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She bites her lip, nodding along. “Daniel’s coming over with the kids tonight. I’ll call him to bring the files.”
Daniel O’Reilly is Ivy’s biological father, whom she met for the first time a little over a year ago. He’s raising his niece and two nephews.
“Natasha’s good with that?” I ask.
There’s been some adjustment with Natasha welcoming Daniel into Ivy’s life. I think it’s especially hard with Tom gone.
“Seems to be,” Ivy responds on autopilot, thoughts already wandering.
Ty clears his throat. “I’ve got her. We’ll dig into this and keep you posted. You untangle your own shit.”
No idea what that looks like, but I need to figure it out, I guess.
“Thanks.” I kick up my chin to him in reassurance that our little spat is over. “We’re good.”
When Celeste floats down the stairs, she seems nervous to meet my eyes. No idea why.
She’s fucking breathtaking.
Elegant as always in a champagne-colored satin cocktail dress. A sash at the waist, accentuating her hourglass figure. Cuffed sleeves falling to her elbows and a V between her perky breasts. She’s the vision of grace and refinement. Her hair is swept up into a twist with some wisps framing her face. While I usually love it down, it highlights the alluring slope of her slender neck.
And my skin itches. She’s breathtaking for another man.
I yank at my collar, suffocating in my suit already. This should go fucking smooth. I’m not sure what my endgame is for tonight. Torturing myself? Preventing the possibility of it going too far? Losing my damn mind and doing something asinine? Murdering Dustin Barclay?
It’s anyone’s guess.
What if this is as dire as Ty made it out to be? Did she tell him that?
“Ready?” she asks, her big brown eyes searching mine.
“Yeah.” I scratch the stubble on my cheek, take a deep breath, and grab her hand. “This is the only thing I’ll say tonight that isn’t in the role of bodyguard. Well, I can’t guarantee that, but that’s the goal.”
She laughs, musical and feathery. “You’re rambling, Graves.”
“I am,” I admit, dusting my thumb over her soft skin and tethering her in place with my gaze. “In case your date is too much of an ass to say it, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.”
She tilts her head with a lopsided smile, the wisps of her hair grazing her collarbone. “That’s presumptuous. We’re not even there yet.”
Leaning in close so my lips brush her ear, I slide my free hand across her lower back and tug her closer to me. “Not presumptuous, Ace. You’re easily the most stunning woman in any room.”
In a rare moment of her losing her composure, her breath catches. She rolls her lips in and glances away. Closing her eyes on a swallow that her throat works overtime to perform, she freezes there until finally whispering, “Thank you, Liam. We’d better go.”
The whole encounter has me sick to my stomach, but I opt to keep my mouth shut and be the guard, like I agreed to do. Celeste’s BMW XM only seats five, which would work fine if we left her driver, Arnold, behind. But I offered up the G-Wagon, so Arnold and Dante will be following in that while Rex, Keith, and I escort Miss Carver.
On the way, Rex gives me the rundown on all the exits of the building, the location of the table reserved, and that it’s attached to a hotel. I’m not thrilled about that detail because there are far too many unknowns concerning guests and personnel on the hotel side, but he’s cleared it with management to close that entrance for the evening since it’s midweek and slow. So, I suppose that will do. Money can convince a business to do just about anything.
While we’re reviewing our stations, Celeste’s phone rings. She’s in the back seat with Keith, directly behind Rex, so I have an unobstructed view. I glance back as she swipes the screen, straightens her shoulders, and answers the call.
“Hi, Mom.” She pauses, but there’s a stiff poise seizing her whole demeanor. She’s instantly a heightened version of the cultivated girl I’ve seen in the past. “Yes. Thank you. I’m on my way now.” She glances down at her dress, skimming her fingers over the material. “The champagne one I texted to you the other day. Yes. It fits perfectly.”
It sure the hell does. Too perfect.
Her eyes latch on to mine. There’s a hollowness to them, like the night at La Lune Noire when everyone reminisced about Ivy’s wedding. Despondent and resigned. I want to tell her I see her. Whatever is swimming in those coffee-colored pools, I’m here for it. I want in.
“He seems very nice,” she says in her proper tone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll give him a chance. That’s what I’m doing.” There is an edge to that response and her lips purse. “I apologize. He does. The Barclays are a wonderful family. I know.”
Her gaze swings back to me, and it takes everything in me not to knock that damn phone out of her hand and ask what she’s thinking. Why is she upset?
