Ben took a long sip of his wine. Then another. By the fourth sip, Ivy wondered if she should try matching him drink for drink. Clearly Sam had been right on the money when he begged her not to say anything to Ben. She’d assumed it to be a guy thing, a way to allow him to keep his emotions under lock and key. But Ivy couldn’t keep her admiration to herself. Even went so far as to assume Ben would be elated to finally discuss the true version of the day that turned him into a pariah. As the chasm of silence widened, Ivy began to wonder if she’d managed to set a record for quickest ruined date ever.
With the harshness of fingernails down a chalkboard, the scrape of metal chair legs against concrete rent the air. Ben shoved back, tossing his napkin on the table as he stood. He sucked in a deep breath, expanding his already wide chest. Then he scrubbed his hand from his forehead all the way down to the nape of his neck. Still staring out at the lights twinkling on block by block across the city skyline.
“Trust me when I say I’m about as far away from brave as this planet is from Pluto—all I do is make it through the day.” Finally, he directed his gaze straight at Ivy. “But I’m honored and humbled you think so. It goes a long way toward mending the tattered shreds left of my so-called pride.”
Ben bent from the waist to drop a soft kiss in the middle of her forehead. He pulled back, looked at her with those slice of summer sky eyes. Ivy held her breath, afraid the smallest puff of air would break the cobweb of intensity spinning ever wider between them.
“Damn. I was planning to save this for the fireworks.”
“Save what?” She didn’t understand, and she almost didn’t care. Who needed the power of cognitive thought when a handsome man held you tight in the unwavering tractor beam of his eyes? “What fireworks?”
“Gib told me there’d be fireworks in about an hour. Because of Memorial Day. It’s why I brought you here—for the view.”
Her heart flipped. Turned right around in a somersault like she used to do down the grassy slope at her grandparents’ house.
“On the other hand, why should I wait for the City of Chicago to light up the sky?” He framed her face with those big, wide palms, tilted her head back. “Let’s make our own fireworks.”
Before she could savor the sexy promise in his words, Ben kissed her. A gentle touch for the space of a heartbeat—well, three beats at the rate Ivy’s heart raced—and then he sank into her mouth, as if it were a feather pillow to cradle him. Firm, deep kisses that somehow contained the richness of melted chocolate, the kick of a strong margarita, and the undeniable allure she’d succumbed to all those months before.
The earth tilted on its axis. No, it was Ben bracing his hand on the back of her chair, tipping it back for a better angle. Her feet dangled in the air. She hooked them around the chair legs in an attempt to anchor herself. Silly, really. The floor had dropped out from under her the minute his tongue slipped in between her lips, tasting, questing. And she knew without a doubt those strong arms wouldn’t let her fall.
Her hands reached out to feel them, to caress the tight, corded steel beneath his jacket. A quiver grew deep in her core at discovering she couldn’t wrap her hands all the way around his biceps. Muscles like that belonged to a broadsword-wielding knight. One who carried her off on a white horse while the crowd cheered.
The crowd cheered. It wasn’t just one of her flights of fancy. Ivy pulled her concentration from where it lay, writhing, somewhere close to the edge of her red lace panties. The roof deck had erupted into applause, catcalls and whistles. Her eyes flew open. She tapped her toe against Ben’s calf, wrenching out of the lip lock.
“We’ve got an audience.”
Undeterred, he nuzzled just below her ear. “Put on a good enough show, maybe we’ll get a free meal out of it.”
Ivy kicked once more, this time aiming the hard point of her sandal against his shin. But she made sure to let the laughter in her throat burble through. “Enough.”
With a gentle tap he lowered the chair to the ground. Then he ran the side of his thumb across her lower lip, setting off one last chain of sparklers in her veins. “Nope. Nowhere close.”
For a man who eschewed romance, he sure managed to say the right things. While Ben straightened his coat and sat back down, Ivy let her brain catch up to her speeding pulse. What the heck just happened? Hadn’t she just spent two endless months trying to get Ben out of her system? To no avail?
It was one thing to accept his invitation to dinner, to try and work through the white hot…whatever that flared through her system every time she looked at him. She’d banked on a couple hours of basic conversation in a noisy restaurant to lay a groundwork of knowledge about what made Bennett Westcott tick. Her master plan for tonight only played out through the end of dinner. A simple dinner between colleagues. With a side order of chemistry sizzling loud enough to drown out the shouts of Opa as a waiter walked past with a platter of flaming saganaki cheese held aloft.
She cast about for a safe topic while her brain retook control from her overcharged hormones. “Where’d you get the snazzy convertible? It didn’t have the antiseptic smell of a rental.”
“It’s Gib’s.”
“I don’t believe you.” The flat denial popped out automatically. Too late, she realized she’d more or less accused him of lying. How many flirting rules did that break? Why did he so unsettle her composure with just his mere presence?
Ben pushed his wineglass to the side, making room for the waiter to set down their tray of appetizers. “Why not?”
“Because none of us have ever seen his car, let alone touched it. He swears it has a single purpose.”
“Yup. To score women.”
The feminist side of her broke out in hives at the nonchalant way it rolled off Ben’s tongue. Almost as annoying as every single time Gib plumly rolled his accent around those same words. Ridiculous to have that be the sole reason to own a car. Gib refused to use his car except when in pursuit of the fairer sex. Never used it to bring home bags of groceries, or drive to the movies when the thermometer dipped below freezing, or even to pick up family from O’Hare on their rare visits. He swore he only used it on dates, and only when close to sealing the deal.
“Said purpose does not include letting any of his friends borrow it or ride in it. Ever.”
“I heard the speech. The power of the car can only be used for good. Christ, it was like Obi-Wan Kenobi droning on about The Force.”
Hmm. That could be interpreted as a pro or a con for her favorite movie franchise. Better to get it out in the open from the start. “Are you a Star Wars fan?”
“Rabid. New, old, recut version, digitally remastered, you name it. I read the books, I read the comics, and I play the video games. You?”
“For ten years running, I dressed up for Halloween as Princess Leia. For the past six years I’ve been working my way through each of Queen Amidala’s costumes. Most people laugh when I tell them I love all six movies.”
“Well, sure, there are haters for both trilogies. We could sit here for a week straight debating the merits of each episode.”
“Count me in.”
“See?” Ben shoved the plate to the side and reached across the table. He waited, palm up, until she laid her hands atop his. Instantly, his grasp tightened as he leaned forward. “It isn’t every day I come across a woman willing to not just indulge, but participate in my Star Wars obsession. You’re fun, Ivy.”
“So you said earlier,” she sassed back, desperate not to let him know how his firm clasp sent her mind whirling. Ever since they began taping Planning for Love, she’d gotten to know and respect Ben. See him as, yes, a fun colleague, one whose easy quips passed the day a little more quickly. Putting to the side the raw pain she still harbored over his using and discarding her like a wet tissue, Ivy genuinely liked Ben as a friend. Tonight, however was no simple dinner between work buddies. He’d morphed back into the flirtatious, downright compelling man she fell head over heels for in April. What did it
mean? What turned the tide? And as long as she didn’t mention marriage or weddings or true love, would he stay like this?
He scowled, drawing his eyebrows together into a single, bushy blond line. “Thought we were having a conversation, not comparing dictation notes. Next time we go out I’ll bring my own stenographer.”
“Sorry. But you sounded like you were about to crown me queen of the nerd table. You should know that my sci-fi obsession begins and ends with Star Wars. I don’t play World of Warcraft and I don’t read manga. And I loathed every single science class I took in school.”
“I don’t care.” Ben rasped his thumb slowly across the back of her hand. The touch flooded a river of goose bumps up her arm. “Maybe I came about this from the wrong direction. The Star Wars thing is just the cherry on top of a well-mixed Manhattan. Point is, we click. We work well together, and we’ve got this explosive chemistry. Cards on the table. You already know I’m not a long-term kind of guy. But can’t we enjoy ourselves for the next six weeks while I’m here?”
If Ivy understood him correctly, Ben had just proposed the longest one-night stand in history. She needed to be crystal clear on the parameters. “Define ‘enjoy ourselves’ for me.”
“Should’ve known you’d insist on labeling it. This—dinner, drinks, you know.” He jerked his right shoulder forward. For somebody so eloquent about what he didn’t like about relationships, he sure had trouble verbalizing what he did want out of one. His obvious discomfort made her wonder if Ben really knew what he wanted.
“Is you know the latest slang for sex?”
“It is if you say yes.” Ben paused, waited for a response. With a final squeeze, he released her hands and sat back. “Otherwise, we’ll fall back on the alternate definition of just having a few laughs.”
A horrible thought occurred to her. “Did Gib promise if you borrowed his car, I’d agree to anything? Remember, I warned you flat out you’re not getting sex tonight. No matter what.”
“Nah. Matter of fact, he warned I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of pulling this off. He loaned me the car out of pity.” After loading a pita with hummus and feta, he paused, hand in mid-air. “Question now is, will you take pity on me? Give me something to look forward to besides a muffin made out of whatever June’s fruit-of-the-month is?”
Ivy thought about it. She thought while scooping an extra dollop of lemony sauce onto a dolmades. She thought while the waiter topped off her wineglass. She thought while the silence grew into a thick cloud encircling their table. The entire time, it was one, single thought doing laps in her brain: maybe it was time for a new plan.
Chapter Twelve
A plan which succeeds is bold, one which fails is reckless.
—General Karl von Clausewitz
“The only acceptable reason for being up this early involves death. Or winning the lottery. And if you did win and you don’t intend to share with me, then I’m going back to bed.” Daphne dropped into the chair next to Ivy. She wore workout shorts, a thin tee, and a decidedly disgruntled expression. “Either way, if I don’t get coffee soon, something dire will happen. Murder. Mayhem. Not sure of the details exactly, but I promise you I will scrape together all my energy to pitch a fit until there is a full coffee cup in front of me.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Ivy pushed her own mug of steaming goodness in front of Daphne. “Here, I’m happy to share until the waitress swings by.” Wordlessly, Daphne lifted and drained the entire cup, slamming it back into the saucer.
Julianna twitched in her ladder-back chair at the sharp crack of china. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that our next potential bride could be sitting in this very restaurant. Image is everything.”
Despite it being not yet eight o’clock, Julianna looked bandbox neat in an apricot linen suit and a pearl choker. It bothered Ivy, since she’d chosen her own scoop-necked sundress through sleep-squinted eyes. Not until she sat down at Ann Sather’s did she open her eyes enough to notice the slew of wrinkles pleating the tangerine polka-dotted skirt. Oh, and the strong possibility (she refused to look down to confirm) she’d slipped on clashing pink sandals instead of white. And she knew without looking that her own eyes boasted steamer trunk-sized circles and puffiness. Makeup could hide a lot, but not the exhaustion toll levied by pulling off six weddings in four days. What sort of deal with the devil had her assistant struck to look so disgustingly perfect?
“The image of my floral creations is everything,” Daphne corrected. “I am strictly a behind-the-scenes girl. Besides, great artists are notorious for frumpy outfits and quirky personal hygiene. Do you think the Pope ever asked da Vinci to smarten up and remove his smock? Did Queen Elizabeth ever demand Shakespeare don a fresh doublet and breeches?”
“Whoa, there.” Milo swooshed into place beside the table, one hand outstretched like a crossing guard. “Want to rein in that ego, Michelangelo? Not sure there’s room at the table for all of us with that big head of yours.”
Ivy swallowed, hard. Then she bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to break into a huge guffaw. A navy blue kimono covered with pale blue, snarling dragons draped across Milo’s shoulders. In the open neck of his white shirt fluffed an ice blue ascot. Below the cheery yellow tablecloth, Daphne’s hand clutched at Ivy’s thigh like the talons of a hissing cat. Guess she was trying to play it cool, too, rather than roll on the floor laughing. They’d learned years ago Milo took his fashion choices very seriously. And he took criticism of such very poorly.
With perfect aplomb, Julianna leapt into the breach. “Interesting outfit. I don’t recall seeing it before.”
Although Ivy interpreted interesting to mean ridiculous and mockable, Milo preened. “It is a vintage silk smoking jacket. Perfect for lounging through an early breakfast.” He slid into the seat across from Daphne. “Back in the good old days, everybody ate breakfast in robes.”
Daphne snorted. “We’re not back in the day. And we’re in public. You look like a gay Hugh Hefner.” Ivy sighed. Daphne’s depleted reserves of both caffeine and sugar left her tactless and irritable. Not bursting into guffaws the moment she spotted Milo must’ve used every bit of her self-control.
“Thank you. He did begin his empire right here in Chicago, you know. What better place to emulate one of our town’s greatest icons?”
“You think Hef’s an icon?” Ivy leaned forward, chin propped on her fists. “I thought your tribe idolized Liza and Bette Midler, not a guy who built his empire on parts of the female anatomy that generally make you break out in hives.”
“True. But the man turned loungewear into an acceptable fashion choice. What’s not to love?”
Coffeepots in each hand, their waitress appeared. Before she had a chance to fill the empty cups, Daphne pushed hers forward and raised a finger. “Here’s what’s gotta happen in the next five minutes: you can give me straight coffee now, but then I need you to bring me your biggest mocha latte, extra shot of espresso, double drizzle of chocolate syrup on top, absolutely covered with marshmallows. As soon as you bring it, turn right around and start making a second one. Or feel free to bring two at once. And while we decide on breakfast, we’ll need a round of cinnamon rolls for the table.”
“You betcha, hon.” The middle-aged waitress took the verbal barrage in stride, filling all four cups before hurrying away.
“You’ve got a take-no-prisoners approach to ordering. Hope that your crankiness doesn’t inspire the kitchen to spit on our cinnamon rolls.” Ivy tempered her words by slinging an arm around Daphne’s shoulders.
“If they do, it’s your fault. What on earth possessed you to call an emergency meeting this early? Did the building burn down overnight? Or maybe the White House contacted you to handle the First Daughter’s wedding? Because those are the only reasons I can think of after the week we put in to be up so early.”
Ivy surveyed the faces of her friends: Daphne’s grumpy squint, Julianna’s inquisitively arched eyebrow, and Milo not meeting her gaze,
but rather stroking the lapels of his kimono. After her big revelation, she expected them to tease for a bit, but end up stalwart supporters as usual. Probably. Hopefully. Should she wait until they all had a gooey, delicious cinnamon roll before breaking the news? Everything sounded better with caramel, nutty sweetness toasting your tummy.
With a shrug, Daphne shook off Ivy’s arm. “Spill it, Rhodes, or I’m taking my liter of lattes and scooting straight back to bed. Why couldn’t whatever this is wait until we open the office at eleven?”
“Because Ben will be there.”
“Ah.” Daphne nodded slowly, then folded her arms over her chest and leaned back. “You’ve got my attention. As long as I also get an order of Swedish pancakes with lingonberries. Extra syrup. Side of sausage.”
“Before Daphne scarfs down half the menu, do you want to bring the rest of us up to speed? What’s the deal with Ben? Did he set our building on fire?” asked Milo, a facetious smirk flattening one side of his mouth.
“Not the building. Just me.” God, could she sound more like a deluded soap opera virgin? Apparently Daphne wasn’t the only one running on fumes. Ivy slurped down half of her coffee at once. “Ben and I went on a date last night.”
“After the Sigurski wedding? Where did you find the stamina?” asked Julianna. “I went home and melted into the couch.”
“Ben can be…persuasive.”
“Did he persuade your panties off?” Milo sniggered.
Fair question. After the frantic phone calls dragging them out of bed, the least her friends deserved was total honesty. “Not this time.”
Planning for Love Page 18
