Surviving Ice
Page 81

We simply stare at each other. We’ve gotten good at doing that, of communicating without words. Like, right now, I’m hoping she understands how sorry I am that she went through this, how I did everything I could to protect her, how I can’t stand the idea that this is the end of us.
She nods toward the monitor. “What do you think about these for the waiting area?”
I smile. She’ll probably never be one to talk openly about her feelings, but that’s okay. We seem to manage just fine without words.
I check out the screen, stealing a feel of her calf as I run my hand up along her leg. She doesn’t pull away. “What are they?”
“What do you mean ‘what are they’? They’re chairs.”
I snort, taking in the abstract orange plastic shape. “Those aren’t chairs.”
“Yes. They are. See? Chairs.” She taps the screen.
“Hmm . . .” I switch positions, releasing her legs and coming up behind her, crouching to rest my chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, watching her chest rise with a deep inhale, as I look at the screen. “Still don’t look like chairs.”
“Well, they are.”
I tap on the exorbitant price next to them. “You want to spend that on something that ninety percent of your clients won’t use because they won’t be able to identify?”
“Carry on with your grunt work, then, man servant,” she mutters, waving an annoyed hand toward the chair. But when I make to move, that hand lands on the back of my head, pulling my mouth to hers. Her fingers weave into my hair as our faces mash together in a deep kiss that could easily mean good-bye.
She breaks away abruptly to peer up at me. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know.”
Her breath skates across my face in a deep sigh.
And then she’s kissing me again.
EPILOGUE
SEBASTIAN
TWO MONTHS LATER
We step through the door and she inhales deeply. “Mmmm . . . sawdust.” Her eyes wander over the interior of the house, about halfway between her uncle’s—now sold—and Dakota’s.
The real estate agent handed me the keys twenty-four hours ago.
“It needs some work. A new kitchen . . .”
She opens the door to the main-floor bathroom. I gutted it this morning while she was working.
“A new bathroom . . .”
She peers over her shoulder at me, her typical cool, coy smirk on display. “Plumbing issues. How ironic.”
I smile at the dig. “The bathroom upstairs works, if you need it.”
She makes her way into the kitchen, her hand running along the smooth marble countertop, her gaze on the cheap, white melamine cupboards. “It’s nice.” A mischievous glint catches her gaze. “A bit . . . boring.”
“Are you calling me boring?” I stretch my navy T-shirt out with my hands. My “uniform,” as Ivy mocks. “Even with this?” I peel it off to reveal her handiwork, now fully healed.
Fire lights in her eyes, like I knew it would.
I rope my arms loosely around her waist. “You can help me with the design, then. You’re better at that sort of thing.”
“That’s right, I am. You’re just the brute strength.” Her hands slide over my biceps and her gaze wander the space again. “So I guess this means you’re officially staying in San Francisco?” Dark, almond-shaped eyes land on mine, pleading quietly.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I bought the house outright, sinking a good chunk of my savings into it.
That makes her smile. “How long do you think it’ll take before you can move in?”
“Before we can move in?” We’re already living together at Dakota’s, and I know Ivy’s dying to get out of there. Dakota’s moved on from Bobby to a strange meditation guru who smokes as much weed as Dakota does. You can’t have a morning coffee in the greenhouse without getting high off fumes. “Depends on work.” I started with a security company two weeks ago, a connection through my father, a fellow navy officer who runs a company focused mainly on advanced training of troops and police officers. It took a few interviews to land the job, and a good heart-to-heart about exactly what happened in Afghanistan to earn me my less than honorable discharge.
I haven’t heard from Bentley since that day in his vineyard, and I don’t expect to know anything besides what I see on the news. Two weeks after Scalero and Porter died, Bentley sold Alliance to investors for enough money to keep him comfortable until the day he dies. But not too peacefully.
It seems the video found at the “murder-suicide” site of Alliance contractors Mario Scalero and Richard Porter has found its way to the investigative journalist Dorris Maclean after all, care of an anonymous video file mailed to her desk. It may never amount to anything, given the two men Royce accused are dead, but it’s made for one hell of a news story.
While it doesn’t bring Ned back, it made Ivy feel like he didn’t go down without a fight. And I’ll do anything to ease her pain over her uncle’s death.
Ivy has handled the truth about my past better than I ever expected. There are some more specific details that she doesn’t need to know and doesn’t want to know. The hows and whos she doesn’t want to hear about.
But the whys help her understand. And, on the odd occasion, late at night, when I find myself wanting to talk and needing her reassurances, she’s always willing to listen.
She’s never afraid.
And she’s always there to ease my conscience.
“Let me show you the rest of the place.” I grab her by the hips and hoist her tiny body over my shoulder with no effort.
“You know I hate being manhandled,” she mutters, but she doesn’t fight me when I carry her straight to the master bedroom. “You’re painting this, right?” She cringes at the stark, cold white.
“Any color you want.”
She nods, her wheels spinning as she wanders around the bright space, the south wall full of windows, stopping in front of the closet. She runs her fingers along the slats. “Just like at Ned’s house,” she murmurs.
I know exactly what she’s thinking about.
I had no intention of ever telling her about that day. But one night, after hours of intensive interrogation involving harsh sexual manipulation, I finally admitted to spying on her.
I got the cold shoulder for two days.
“I think I like this house.” She steps into the closet and closes the door.
And clears her throat, as if she’s waiting.
Fuck . . .
I hang my head and smile.
“You’re still not forgiven . . .” she reminds me with her trademark icy tone.
I think I actually am. She just enjoys the leverage she has far too much.
Oddly enough, so do I.
With a deep sigh, I unbuckle my belt.