Iverson regards me dryly. “I much prefer a different sort of love story. After all, ivy is designed to do the choking, while maples flourish under the constriction with beauty and grace. As nature intended.”
Since when does Ivy speak in prose? “Is your fianceé okay?”
“It’s a figure of speech.” He waves a flippant hand. “My fianceé is flourishing, is the point, without the need of unpleasant bruises upon my neck.”
Right. Because bruises on his neck would cover his extremely professional snake tattoo. I smile. “What an odd thing to say.”
“Her fingertips grazed your carotid.” He stares at me, brow low. “With some accuracy.”
My lips hook up further. “Yes. I know. I almost passed out.”
Ivy sighs. “Well, as long as it was onlyalmost.”
“It was.” Quite entirely close tonearly, though. For the sake of my poor dear brother’s nerves, I think I’ll refrain from mentioning that my next plan involves the potential I get stabbed in an alleyway. I say, “Being almost suffocated to death is very romantic.”
“You’re like a Rouge novel come to life. And not in a cute Flag Day ball sort of way.”
“Speaking of the Flag Day—”
“Stop,” Iverson interjects moments before his roommate—Birch’s sister and the woman Ivy’s planning to marry on what he has dubbed themost romantic holiday of the year—brushes past me to enter the room.
“No,” she replies. “I need your fountain pens.” Fully neglecting my brother’s right to personal space, the woman rummages through his desk and ignores my presence entirely. Which works for me. It’s always awkward to admit that I can never remember her name even though we grew up together in the same building. Something in my skull has always just omitted information aboutIvy’s girl.
Because…
I drag my attention to my brother, who’s about ninety-nine percent less abrasive with the woman here. There’s a softness to him that consumes the acid and the ire, transforming it into snow candy.
…yeah. She’s his. So what would she have to do with me?
Concern softens Iverson’s features as he murmurs, “What’s happened to your fountain pens?”
“I had to sacrifice the ink to a stack of parchment,” his wife-to-be replies, distracted with her search. “Replacement ink won’t come for another week. I need yours.”
Minutes pass while Iverson moons over her fevered search, then he recalls my existence, opens the correct drawer, and hands her a cup of fountain pens. Her responding smile turns him into liquid before she flits off, a tornado in her precision of decimating my brother while leaving me untouched by even a breeze.
Clearing my throat, I beckon my poor besotted baby bro’s mind out of its goo pile. “So?”
“So…what?” Ivy blinks away his stupor, frowning in bemusement at me.
“Azalea’s been researching decorating companies capable of bringing your vision to life, but recently—before our romantic interlude—she mentioned how we need to prioritize the invitations, which leads to multiple concerns. First, we don’t have the invite list from you yet. Second, she doesn’t know it’s a wedding yet. And, third, Birch.”
“First, the list is our family, the Valor family, and whatever work connections you feel should be there for the sake of not offending any idiots who believe us to be friends. No use tanking our business because some old man who hasn’t changed his stance on manners since 1965 feels slighted at being left out.”
“A professional assessment.” One he so rarely takes.
Ivy grunts. “Second, I don’t see how Maple not knowing it’s a wedding matters.”
Right, yes. Becausethatdoesn’t matter. “Azaleaneeds to know it’s a wedding so that the invites can reflect it’s a wedding when she works very hard to put them together and send them.”
“Oh.” Iverson recalls that other women exist. Specifically the only other one, apart from our mother, who matters at all. “Right. Azalea. The othershethat we would be discussing. Of course. Sure, tell her, but if she tells my bride, then you will not be the only one with bruises upon your neck.” He smiles pleasantly, canines on display.
In return, I hum. “She can keep secrets. We already know that. Given that she’s not exactly a low-tier assistant. Keeping secrets is in her job description.” My head tilts. “So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t suggest anyone else’s hand might find itself around her neck—for literally any reason.”
Indignant, he sniffs. “As I said, ivy chokes. It is the way of nature. Ivy also gives way to stone, though, should you wish to build your fortress around her. I will heed your judgment.”
“Noted.”
Moving on, Iverson nods. “As for Birch, what about him?”
