Even when she tried to lie about being pregnant, I still shook it off. It wasn’t the first time some girl pulled that shit on me.
But how does Ivy fit into this? She has to fit, I just know it. She has to fit. Someone fucking hacked our jet. Someone got that file with her résumé to me. Someone sent her an invitation to interview. Someone—pretending to be Corporate—told me she was coming and to expect her.
Who?
That’s why I need Mysterious.
He’s got a reputation these days. Hell, now that I think about it, he’s always had that reputation. He comes from Hollywood money, I know that much. He’s some bastard child from some big-time movie star. But he didn’t grow up in Hollywood. He comes from old Kentucky money on his mother’s side. A true blue-blood family who made their fortune in bluegrass thoroughbreds.
Which is why he has a thing for the track, I guess.
And even though Kentucky isn’t deep South, it’s South enough. They do justice a little differently in the South.
It came in handy back in college and from the hints Match has been dropping over the years, it might still come in handy.
Might. I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’m just being paranoid? But maybe not. But there’s one thing the five of us Misters learned from our little run-in with the law.
It pays to be paranoid.
If Ivy is involved, I’m positive she’s unaware. That girl just doesn’t have it in her. She doesn’t. I can tell. She’s innocent—was innocent before I got my dick inside her—and she’s sweet.
But she might be in danger. She might be caught up in something bigger than herself and she might be in danger. And even though she walked out of here and we had a huge fight in the middle of the street a few blocks down—a big enough scene that neighbors called the cops, which I handled—Ivy got in some Uber car and left. She might be in danger and I might be the reason why.
I let her get away because I know where to find her. I looked her up a little more thoroughly this time and it wasn’t hard to find everything I need to know in order to make contact again. Which I will be doing as soon as I talk to Mysterious.
So I’m gonna make contact again. For her own protection.
I try to convince myself of that but… that’s not the only reason.
She’s into the fantasy. She just doesn’t know it yet.
That is the only thing that makes me smile right now. Picturing her in that yellow dress as we start the date. Picturing me taking it off her as we begin the scene. Picturing her writhing underneath me as we fuck.
Yeah, that shit is happening. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I look inside at the discarded drawings and go pick them up. Arranging them in order of how things will go down.
I got her likeness pretty good. I’ve always been good at art. Always had a thing for drawing the female form. Always been a planner. And what better way to plan a night of taboo sex than to imagine it in my head and draw it out to make it real?
No. I’m not done with Ivy Rockwell yet. She’s in for a surprise if she thinks she can just walk out and I’ll forget about what we talked about. If she thinks I’ll just forget and move on without putting on my A-game. If she thinks she won’t be getting the fuck of her life the next time I see her, she’s in for a surprise.
A very big surprise.
Chapter Thirty - Ivy
I lie in bed just thinking about him. Nolan Delaney, the infamous Mr. Romantic. The media always used that word in front of his name. Infamous. It implies a lot of very bad things. None of the other Misters were called infamous. And even though most of the details about what happened that night never became public, Mr. Romantic was the one everybody talked about.
Why?
Why, Ivy?
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I know why.”
Somehow, some way, Nolan Delaney was the one responsible for what happened that night when those five guys were back in college. That was the rumor. The police found something of Nolan’s in that frat house. Some kind of evidence. Something powerful enough to charge five very rich boys, from five very rich families, with rape.
A familiar voice drifts up from downstairs and I wonder what time it is. I lean over and look at the clock on my bedside table. Almost dinnertime.
My parents are very traditional. We have Sunday dinner. I don’t, not anymore. Not since I left home for college, except for the rare occasions I’m home on Sunday evenings. Like tonight. But all growing up my mother has put on a Sunday dinner. And my father, because he’s the dean of the school, would invite various people to have dinner with us. Mostly students, but sometimes important church members.
But the voice downstairs is not a student. It’s Richard.
My father loved Richard. And I’m pretty sure that my mother started planning our wedding the first time I brought him home and he insisted on sleeping in the guest room.
As if I was ever going to let him sleep in my bed. But my mom loved it. Ate it up.
Why is he here?
I check the mirror, horrified that I look as wrung-out as I feel. I drag a brush through my hair and pinch my cheeks to get some color.
OK. Time to get back to real life. Dinner with parents and ex-boyfriend, agenda task number one.
I walk down the stairs of my parent’s historic four-square brick colonial, remembering the high ceilings and amazing view I was looking at yesterday at Nolan’s house.
It feels like a dream. I lost my virginity to Nolan Delaney.
How did that happen?
Get it together, Ivy. Put on the public face and smile.
And that’s how I walk into the dining room.
“There she is!” my father exclaims, getting up to take my hand and walk me into the living room where everyone gathers when guests are over. “Did you have a nice sleep, princess?” He leans down to kiss me on the head.
“I did. Hi, Richard.”
Boring Richard smiles at me.
“Do you feel better, honey?” my mother asks.
“Much. I just needed some sleep.”
“I heard you were on a job interview this weekend,” Boring Richard says.
“You were?” my parents exclaim together.