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It wasn’t until she started undressing that she realized she was still wearing his jacket. “Of course.” She shrugged it off her shoulders, immediately catching a whiff of him.
As his scent flooded her nostrils, her hormones took over and, against her better judgment, she pressed the jacket to her face and inhaled deeply.Oh. My. God.No person had any right to smell this sexy—ever. His scent went straight through her, and she went instantly damp between her legs. She dropped his jacket like it was on fire and took a full step backward.
Nope, this was not good. Not good at all. Any man who could fry all of her brain cells with his scent alone was one she needed to avoid.
She quickly stripped and sought the heat of her shower, reliving the highlight reel of her incredibly crap-tacular day, starting with how utterly defeated she’d been when she didn’t get the job, and ending with one Gabriel Walsh finding glow-in-the-dark condoms in her purse.
With a groan, she let the day’s humiliation pour over her like the water washing over her body.
What would her father think of her now? How was she supposed to face him? Or her mother? She couldn’t avoid their calls and emails much longer, and the last thing she wanted was for them to show up in Portland and see the mess she’d made of her life. Another flood of desolation swamped her. She was still so angry, and she didn’t want to care what her parents thought, but she did. And that made everything feel worse.
Finishing her shower, she tossed on a pair of gray leggings and a black cami. Then she went into the living room where Ivy had helped set up her little oasis. Her easel and paints faced the light of the window looking down onto the busy street below, and a huge potted palm blocked her view of the rest of the apartment, so that when she dove into her painting, she saw only the easel in front of her, the view of the city beyond that, and the green of the plant in her periphery.
For her cluttered mind the blank slate in front of her was freedom. It was what she loved most about art. It started from nothing. It waited for her to unleash everything inside her. Things she couldn’t communicate in any other way.
“Alexa, play ‘When the Party’s Over,’” she told her best non-human friend. As the opening chords filled the room, she put brush to canvas and lost herself, leaving behind the horrible memories of the day.
Only when she heard a thud on the apartment door, then a muffled curse followed by the jingle of keys, did she leave her trance and look at the time on her phone. She gasped when she learned nearly four hours had passed.
A heartfelt “Oh, for fuck’s sake” came from the other side of the door before it opened a crack and a yoga mat, exercise blocks, and a huge duffle bag slid through. Then Ivy squeezed inside, carrying a box piled to capacity with the tools she used as a physical therapist. Under her arm was a bottle of wine, and in her mouth were envelopes that Hope guessed were their mail. As soon as she was inside, she dropped everything but the wine and kicked the door shut behind her. Spitting out the mail so that it fluttered to the floor, she sagged against the door and swiped her arm across her brow.
“Fuck me, that was harder than the six miles I ran at the ass crack of dawn.”
And just like that, Ivy Harrington was home.
Ivy had been Hope’s best friend since they met on their first day in college. Saying they’d been to hell and back together since then would be an understatement. Hope couldn’t imagine life without her.
Ivy was on the shorter side of average, with pale skin that stood out against hair that was the color of seventy percent chocolate. The dark tresses normally fell in a straight line to her shoulders, but today was pulled back into a stubby ponytail, the strands that had come loose sticking to her sweaty brow. After three years of diligent training at the gym where she also worked as a PT, Ivy was lean, toned, and, most importantly to her, strong. Thanks to her assiduous training with the gym owner, Sean Thompson, she also had some pretty fierce kickboxing skills.
However, anyone looking at Ivy was always drawn in first by her crystal-blue eyes. They held the kind of icy clarity that made you feel like you could see right through them. But as Hope well knew, that was an illusion. No one saw through or inside Ivy. Her eyes might be clear as blue glass, but they hid a world of secrets and pain that only a handful of people knew about.
Hope was one of those people. Knowing what Ivy had not only survived but risen from had cemented their bond even more. They had become transparent to one another. Hope could see what lay beneath that crystal-blue gaze, and Ivy saw through Hope’s carefully curated exterior.
As Ivy seemed to be doing now. “Oh, Christ,” she said, scanning Hope from head to toe. “What happened?”
Hope blinked. “What makes you think anything happened?”
“Well, for one, you’re standing there braless, in yesterday’s leggings, with paint smeared across your face.” Ivy gave her a knowing look. “And if that wasn’t clue enough that your day was shit, I see that you let your hair air-dry. Air-dry, Hope.” Ivy arched an eyebrow as if to sayany other questions?Then she flopped down onto the couch and patted the cushion beside her.
“Spill.”
Hope blew out a breath and sat.
“I didn’t get the job,” she murmured.
Rather than say anything, Ivy got up and grabbed two glasses to go with the bottle of pinot noir she’d wrestled home. She didn’t speak until she was seated next to Hope again and uncorking the wine.
“You’re not a failure just because you didn’t get one stupid job you didn’t really want in the first place. You know that, right?” Ivy poured two generous glasses and handed her one.
“Right,” Hope said unconvincingly as she indulged in a long sip. “And what makes you think I didn’t really want that job?”
Ivy gave her an impressive eyeroll. “Puh-leeze, Hope Morgan. You no more want to be pushing paper and crunching numbers than I want to be friendly to strangers.” Ivy cracked half a smile, then nodded in the direction of Hope’s easel. “Everyone and their dog knows that creating art is where your heart really lives.”
Hope contemplated the painting she’d begun hours before, the colors colliding with each other as the image took shape. Since she was a little girl, all she wanted was to paint and draw and make things. Still, she knew that wasn’t going to pay this month’s rent. Or the next. And even though Ivy had been after her for months to open an Etsy account so she could put out feelers for interest in her art, Hope had focused on pursuing the more traditional employment route. Get a job on her own educational merits that her family would be proud of and start living and paying for her own life. Independence.
It was a huge part of the reason she’d come to Portland. However, she thought with a dejected sigh, it was all backfiring on her. Big time.
“Also, I bought a pair of Marc Jacobs shoes that I had no business buying, but at that point I was convinced I had the job in the bag.” Twirling the stem of her glass, Hope lowered her gaze. “And my dad wants to e-transfer me this month’s rent money,” she admitted, feeling the familiar heat of shame work its way across her face.
