together so quickly. Never, never, never. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, vowed that no matter what she said or did, or how she looked, he would never put himself in this position again.

Yet when they were lying in bed and she said they should be together again, he didn’t hesitate. Maybe it had sounded like he did at first, but in his mind the decision was already made. Another chance, another shot to get it right. The lure of the dream stronger than the fear.

It has been a fantastic week, though. Best he’s had since the last time.



* * *



—

By the time he returns to the table, their entrée plates have been cleared. Ivy drinks the last of her wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass.

“I ordered two cappuccinos. I wasn’t sure if you wanted dessert,” she says.

“No, coffee is fine.” He pauses, almost makes a joke but decides against it. “I don’t need any dessert. I’m pretty full.”

“Me too.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She doesn’t react to that. Not even a raised eyebrow. Honestly, the woman should play poker, because she would make a fortune. But that isn’t the game she likes.

The cappuccino arrives, and Ivy talks about learning Chinese. This is her third new language, but she doesn’t speak any of them fluently because she can’t practice speaking out loud at work. Though she has cursed him out in Russian and French before.

In the past, he has told her there are so many other things she could do with that kind of time at work. So many other things she could study. Tonight, he keeps his mouth shut.

There is no bantering. No innuendo. None of the usual talk they have during coffee. Wes had really been looking forward to this night. Now all he feels is disappointment. And anger.

When they leave, she stops and faces him in front of the restaurant.

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood,” she says. “Maybe I should just go home tonight.”

A war erupts inside Wes’s head. It’s all on him now. Either he apologizes for his mood and she comes to his place, or he doesn’t and he goes home alone.

Sex or no sex. That is the question.

If only she hadn’t worn that dress. Which, as it happens, looks fantastic on her. Especially out here, under the night sky.

If only she hadn’t made it worse by ordering that prime rib, knowing how it makes him sick. If not for her behavior, he wouldn’t be in this mood, and he wouldn’t have to make this decision. The worst part: She knows all of this.