Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  Shit. Ben reached down and adjusted his suddenly too-tight cargo shorts. His self control had regressed back to the level of a teenager, getting rock hard at the mere thought of tasting Ivy. And he thought of her all the time. Even at inopportune times, like his early morning racquetball games with Sam and Gib. When her image popped to mind even as he careened off the wall to avoid the slap of Gib’s racquet, Ben knew the problem was serious.

  She drove him crazy, the way she smelled like sex covered in flower petals, the way she let her silky hair trail over his arm, which made him remember the way it felt trailing down over the rest of his body. If they didn’t have sex soon, his insistent cock might rub a hole right through his fly. It leapt to attention the moment she walked into a room. Since they worked together all day and hung out most nights, he lived in a constant state of semi-arousal. He couldn’t take it much longer.

  “I do so enjoy starting the day with a leisurely ogle of Mr. Tall, Blond and Handsome.” Milo swished through the door. Hell, Milo swished more than Ivy and Daphne put together. “It’s so nice having eye candy around the office.”

  “Try not to sexually harass the nice man,” Daphne warned. “Or at least not when there’s this many witnesses around.” Julianna and Ivy entered right behind in a clatter of heels and slapping sandals. This week Ivy’s toe nails were painted the same deep red she’d slicked over her lips. They peeked out from under a series of black strips that ended up tying around her ankle like ballet shoes. Which, of course, made him think about untying them, running his hands up her calf, under her floofy black skirt…Damn it. Ben dropped into the wing chair to try and hide his third erection of the morning.

  “What’s with the coffee table sculpture?” Daphne dropped her bag on the floor and put her hands on her hips. Unlike the other women, whose breezy dresses indicated a full day of consults, her uniform of shorts and a tank top let him know she planned to stay wrists deep in roses and ribbons.

  “Ask Ivy,” he said with a jerk of his head in her direction.

  “I didn’t tell you to make…” her voice trailed off. Ivy clapped her hands together and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh Ben, it’s wonderful! How on earth did you know this is National Iced Tea Month?”

  “You’re not the only one who knows their way around a search engine.” One at a time, he pointed at each row. “There’s papaya mango, raspberry, peach, lemon, green, and of course the classic black iced tea. If I missed your favorite flavor, I can get it here by lunch.”

  “Surprisingly thoughtful,” said Julianna, nipping a bottle off the top. “Well done.”

  He shrugged off the praise. The happiness radiating out of Ivy’s golden tinged eyes was thanks enough. “I like working here. Beats being cooped up in my hotel all day with my nose to the grindstone. Just trying to fit in.”

  Ivy dropped a kiss on the top of his head. Since she’d declared the wacked-out rule that the office had to be a no-make-out zone, Ben assumed his pyramid of plenty was the cause. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Having a good day. Gib made me run with him at the crack of dawn. Behind all that quiet British politeness, the guy’s a hard ass. Says if my shirt isn’t wet enough to wring out, haven’t gone far enough. Can’t wait til we hit July and I sweat through it in half a mile.” Ben wasn’t at all sure he liked being Gib’s personal training mission. Who cared if all this running prevented a heart attack twenty years down the road when his calves ached like a bitch today? “Since I was up, I came in early to edit some scenes from Houston’s Planning for Love.”

  Milo stopped checking voice mail, angling the phone away from his ear. “Don’t make them more interesting than us,” he pleaded with a long, drawn-out whine on the first word.

  “Not a chance. Their footage was pretty damn raw. The crew down there put way too many hours in the can. No focal point, no story arc at all.”

  Julianna sniffed. Actually god-damned sniffed, like he’d farted the words. “Aren’t the bride and groom the focal point of each piece?”

  One step forward, two steps back. Every time Ben thought he’d thawed the redhead an inch, she slammed right back behind the icy walls of her friggin’ fortress of solitude. She’d never forgive him for hurting Ivy. Which meant he had nothing to lose by sniping back at her. “Rookie mistake. People won’t tune in week after week to a formulaic, cookie cutter approach to the white dress and the tux. Gotta have a hook.”

  “You’re trying to reduce true love to a sound bite?” Her tone held roughly as much heat as a sun right before it supernovaed. Yet she sat at her desk, outwardly calm, the borderline OCD straightening and restraightening of a stack of contracts the only giveaway of her true feelings.

  “Don’t give me that knee-jerk negative spin on my job.” Ivy laid a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but the soft touch reminded him it wouldn’t further his cause any to go ten rounds with her treasured assistant. Since Julianna made herself invaluable to Ivy on a daily basis, he’d force himself to play nice. As long as he didn’t have to mean it. “What if you try and come at it from a different direction?”

  One eyebrow the color of cinnamon candy arched high enough to buttress a cathedral. “Such as?”

  “I give people a reason to tune in, by making happily ever after accessible to the non hearts and flowers masses.”

  Milo swiped his finger down an imaginary scoreboard. “Touché. Camera guy one, Aisle Bound nada.”

  It might be as useful as talking to a turnip, but knowing Julianna wouldn’t listen didn’t stop Ben from hoisting the flag on his favorite topic. “Documentary filmmaking is all about making people care about real life. Opening a window to a slice of life they might not know about. Or bother to care about. If I do my job right, I’ll coerce them into caring. It’s heady stuff.”

  Ivy perched on the coffee table in front of him. “See? You’ve got this impassive outer shell, but deep down, you’re filled with passion. Except that instead of my obsession with love and romance, your passion is wrapped around filmmaking.”

  He swatted at the finger she waved in a lazy circle in front of his nose. “Cut it out. Makes it sound like I’ve got some weird sexual fetish.”

  “I mean it. You’re so passionate about capturing life with a camera, you’re like a thousand-year-old volcano ready to blow.”

  “You really think talking about flowing hot lava about to erupt makes your argument sound any less sexual?”

  “What happened to the office being a no-foreplay zone?” Daphne’s huffy voice preceded her down the hall. She brandished stripping shears in one hand and a bunch of fluffy white things in the other. “All the steam you two are generating is going to prematurely open my entire order of Asiatic lilies. The Yamamoto wedding’s not until Saturday, so cool it!”

  Ben wiggled his hands in the air. “Nobody’s naked, and my hands are empty. To me, that sadly indicates I’m not getting any action. So why don’t you chill, Lovell.”

  Milo shoved back from the desk. His chair banged into the wall as he bolted out of his seat. “Excuse me, but I need to interrupt your petty bickering.”

  “Attitude check for a certain office manager.” Ivy crossed her arms and stared him down. His cheeks flushed to match the cherries printed on today’s ridiculous vest. A single, tiny red bunch clustered out of his buttonhole. “Milo, why so snarky?”

  He ducked his head. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got a code red on our hands. Emergency extraordinaire. Catastrophic crisis.”

  “What’s wrong, Milo?” Ben leaned around the side of the chair for a better view. Guy probably broke a nail. He actually kept a manicure set in his top desk drawer. “Did ya miss an opportunity to ogle George Clooney in person when he buzzed through town yesterday to visit Oprah?”

  “Before we sink deep into the quagmire that is Milo’s dating history, I need to update you all on today’s appointments.” Julianna gingerly settled her phone into the cradle. “We’ve had two cancellations for this afternoon, both from po
tential clients. And one more cancellation for Friday.”

  Daphne cocked her head to the side. “What’s going on? We haven’t had this many holes in the schedule since the swine flu epidemic a few years ago.”

  Ivy shuddered, bumped Daphne with her shoulder. “Don’t even say those words out loud. We can’t afford to get so much as hay fever—this is our busiest season.”

  “Apparently not this week,” said Ben. His comment earned him a trio of glowers from the women. “Geez, lighten up, ladies. You’re not going to go under because of three missing appointments.” This time he provoked an eye roll from Daphne.

  “Obviously you don’t know the nail-biting fear of owning a business. Think about it—we don’t get a lot of repeat customers in our line of work. We scratch and claw to put every single name in our books.”

  “And we will continue to do so,” said Ivy, a stubborn set to her jaw. “So Julianna, do your best to reschedule the consults. Then check the news to see if there’s been an outbreak of food poisoning. There must be some reason behind this rash of cancellations.”

  “Oh, I know exactly where to point the finger.” Milo moved out from behind his desk to claim the floor. “I just listened to seven straight calls from vendors. All royally pissed and using language that would make a sailor blush. Photos by Frank, Swing Time, Essential Sounds, the Bridal Bower. The little old lady who runs Sweet Confections has got some mouth on her. I tried to tell you, we’re in the middle of a situation with a capital S. The common theme in all the messages is betrayal.”

  Uh oh. Ben flashed on a probable cause, and it meant he’d be persona non grata in about two minutes. If right, his chances of getting back into Ivy’s panties would be nonexistent.

  Ivy crinkled her brows together. “What on earth are they upset about?”

  “The first commercial for your episode of Wild Wedding Smackdown ran last night. They’ve got a three-second shot of you standing next to a sopping wet guy in a tux with a pissed-looking bride in the background.”

  Ivy winced. “The idiot ring bearer who parachuted into the pond.”

  “He’s dressed like a groom, so people assume the worst.” Daphne pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, as though trying to press out a headache. “Damn it. That show is a train wreck. Everyone on it comes out looking like an idiot. By association, all the vendors we use are worried about the fallout. What if they stop recommending us? Take our link off their websites? They probably all think you asked to be on that show.”

  “How many times do we have to go over this?” Ivy began to pace between the front door and the hallway to her office in a slow circle. “I didn’t have a choice. By the time I discovered we’d be filmed, the only way out would’ve been to break our contract with the bride and groom. On their wedding day. Do I really need to spell it out? How much that simply was not an option?”

  A beat of silence, electric with simmering tension. “Maybe you do.”

  Ivy stopped mid-turn, bobbling on her ice-pick heels. “Seriously, Daph? We’d be a sitting duck for potential litigation. There isn’t an escape clause in our contract that covers smarmy, trash television taping. Not to mention we don’t work that way. Our job is to iron out any wrinkles in the wedding day, not create one.”

  Another long beat. Then Daphne ran a quick hand of apology down Ivy’s arm. “You’re right. You were thrust into an untenable position. I’m sorry—I just so badly want to throw heaping shovelfuls of blame on somebody.”

  Ben didn’t need to physically see a lynch mob to know one was forming. With his name on the noose. He was nothing more than a living, breathing symbol of the one thing currently threatening Aisle Bound—reality television. Sure enough, before he could beat a hasty retreat out the front door, Milo and Julianna stalked forward. They stopped on the opposite side of the table. Ivy and Daphne flanked his chair.

  “What did you do?” Ivy asked, arms akimbo.

  As expected, they wanted to make him the fall guy. Well, fat chance. “Nothing, I swear. For God’s sake, I didn’t edit the piece. I had no input on the finished product—and no idea what it looks like. Don’t dump this on my lap. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean you can poke me with a stick. Remember, I left True Life Productions. I’ve got no ties to that crap pile of a show.”

  Glossy red lips pursed together, then thinned into a straight line. Turning on her heel, Ivy clattered away toward her office. Halfway there, she paused and wordlessly jerked her chin to indicate he should follow. Ben gave a fleeting glance at the front door and the freedom that lay beyond it. But he knew his only chance of getting back in Ivy’s good graces relied on not making a break for it.

  She waited, arms crossed and sparks all but leaping out of her eyes, until he shut the door behind him. Ben dropped into a chair, slouched with legs crossed at the ankles. No damn way would he stand there and be lectured, metaphorical hat in hand. He’d listen to her grievances, but he wouldn’t roll over.

  “Did I not tell you from the start that being on that damn show petrified me? That it could sink my business? Six years of blood, sweat and tears leveled by a single, half-hour reality TV schlockfest!” She raised her arms to the sides in an unspoken plea. “Running a business encompasses more than showing up and doing the work. It is a responsibility. I provide a livelihood for everyone who works at Aisle Bound. I have a partner, full-time employees, the team of part timers that helps Daphne, and our interns all depending on me to put a paycheck in front of them every two weeks.”

  Ivy dropped her arms to hang limply at her sides. For a moment, Ben thought she might be winding down. No such luck. She sat behind her desk, lining up folders and pencils and paper clips with laser-sharp precision. Without looking up, she plowed ahead.

  “Oh, not to mention we currently have more than eighty active contracts.” Picking up an old-fashioned fountain pen, she jammed it into her blotter with each sentence. “Contracts which stipulate I am obligated to supply vendors, even if I’m blacklisted by every band and bakery and photographer in Chicago. Contracts with brides who need and expect my help. Brides who are counting on me!” The nib broke off under the unforgiving pressure of Ivy’s white-knuckled grip. A small puddle of violet ink spread across the blotter.

  Ben expected her to be pissy. Bust his balls a little. He hadn’t expected her to completely lose her cool. Interesting to watch. Made him a little amused, and, damn it, a little aroused. To top it off, he was very fearful the waterworks would start to flow any second. “Are you done?”

  She siphoned a long, slow breath. “Yes. I think I got it all out.”

  “You sure? I’m not letting you go back out there until you’re the uber-annoyingly calm planner I’ve come to admire.”

  “Calm enough to fake it, anyway.”

  “Hmm.” Ben uncrossed his legs, braced his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Are you honestly mad at me, or am I just a handy whipping boy?”

  A corner of her mouth tilted up, but her eyes were still a flat, brownish gold. Anger muddied away all the sparkling green flecks. They were almost the same color as the candied ginger he ate by the handful on airplanes to prevent motion sickness. “Do I have to choose?”

  “Yes. Forget about your business. Forget about the people who used to sign my paycheck and their stupid editing. It boils down to trust.” Ivy didn’t get to be the only one on a high horse. Suddenly Ben’s gut churned. Where did she get off blaming him? Anger propelled him to his feet. Using his foot, he spun her chair to the side. With one hand planted on the backrest, he used the other to tilt her chin up to look at him. To see him as a person, not a representation of a faceless company.

  “In your heart, do you believe I’d do anything to portray you in a negative light? That I’d sacrifice my integrity? Slant my taping to portray anything less than the truth of the moment?”

  Ivy’s lips parted, like an overripe strawberry falling open, but no zippy retort came out. Ever so slowly, she moved her head side to side. As she shook
out the answer he’d hoped for, her eyes brightened with unshed tears. Because of him? Because of what he’d said? The situation? Whatever the reason, he couldn’t bear it. Ben dropped to one knee and brought his hands around to cup her face. He wanted to be gentle, to reassure. But the moment he covered those juicy lips, all semblance of restraint disappeared.

  Sweet, pliable and oh so supple, Ivy kissed him back with equal fervor. It felt like she channeled all her worry and frustration into pure, physical passion. No hesitation, no lingering coldness. She met his tongue, stroke for stroke. Flinging both arms around his neck, she pressed her tight little body against him, toppling them both to the ground. Even though a corner of the file cabinet bit into the top of his head, Ben forgot they were in her office. Forgot there were three people just down the hall, waiting for the two of them to come back out. Everything slipped away except for the warm, soft weight of Ivy stretched on top of him. The sensation was like having champagne poured directly into his soul.

  Ben’s eyes flew open. What a fucking horrible, girly, romantic thought. A tiny part of his brain must’ve gone rogue. His dick might be hard as a drive shaft at the moment, but a few grey cells had gone unaccountably softer than a moldy hot dog. Gently he pushed at Ivy’s shoulders to break the kiss. She sat astride him, loose skirt gathered almost to her panty line. Hair mussed, lips puffy and eyes at half mast, she was the poster child for an office quickie. Beautiful and desirable, Ben wanted nothing more than to crab-walk backward to put some distance between them until his romance outbreak passed. Who knew what he’d do or say while under its infectious influence?