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The responding arch of Ivy’s brow was graceful and haughty and so fucking hot that all the blood rushed to my stupid groin.
“I heard you’re just around the corner now,” Greer said, folding her arms over her middle.
Ivy nodded, and I watched the shift on her face carefully. “Your mother is a wonderful host,” she said. Her guard was still up—it was clear in her eyes and the stiff way she clutched the strap of her purse, but it wasn’t quite the same as it had been the first couple of days.
An opening, maybe.
I just wasn’t sure how much she’d allow me to walk through it.
Greer and Ivy chatted about the house, what happened at the hotel, and how she’d fled the house behind us in the middle of the night. Greer was laughing, Ivy was smiling a small little smile, and it was astonishing that despite the razor-sharp interest I felt for this woman, I was content to watch them interact with an ease I hadn’t seen from her since she got into town.
Maybe my sister could show up on occasion, and I wouldn’t chase her off immediately.
“Your brother claims he’s found the culprit,” Ivy said, cutting a dry look in my direction. I felt it in my gut, something devastating and visceral.
Dry was different from closed off. It wasn’t cold.
Fuck, it was as close to playful as I’d ever seen her.
I whistled. “Claims? I know exactly what’s going on up there.”
She hummed disbelievingly. “And you needed my help?”
“Your hands are smaller than mine.” I held up my own, and when her eyes cut over, lingering on my palm and fingers, two spots of pink bloomed on her cheeks.
“If you think I’m sticking my hand into some dark, creepy crevice, you are dreaming.”
I let my smile spread. “You think I’d play a prank on you like that?”
She arched an eyebrow again.
“Yes,” Greer said.
“No way,” I insisted. “You didn’t see her last night. I don’t have a death wish.”
Ivy sniffed. “If you purposely scare me when my hand is underneath some creepy-ass bed, I’ll jam my heel right between your legs.”
Greer threw her head back and laughed.
I gestured toward the house, letting the two women precede me up the front porch.
Following them, I could study Ivy a bit more closely as she approached the door. A big part of me wished that I’d been here the first time she walked into the house.
Something about this place made her need to do it alone. Face this piece of her past alone.
I couldn’t quite imagine how it must’ve felt.
I didn’t remember much of my mom either, but I knew her through my dad’s stories, things my oldest brother Ian told me. Knew that she was funny and kind, that she liked breakfast for dinner and let us eat ice cream for breakfast during the summer because Ian remembered it.
What did Ivy think when she walked into this place?
I didn’t have a home where my mother used to live. It would be difficult to pass by walls that held a lifetime of her memories.
When I heard her storming down those stairs the night before, when she flung open the door and screamed at the sight of me, I knew that Ivy was as exposed as I’d ever seen her. If I’d tried to slide my hands up her arms and hold my palm against the racing pulse in the sensitive juncture of her neck, she might have even let me.
But I had a feeling that she’d retreat again, especially in the harsh light of day. She’d overcorrect, yanking the wheel too far in the other direction if I tried to meet her where she’d been last night.
I didn’t want that. I wanted her to step out beyond that door she’d closed, but do it of her own volition. Make that choice independently, if that was what she wanted.
