by Isla Dean
“Says who? Who are these mysterious people who get together and tell all the people of the world how to live their lives, determining what’s normal and what’s not?”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Helen repeated. “I, myself, could’ve gone on to design jewelry in my day. I had an eye for it, I was good at it. But I didn’t because it—”
“Wait, what did you say?” Stunned, Ivy studied her mother. “You wanted to be a jewelry designer? I had no idea.”
“Because when it was time to put my family first, I set it all aside because that’s what was right.”
“Right for you, Mom. Right for you.” The roiling heat, the deafening roar, settled into a low-flame burn. What remained on the surface were emotions reduced down to their purest, most potent form.
“Don’t play that game, Ivy. Only a recluse renounces society. I became a wife, and I’m proud to support my husband. I became a mom, raising my daughters, keeping a home. It was more important than my own selfish desires. I have a better life because I did what was right. There comes a time when you grow up, Ivy. And you, my dear, haven’t grown out of your selfishness. Instead you’ve become a recluse and, quite frankly, you’re an embarrassment to this family.”
Finally hearing words she’d always known, always felt, sent tears streaming down from Ivy’s eyes, over her cheeks. They fell fast from her face in a blazing surge. “Then maybe I don’t fit into your family anymore.”
“That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.” Helen hurled the final blow then looked to Aiden, her mouth set. “You get us back to civilization. Now.”
Wanting nothing more than to return to her cocoon, Ivy crossed to her setup of paints and paper, and began packing them up, piece by piece.
As Helen stormed away from the waterfall toward the Jeep, Iris silently followed with occasional glances of apology to her sister.
Aiden lowered to where Ivy was, collected a cluster of pens and handed them to her.
She took them, shoved them in the bag, her hand shaking, her limbs feeling like water.
She needed to apologize to him for the ugly family display but she couldn’t find her voice. It was lodged in her throat and if she spoke, the unspoken would dislodge as well. So instead she stayed quiet.
He couldn’t help but glimpse the painting Ivy had taped to a board. In his defense she didn’t hide it. It was, unmistakably, a painting of him—his face, his eyes—and he was engulfed by life. The waterfall, the foliage, it surrounded him. And there he was, right smack in the center.
There was something odd about looking at a painting of yourself, he decided. It reflected more emotion, more clarity than a mirror. She saw things in him that he hadn’t seen in himself. Was that even possible?
It was possible because of the painter behind the painting. He’d never known such a perceptive woman inside of such a sexy package before. She had it all. Including a crazy family, he thought, sad for her.
And she saw him—beyond a businessman, beyond any titles or travels or bank accounts. She simply saw him. And in return, her family didn’t see her, which seemed like the shitty short end of a stick she was stuck holding.
She deserved to be loved, supported, cared for. The basics every human needs. How could her own family not see her for who she was? Even he saw it, and he’d only known her for a week.
And as they each approached and climbed into the Jeep, he watched Ivy out of the corner of his eye while she gently set the paintings she’d worked on at her feet. She held them as if they were precious and something inside of him wanted to hold her close, shielding her from what he knew must hurt like hell.
And after listening to his own father rant for a good thirty minutes on the phone that afternoon, he wanted to hold Ivy possibly more than he let himself realize.
Maybe that’s why people created their own families, he thought as he started the engine and geared away, slowly over the bumps to protect the paintings. He’d never craved a family of his own, it always seemed like such a burden. But watching Ivy’s family slice whatever ties they had between them, he wanted to scoop her up and let her know how amazing she was, that he was there for her.
But was he really there for her?
He wanted to be. He’d put himself in the path of his father’s wrath to be there for her when she needed him. His father had ordered him to leave, but he couldn’t leave Ivy alone with such sharp blades being thrown at her by her mother.
Of course Ivy would probably punch him for thinking she needed anything. She was both brave and vulnerable with a strong world of swirling emotion within her. One had only to look at her paintings to see that much. She truly was that combination of softness and steel he’d seen in her.
And that, he thought, was one of the many reasons he wasn’t ready to board his father’s plane.
Chapter Eleven
Because he understood her, he helped Ivy unload her paints and sketchbooks then gave her a quick kiss before leaving her in her studio.
She hadn’t reached out for him, hadn’t seemed like she’d been looking for a shoulder to cry on. She’d seemed, he thought now, like a woman who could either invade a country or carve David in one day. Or, more aptly, pour her heart out onto paper for the world to see.
So he gave her that space and returned to his room to pack his belongings.
In a way his father had been right, he’d neglected his job. He’d been focused on something, or rather someone, else. Never before had anything come between him and his work, his duty to his father’s company.
But now, as he grabbed his phone charger from the wall and paused to look out at the collection of boats below, he had something else on his mind, something that felt more important.
Only he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or what to do about it.
And because it wasn’t clear, he’d continue doing what he knew to do—and that was to get on the plane his father sent, go to London, and do his job.
He carried his bag through the villa, past the lounge where the group of bachelorette party girls hooted and whistled when he walked by. He offered a wave and a friendly smile as he continued striding, a man and his lone bag, along the path to Ivy’s studio.
She’d been painting almost non-stop for however long, and was in a funky mix of energy and exhaustion. Which had produced more than decent results, she decided. She’d squeezed her emotions out like a sponge and had painted with whatever had come out.
And paint, by God, she did.
A staggered row of fresh paintings had been propped up against the giant planters that lined her studio, each still wet from the furious pace at which she’d painted. There was finishing work to be done but the foundations were there, primed for the shadows and the highlights, the next layers.
As she’d painted piece after piece, layers of her emotions—anger, disappointment, shock, fury, confusion, sadness—had ignited, leaving her with sizzling sparks of life inside. It was as if a lightening bolt had struck her and she was still sparkling with electricity from it.
Never before had she considered that her mother would sacrifice anything so vital for her family. Well, vital according to Ivy.
So she’d painted with a new charge, determined not to sacrifice her passion for anyone or anything. And, though anger certainly had its hold in her, it wasn’t what dominated. Instead, she powered forward with a charge of strength. Her mother had made her choices in life and had done so with blazing conviction, and Ivy was doing the same.
In her own way.
At the sound of three quick knocks, she moved to the door, tugged it open, and was greeted by Aiden’s sharply angled face and raised eyebrow.
“Wow,” he managed to get out.
“Wow?”
“You look incredible. I came to see if you were okay but you look… Wow.”
She gleamed with an inner fiery fortitude. “I feel incredible. Alive. I’m sure I’ll fall flat on my face and sob into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s
later, but I was inspired, I guess. I had something to say, so to speak.”
She watched his eyes scan the room, the paintings propped up on the floor, then she pulled him in and closed the door. She noticed the leather bag he set down, but was feeling too full of a vibrant buzz to think about it.
“You had a lot of something to say. Sorry,” he said, anticipating. “I can’t not look at them.”
“You know, after a day like today, I think that’s okay.”
“Crazy day.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” She walked behind him as he entered the room, and felt her body magically punch up another few notches. He had incredible legs beneath the jeans he wore—without underwear, she hoped for the sake of her imagination. And he’d put on a proper button-up shirt but it was casually rolled at the cuffs. And he’d shaved, she noted. His face was no longer rough looking, but instead, the lines of it were carved clearly, chiseled in interesting ways.
He was sharply dressed and ready for the city, wasn’t he? Before she let herself fully realize the ramifications of that, she decided it was a shame she was going to have to take it all off him.
“I want to ask you something.”
“Okay,” she replied, hearing the turn of tone in his voice and retrieving her thoughts in response.
“Are you still caught up in your ex?”
“Not even a little bit.”
His eyebrow lifted into a dark peak at her immediate response. “You were crying the day I met you. Because of him?”
She took a deep breath, searching for words that matched her emotions.
“Should I not have asked?”
“No, no.” Her hand lay gently on his forearm, fingers feeling his warm skin, the strong muscles beneath. “I was just thinking it through. I suppose a lot of things hit me in that moment. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it like this, but I’ve had a sort of clenched grip on any creative flow over the past year and it’s been, well, crippling in a lot of ways.
“I have this drive to prove myself, probably a bit more than is healthy, but it’s like I’m doing this thing that my family sees as a hobby and I want really badly to prove that following my heart is important, that I can do this. I know it’s a long shot, starving artists and whatnot, but at this point in my life, what do I have to lose? When I got divorced, I saw, after a lot of hurt, I’ll admit, but I saw it as an opportunity to live my dreams.
“So when I got the call from Greg and he told me that he and his fiancé—well, wife now, I suppose—were getting married and having a baby, it felt like he’d propelled forward and, in contrast, I’d somehow fallen backward.
“I think this is a really roundabout way of saying that I was feeling emotional about me, not about him. In the heart of it, I’m happy for him. Mostly, selfishly, I’m happy for me that I’m living a life—even though it’s frustrating at times—that I want to live.”
He closed the distance between them and engulfed her in a kiss that quickly went from smoldering to a hot flash of flame. And when he eased back, he looked at her, holding her face.
“Did that answer your question?” she asked.
“And then some.” The intoxicating taste of her overwhelmed him. “Not many people have the courage to take responsibility for their lives, to go after what they want. Easier to blame others for holding them back.”
“I guess.”
“One more question,” he started, nibbling at her bottom lip.
“Okay,” she let out a breathy sigh, knowing it was highly unlikely she’d be able to form words if he kept doing what he was doing.
“Tell me about this Gustav character. You still caught up in him too?”
“My imaginary friend from childhood?” Her head tilted back as she let out a low, steady stream of laughter. “You should definitely worry about Gustav. He was cute too. Oh, Gustav,” she teased with a breath of longing. “Yeah, you should definitely be jealous.”
“I’ll kick his imaginary ass.”
“Feeling competitive, are you?” Her hands slid down the length of his body, feeling along the tight muscles of his back, the strong lines and hard ridges.
And again, something in his face changed, something brewed beneath the green of his eyes.
“When it’s warranted.”
He didn’t say anything more so she lowered her hands and stepped back, took a sip of water from her bottle on the side table, then watched, curious, as he began wandering around her space, looking at her paintings. Just what was the man thinking?
The memory, the feeling of his hands on her, eased into her mind, firing up that curiosity—what would it be like to take him to bed while her body and emotions were so open, pulsing with such life?
Her heartbeat jumped wildly under her skin as she eyed him.
He filled the space with his presence just as he filled his jeans with fantastic legs. She knew what he looked like beneath those jeans, she’d seen him be as comfortable naked as he was in clothes. She’d watched him as he’d moved inside of her, and she’d felt what their bodies could do together.
Taking another chug of water to cool her thoughts, she glanced out to the bay, gathered herself, then wondered why the hell she would try to cool off and gather herself. She had a sexy man standing in her studio, a man who knew her, who saw her to her core.
“This one is my favorite, right here.”
She turned toward him, peered at him like a cat would study prey. “I don’t play favorites, but I had a lot of fun with that one.” She scanned from Aiden’s feet to his face, taking in every inch, feeling that feline power ripen within her. “Strong masculinity with a sense of adventure always on the surface, ready for a spontaneous burst of anything interesting.”
He frowned at her description of the painting, then glanced over to her, questioning. And when he realized she wasn’t talking about the painting, he closed the space between them, shifting gears, and pulled her close, finding her mouth potent, ready.
There was no patience, nothing calm about her now.
She gripped his hair as his tongue swept against hers, igniting her senses even further. His mouth was so persuasively capable, his taste so potently masculine, that her body melted in response.
Unable to wait any longer, she found the buttons of his jeans, tugged at them and reached inside for him. She let out a sound, a murmur of true appreciation as her fingers found him hard and hot, ready for her.
His hands covered her, explored her, ignited her beyond the fire she already had burning inside. He lifted off her shirt, tossed it away, and with a desperation to feel, she ripped at his shirt and heard buttons land around them.
“Sorry,” she said, breathless. “Sorry.”
“I’m not.” His mouth tugged into a side grin. He held her face, cupped her cheeks, and they both breathed, a pause between the passion.
No, not a pause she thought as he reached down and pulled off her pants. There would be no pause, no consideration taken, no time, no thought. Just action. Exactly how she liked to paint.
She reached for her hairband and let her hair tumble down, the blond falling in silky waves down her back.
He grabbed her butt, hitched her legs around him, and he carried her to the glass wall, to the space between sprouting green plants. He put a heated hand between the cool glass and her back and the collision of hot and cold stimulated her sparking senses, making her tremble with tingles of need. And when he set her legs down to stand, he dipped down then rose, sliding into her, giving what her body craved.
And that lightening within her, that spark that carried her through creating painting after painting, flared into a full-blown fire.
She gripped his shoulders as he held her hips, sliding in and out of her. She looked at him—a blur of green eyes and rich brown hair—and her body danced on the tops of those flames, enlivened by the man inside of her, the man she wanted more and more of.
There wasn’t time for languid desires; it was gold-tipped flames, matching torment
with the greedy need for more, faster, now. They moved together in a quickening rhythm, gripping, riding through the brutal rush of need.
It was him that she wanted, it was him that she gave to. It was the beat of two bodies together, not knowing where one ended and the other began.
Faster they moved, mouths and hands and heat, colliding. And when she felt her body rush to take flight, she gasped then looked down to watch his body move in and out of hers. The picture of him sliding deeper, harder, charged through her and she tensed, braced to soar. And as she did, her body melted around him in tight, satin pulses, while she floated, endlessly, in the glorious sweep of sensations.
He gripped her, held on to her as he flew right along with her.
“Wow,” he said, his heart racing.
“Wow,” she purred sultrily, breathily. “A whole lot of wow.”
Their skin was sweaty, heated, and the glass around them had fogged.
“I’m surprised I’m still standing,” she told him, taking the opportunity to reach around and grip his butt. “My legs were shaking there for a bit.”
“I wouldn’t have let you fall.”
“You do have some pretty strong body parts,” she said with deep delight in her eyes.
And the laugh she got from him lifted her beyond satisfaction. It welled up in her and she wanted to swim in that feeling, that sensation.
“Wow,” he said again, finding her mouth.
When he eased back slowly, she saw what she hadn’t seen before. She was falling in love with him.
It was quick and deep, a primal desire for more, a hot rush in the chest that yearned potently for the man who stood before her. She wanted to give to him with all that she had, and she wanted to know, to understand, all of who he was.
“I’ll get us some water,” she told him, giving him a playful pat on the butt before walking away.
She was what? she thought as she pulled open her mini fridge. She couldn’t be falling in love with a man who literally had a bag packed and sitting at her door. This was not a man to fall in love with, just as Donatella had said.
