Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  “Want more,” Ben muttered. “Need more.” He tilted her backward until she lay on the bench. Bracing one knee on the floor, he covered her body with his own. The onslaught of kisses moved down her neck, setting off shivers of delight, down to flutter the lightest of licks across the swell of her breasts. Like butterfly wings beating against her skin. The delicate touch contrasted with his right hand diving under her skirt to stroke the length of her thigh.

  Ivy wanted to concentrate on each sensation, but there were too many. She could only revel in the circling layers of desire he built, one atop the next until all she knew was a throbbing hunger. Her hand yanked his shirt out of his pants, desperate to touch skin. Instead, she hit the pleated layers of his cummerbund. Lacking Ben’s one-handed dexterity at clothing removal, Ivy thrust her hand underneath, scraping her wrist on the metal clasp. The sting of pain broke through the haze of lust.

  “Ben, we should stop,” she murmured into his ear.

  His hands stilled, then his head dropped heavily onto her shoulder. “Fucking curse,” he grumbled.

  Weird. Not your standard pillow talk. “What on earth do you mean? What curse?”

  He jolted upright, eyes a little wild. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yes. Care to explain?”

  Ben knelt again, both hands framing her face while he looked at her intently. “I didn’t plan to tell you, but maybe it’s time.”

  “Time?” Her mind flew in a dozen directions, but none of them made sense. “Time for your curse to reveal itself? What are you, a werewolf?” she joked. Because really, who talked about curses in this day and age except in horror movies?

  “Worse. The Westcott family curse stretches back to my great-great-grandfather Arthur. He worked for James Garfield, helped get him elected president.” Ben leaned against the seat back behind him, but kept both hands curled loosely around Ivy’s.

  “Impressive.”

  “Nope. It started the curse. You see, he married the beautiful and fiery Zelda a few years earlier. Then, just like politicians today, once he hit the campaign trail he forgot to keep his pants zipped. Soon after the inauguration, a woman showed up at the house carrying the baby she claimed Arthur had fathered.”

  His voice had fallen into an almost sing-song pattern. It blended in nicely with the rocking motion of the trolley. Ivy imagined it passed down through the years, almost as a salacious bedtime story.

  “Zelda, who was part-gypsy, flew into a rage. She cursed Arthur and the entire Westcott line to never be able to find or keep love. And we haven’t. Relationships don’t stick. My sister’s never had one last more than four months. Westcott marriages, made for convenience, not love, always end in divorce in three years or less. Churn out a couple of kids, then call it quits.”

  Leveraging herself up onto her elbows, Ivy blinked at him. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  His hands tensed. “I could not be more serious. Generations of unhappiness are no laughing matter.”

  “But, a family curse? You don’t believe in vampires or ghosts or wizards, do you?”

  The side of his mouth shot downward into a sneer. “Of course not. I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny, either.”

  “Then why can’t you be pragmatic and recognize this for what it is?”

  “Now you’re going to explain away the curse that’s struck each and every blood relation for more than one hundred years?” Ben stood, grabbing hold of the floor to ceiling pole in the middle of the car for balance. “This ought to be good.”

  It didn’t surprise her that he’d backed away on every level. Ben didn’t talk about his family or his feelings. Ivy could almost hear titanium shields slamming into place around his heart. For that matter, she was shocked he’d been able to spit out the word relationship without foaming at the mouth. Progress, indeed. Proved she was getting to him, at least on some level.

  “Let’s set aside, for the moment, the ridiculous notion that curses even exist. Ben, this problem in your family isn’t a curse. It’s a choice. A series of choices.”

  “Riiiiiight. We chose to be miserable and alone.”

  Subconsciously. But she couldn’t tell him that. The belief in this supposed curse sure explained a lot about Ben. And it gave her hope that she could debunk this idiotic family legend and get him to believe in happily ever after. Believe that he deserved one, and could sustain it.

  “Loving someone is hard, and people have to work at it with all their might. Your family fell into a bad habit, like smoking, of giving up too easily when push came to shove. Not believing in themselves, their ability to sustain a commitment. My mother sees it all the time.”

  “Your mom the marriage counselor? Great, now I’m in vicarious therapy. Switch places with me—I should be the one lying down.”

  Ivy knew he lashed out from fear. But she pressed on, convinced this might just be the most important conversation they ever had. The turning point that led to their long-term happiness. And short term, enable him to declare his love so they could finally have sex!

  “I bet your father looked at this decades-long string of failed relationships and thought, well if my dad couldn’t do it, and his dad couldn’t do it, how can I be expected to make something this complicated work? So nobody tried. Laziness kept them from fighting for what they most wanted, or what could very well have been the right relationship.” She swung her legs around, off the seat, and fired her last shot, staring him straight in those ice-cold blue eyes. “Be honest with yourself, Ben. Brutally honest. How hard have you ever tried?”

  Seconds ticked by. The trolley bell rang its warning at a crowded crosswalk. Two more blocks passed in silence, and it rang again. Then Ben let loose a stream of curses. He raked both hands through his hair until it stood on end, finishing by grinding his palms over his eyes.

  “I don’t know. If I dig deep, I don’t think I can say I’ve ever put everything toward making a relationship last. I always assumed they were doomed to fail, so why waste time to make the effort?”

  Ivy’s heart broke a little for him. Being right didn’t always feel good. “Have you ever heard the saying, it’s the journey, not the destination?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Clearly thought up by some poor sap who couldn’t afford to vacation at a kick-ass resort. Scuba diving in Belize is way better than the five cramped hours in the plane to get there.”

  If he could make jokes again, they were back on level ground. Ivy bit back a smile, and scowled at him instead. “Pretend to be obtuse all you want, but I know you get my point.”

  “Maybe.” He sat next to her, draping an arm around her shoulder to pull her close. “What if you’re wrong? What if I stop believing in the curse and it pisses off the spirit of my gypsy great-great-granny?”

  “If you really made her mad? She’d probably turn you impotent. I imagine that’s the go-to revenge for not respecting the family curse.”

  “Mock me all you want. You’ll be the one who suffers if she un-mans me.”

  “Hmm. Better hedge our bets. I’ll put Milo on research tomorrow, see if he can find a way to break the curse. I’m sure something will happen if we get our hands on a gallon of chicken blood and mix it up with a strand of your hair and maybe a photo of Zelda.”

  Ben chuckled, knowing she probably wasn’t joking. “See? That’s what I like about you. You always have a plan.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Always plan ahead. It wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark.

  —Richard C. Cushing

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate you joining us here at News Midday. Thanks to Ivy Rhodes of Aisle Bound for coming in to talk weddings. Don’t forget to tune in to her new show, Planning for Love, coming in September on RealTV. We’ll see you back here at four on WXCH.” Maggie Shea nodded at Ivy, nodded at the camera, then froze with a practiced smile until the director yelled cut.

  Ivy’s head immediately swiveled to seek out Ben in the shadows. “Did I talk too fast? Did I talk too much? Was
I dull? Was I too perky?”

  “All things considered, this being your very first live interview…” Ben walked through the glare of stage lights and joined her on the set.

  “Uh oh. You’re stalling. You’re stalling and qualifying. Did I suck?”

  Aww. Pretty adorable in her hot pink suit, nervously tapping a matching sandal against the rung of her stool. Ben wanted to lap her up like a dish of strawberry ice cream. One of the most poised people he’d ever met, he got a kick out of Ivy’s self-consciousness about being on camera. Made about as much sense as a giraffe worrying about having a long neck.

  “I give your interview a solid B plus. The joke you made about being afraid to use the bathroom while miked went over well.” He leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Oh, it’s not a joke. There is nothing funny about Ollie possibly listening to me pee because I forgot to turn off the mic pack.”

  “I don’t think Ollie’s any more excited about the prospect than you are.”

  Ivy’s lush lower lip pushed out into a pout. “Have to say, I’m not really comfortable with a B plus. I’ve always been a straight A kind of girl.”

  “A few more private coaching sessions, and we can get you bumped up to an A before your next interview.”

  “The only thing I learned in your last private coaching session was how good you are at unhooking a bra with one hand.”

  Oh, Ben remembered. A black bra with red lace that if he hadn’t managed to unhook on the first try, he would’ve ripped off her with his teeth. The mere sight of Ivy got him firing on all four cylinders, but the minute she removed a layer of clothing, his lust took over and clouded every brain cell until he operated solely on his basest instincts. He ached for her. He ached to touch her, to taste her, and more than anything to be in her.

  She’d packed a powerful punch in that bra. His cock throbbed right now with the memory. His balls ached with the further memory of being sent home soon after he’d dispatched the bra. If Ivy didn’t sleep with him soon, internal combustion might be a real possibility. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why the holdup. Why she slammed the brakes on every damn time his fingers wandered anywhere south of her belly button. Or, what he was starting to call the Undiscovered Country.

  “Good point. I’ll take the blame. Our—ah—departure from the syllabus is probably what held you back today. If you promise to keep your clothes on and not distract the teacher, we can get you up to speed.”

  “Oh, so many things wrong with that sentence. The Bennett Westcott I know would never encourage me to keep my clothes on—”

  “True.”

  “—and for the record, you’re the one who told me I’d be less nervous if I took my clothes off while we practiced.”

  “Did I say that? I think you misunderstood me. Classic theater trick to calm nerves is to imagine the audience naked, not get naked yourself. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

  “Trust me, your intent was crystal clear. More importantly, what do you mean, the next interview? I’ve been a wreck for a week dreading these lousy ten minutes. You’re going to force me to go through this again?”

  “No. Not me. I wouldn’t dream of putting you through that kind of stress. RealTV, on the other hand, will absolutely force you to do more interviews. Your episode of WWS was a huge hit, and you’re beautiful, you’re passionate about weddings, eloquent, and you’re not crazy. In the world of reality television, that makes you a quintuple threat.”

  “Which translates to how many interviews, exactly?”

  “The network’s trying to get you on a nationwide morning show, to ride the wave right now. Probably next week. Then in late August they’ll start hyping Planning for Love, and you’ll do a few more local spots—tv and radio, as well as at least two national interviews. Maybe a wedding magazine, or even People. I’d say ten, tops.”

  Ivy’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

  The anchor scooted her chair forward to join the conversation. “My producer just told me that you’re already on our schedule right after Labor Day. And don’t listen to your boyfriend—you did great. You were a natural. It was a pleasure chatting with you.”

  The words popped out of Ivy’s mouth faster than a sneeze at the peak of allergy season. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  It stung a little, how she fast she rejected the idea. “Wow. Kind of quick on the draw, aren’t you? I’m not Attila the Hun over here.”

  “I just don’t want you to feel pressured by a label.” She swiveled back around to face Maggie. “We’re colleagues.”

  “My colleagues don’t usually kiss me after a segment.”

  “Friendly colleagues,” she amended.

  “Well, if you’re truly not dating, I wouldn’t mind getting friendly with your colleague myself.” With a smoothness Ben admired, Maggie slid her card into the front pocket of his khakis. “Feel free to call me. Anytime.”

  Ben’s mental scoreboard was upside down. The woman he wanted had just definitively stated they weren’t dating, and a woman he had no interest in at all wanted him, and still had her fingers at his groin, deep in his pocket. “While you get unhooked, I’ll run to the bathroom.” He backpedaled off the set, down the hall. The studio had emptied out for lunch the moment the show stopped taping. His footsteps echoed in the marble-floored corridor.

  The network affiliate took up two floors of a gorgeous old building downtown, and didn’t look like any studio he’d been in before. It did look like a set for a Tracy/Hepburn movie. Art deco touches everywhere, black veined marble on the floors and stairs. If it had been a traditional news studio, lined with posters of current shows and anchors, Ben would’ve been twitchy. He didn’t care to bump into any reminders of his old life.

  Pausing at the bathroom door, he jammed his hands into his pockets. Who was he kidding? Being back in a news studio made him more than twitchy. Awareness marched under his skin like an army of fire ants. The vicious roller coaster of what-ifs and might-have-beens churned through his gut. It surprised him how much he liked his new job producing, liked carving out a spot and routine of his own here in Chicago. But being back in a news studio today, without being a part of the daily news cycle, put him off balance. Edgy.

  He toed open the door, then froze, one foot in, one foot out. A man bent over the stainless steel counter beneath the mirror, sniffing…something through a rolled-up bill. Ben guessed the substance to be cocaine. He knew, however, without a shadow of a doubt that the man was Senator Lawrence Newsome. Senior Senator from Wisconsin, chairman of the Appropriations Committee. A proponent of the three strikes law in his state, and he cited drug abusers as a main reason for the harsher sentencing guidelines.

  The man jerked at Ben’s appearance. Rubbed his nose, and whisked the bill into his pocket in a quick, practiced gesture. “How’s it going?” he asked in an overly jocular tone.

  “Sorry to barge in,” Ben said. Above all else, he didn’t want to spook the guy. Didn’t want to give him any reason to think he’d been recognized. For that matter, Ben hoped the senator didn’t recognize him as the Cowering Cameraman. “Everyone deserves a little private time in the john.”

  Senator Newsome pointed at the remaining thin, white line on the counter. “Care to join the party?”

  Surreal enough that he’d walked in on the uber-conservative lawmaker doping up. Far weirder to be invited to get high with him. How many lines had the guy already sniffed to be so openly offering drugs to a perfect stranger? Without any apparent care for possible reprisals? The Senator had to be higher than the proverbial kite. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.” Ben forced himself to walk to the sink and wash his hands, pretending to scrub at an ink spot. Normal, everyday trip to the bathroom. Nothing to see here.

  To his amazement, Lawrence shrugged, then did the last line right in front of him. A few sniffs, then a swipe at his nose with a balled-up paper towel. “Have a good day.”

  “You, too,” Ben said as the olde
r man left the room. Ben continued through the motions, drying his hands, taking his time in case Newsome returned for any reason. When he couldn’t come up with a way to stall, he left the room and returned to the set, checking in every doorway to be sure the senator wasn’t around.

  Ivy and Maggie stood by the makeup table, still chatting. “Sorry to cut this short, but do you have an empty office we can use?” Ben held up his phone. “There’s a crisis back at the office.”

  Maggie nodded and led them to a room at the end of the hall. “Hope nobody got jilted,” she said with a half-laugh as she closed the door.

  Ivy immediately sat in the desk chair and picked up the phone, finger poised to dial. “Who called you? What’s wrong? Is it Lily and Simon? Did his crazy mother finally drive that girl away? Last week, I told her the only way to cut the mother out of the planning process was to elope. I should’ve made a bet with Daphne on it.”

  “Slow down. There’s no crisis. Well, there is, but not related to Aisle Bound in any way.” Nervous energy kept him on his feet, pacing a loop between the desk, a file cabinet and a window with a view of Lake Michigan. “I just caught Senator Lawrence Newsome doing drugs in the bathroom.”

  “Oh my.” She absorbed the news for a beat, then shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s always the most vocal opponents who are unmasked as having problems, whether it’s sex, drugs or alcohol.”

  “This is huge. We have to do something. We have to report it.”

  “Oh, Ben.” Ivy looked at him with sad, dark eyes. “You can’t. You’ve told me that, right or wrong, your credibility is shot. Without any proof, without another eyewitness, you can’t take it to anyone.”

  The instinct and adrenaline that kicked in full force the moment he recognized the senator drained away, as if someone flushed his emotional toilet. He leaned against the window frame and stared, unseeing, but unwilling to look at Ivy.