Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  “I forget sometimes. For months, I spent every waking second thinking about my career tanking. Then I spent a few more months actively trying not to think about it. Just in the last couple of months, I’d finally gotten to the point where I didn’t have to work at it. I could go days at a time without getting a crushing sense of failure every time I saw the news.”

  “You’re not a failure. In fact, I think that’s the single stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He felt the comforting weight of Ivy’s arms circle around his waist. She stood on tiptoe to tuck her chin up over his shoulder. “Forces beyond your control changed your life. Zigged when you wanted to zag.”

  “Dress it up in whatever pretty words you want. Story still ends the same way. My career ended a year and a half ago in Alaska, the minute I passed out and dropped my camera. I failed.”

  “Nope. You flourished. Against all odds, you persevered. Forged a new path for yourself. Succeeded so well you were promoted after a year. You’re not a quitter, and you’re certainly not a failure. That took courage, and strength, and drive and talent. I’m so proud of you, Ben.”

  The break in her voice undid him. He turned into her embrace, wrapped his arms around her and hugged like he’d never hugged before. How did she see things in him he didn’t even know were there? Ben breathed deep of her sunny scent, burying his face in the silken brown strands cascading across his face like a soft river.

  “You make me sound like an amazing man. A guy I’d like to sit down with and have a beer.” He pulled back to drop a kiss in the center of her forehead. Better lighten the mood, before he broke down into a blubbering fool at Ivy’s knees to thank her for propping him back up. “And then pick his brain for tips on women, because anyone that awesome must have an easy time scoring.”

  “I don’t think you require any help in that department. Your bedpost is probably whittled down to the width of a toothpick from all the notches it’s racked up.”

  “Ouch. From hero to man-slut in two sentences. You know how to keep a guy’s ego in check.”

  “All part of the package.” She pinched his cheek, then eased out of his arms to balance on the wide sill. “But I do have a serious question, if you don’t mind.”

  Uh oh. Nothing good ever came out of a serious question. And perversely, women loved to ask them. Ben hitched himself onto the corner of the desk. Otherwise he’d start nervously pacing again. “Sounds ominous. I can’t promise I’ll answer—or give you an answer you want to hear—but give it a whirl.”

  “Do you truly hate your job?”

  “Are you kidding? I get paid to stare at your beautiful face all day. Where’s the downside in that?”

  “Come on, I honestly want to know. After traveling the world filming crisis after international crisis, weddings must be, well, tame in comparison. Do you dread getting up in the morning, or have you accepted this unexpected twist in the road?”

  Part of Ben wanted to make another joke and slither around an answer. Introspection wasn’t his thing. On the other hand, after what Ivy had just done for him, she deserved a genuine answer.

  “If you’d asked me this when we met, I’d have given you a different answer. I wasn’t happy. It’s why I applied for the producing job. And that was the right move. It was a shot in the dark, but I’ve discovered I really like it.”

  “Why?”

  “News coverage is about recording the moment. With reality television, we still film the moment. But also the reaction to the moment. Then someone else’s reaction. I get to weave all of these disparate pieces together. Make one, wonderful story out of them. It’s challenging, and fun. Plus, I kind of enjoy not worrying about getting shot at, or having a deadly snake drop onto my head. So no, I don’t hate my job.” Surprisingly, just the opposite.

  “Good to hear. Because that means you’ll be able to handle this suggestion: give the tip away.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t go through official channels with a network. Call one of your friends from the old days. Give them your tip about Senator Newsome. They won’t be able to swoop in and do a sting in the next five minutes, but they will be able to start nosing around. Try to find his supplier, maybe. He’s bound to slip up and use in public again. When he does, they’ll be there to get him.”

  “You want me to just hand over what could potentially be the juiciest political scandal of the year?”

  “In order to become the big scandal, the facts have to make it to the light of day. And it’ll only happen if you’re not involved. If you want this guy brought down, you’ve got to step away.”

  Damn it. Ivy was right. It galled him not to be able to dial up a network producer and instantly swarm a dozen cameras and reporters all over this guy. But he did have one or two old poker buddies who would at least listen to what he had to say. They’d start from scratch, and it might take weeks, or even months to verify Ben’s story. But they would eventually, and that would have to be good enough.

  “I can call Mitch. He’s almost as low as you can get on the reporting totem pole in D.C., but he’s friends with everyone. If he drops a pointed hint in the right place, it could work. He’s a good guy—he’d keep my name out of it.” It still stung Ben, the fact that his integrity, his word wasn’t enough. Would, in fact, taint the entire thing. But he’d pass on the tip and put it out of his mind.

  “Just proves what I said before. You’re a brave man, Ben Westcott.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’m going to your parents’ anniversary party, aren’t I? A man’s either got to be dumb as dirt or have titanium cojones to do that.”

  “Nope. No bravery points there. It does, however, make you sweet, and much appreciated. And it won’t be a hardship for you. Great food, free-flowing alcohol, and I’m pretty sure if you last the whole night, you’ll get lucky at the end of it.”

  For a long time, Ben had been convinced his luck had run out. Now, though, it appeared the fickle Lady Luck had her eye on him once again. “Big talk, Ms. Rhodes. I’ll believe it when I see you naked.”

  “Stay tuned,” she teased with a sultry smile.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

  —Lord Byron

  Ben ran a finger around the inside of his collar. For about the twentieth time. Next he’d fiddle with his green tie, then smooth the ivory lapels of his linen suit coat. Ivy knew this because she’d watched him repeat the sequence incessantly over the past hour. Odd, since normally he reminded her of a jaguar: eerily still, but ever observant.

  “You strike me as a party-loving man. So what’s the matter? You’ve been moody since you picked me up.”

  “I do like parties. But I think your definition is different than mine. This,” he threw out his arms to encompass the black and white ballroom with windows on three sides, twenty-three floors above the city, “shindig for your parents—not a party.”

  Ivy ran her hands down a black velvet curtain, and tweaked the red tassel that held it in a perfect vee. Her mother had a whole princess-and-the-pea thing when it came to events. One mis-draped curtain, a single crooked napkin out of dozens of tables, and she’d bird-dog right to it. Ivy had spent the last half hour circling the room to ensure perfection. “People. Food. Conversation. You don’t need to reference Merriam-Webster on this one.”

  “You, of all people, should know the devil is in the details. To me, a party’s where I can talk smack with my colleagues, get a little too drunk, and then flirt with a smorgasbord of women.”

  “Wow. You just hit a new level of insensitivity.”

  “How is a discussion of semantics insensitive?” He drained his gin and tonic and gestured for the bartender to refill. When they’d arrived, he’d made a beeline for the bar and had kept at least one elbow propped on it ever since.

  “Do you realize I’m standing right in front of you?” Ivy tried to tamp down the temper he’d stoked. “Here’s a tip
: avoid discussion of an all-you-can-eat female buffet when you had your hand down my dress in the cab twenty minutes ago.”

  “See? This is the difference between the sexes. Deep-seated insecurity about your ability to hold my interest got your dander up. I didn’t say I wanted to stick my tongue down the throats of a dozen different ladies tonight—you just assumed it.”

  “First you insult me, then you psychoanalyze me? Are you trying to piss me off?” And then it hit her, and she wondered why she hadn’t seen it sooner. “You’re trying to piss me off. Let me guess, your big plan is to make me mad enough so that I kick you out of the party?”

  “Depends.” His lips quirked to one side in a half-grimace, half-smile. “Is it working?”

  “Not on your life.” She’d spent weeks planning this party. Her parents and grandparents would be able to meet Ben under ideal circumstances—a crowded room with lots of other people as distraction, so they didn’t give him a full court interrogation. “You’ll have friends to hang out with; Sam and Gib are coming. Daphne, too. I won’t abandon you in a sea full of strangers, I promise.”

  “Ivy, I don’t do parents. The last time I had to meet a girl’s parents was before my senior prom.”

  If she hadn’t seen it with her own two eyes, she never would’ve believed it. Bennett Westcott was nervous! “Do you think my dad’s going to charge in carrying a shotgun and demand to know if your intentions are honorable?”

  “Yeah. That’s more or less how it plays out in my mind.”

  So adorable! “Look on the bright side,” she said with a reassuring pat on his arm.

  “What—that at least I haven’t gotten you pregnant?”

  Her smile tightened until it felt like she’d left her apricot cleansing mask on two hours too long. “Well, I can’t argue with you there. But I meant that at least you won’t have to panic much longer, because my parents just arrived.”

  Ben straightened off the bar so fast his drink sloshed over the edge. He also took two steps back, as if scared to be caught within arm’s length of Ivy. The cloud of her mother’s perfume swept ahead like a rose-scented carpet unrolling for her. Samantha wore flame-red satin. Ivy presumed her mother chose the color to show off the anniversary gift her father would present after dinner. Forty years was the ruby anniversary, a fact Samantha had probably reminded David of every month for the past year. He trailed slightly behind her, dapper in a tuxedo. Like a shadow, he was for the most part quiet, but always right at her elbow.

  Ivy kissed the air near her mother’s cheek, then gave her father a warm embrace. “Congratulations on being the happiest couple I know. You put all my newlyweds to shame.”

  “Well, when you live with your favorite person in the world, what’s not to be happy about?” Her father’s attention turned, as ever, to Samantha. Ivy didn’t know how they survived being separated during the workday. Their devotion, even after forty years together, was nothing less than inspiring to behold.

  To his credit, Ben stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Congratulations on forty years with the most beautiful woman in the room. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Rhodes.” David pumped his hand heartily.

  “He is indeed,” twinkled Samantha. “But I didn’t exactly get the short end of the stick.”

  Ivy laid a hand on Ben’s arm, drawing him into the tight family circle. “Ben, as you’ve already guessed, these are my parents, Samantha and David Rhodes. Mom, Dad, this is the man who’s been trailing after me for six weeks.”

  Because she knew no better way to relate to the male of the species, her mother simpered, then turned the full wattage of her flirtatious attention onto Ben. With her index finger, she tapped on the end of her nose. Eyes the color of emeralds widened.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Westcott.”

  Ben met the challenge head on. “Which one?”

  “Touché.”

  David cleared his throat. “Let’s not beat around the bush. We respect the work you did a few years back, and we respect the care you’re taking while working now with Ivy.”

  The brittle, professional grin Ben wore like a uniform warmed a bit. “Duly noted.” The five-piece jazz combo announced the beginning of their set with a trumpet flourish, then settled into the smooth beat of a bossa nova.

  “Would you care to dance, Mrs. Rhodes?” Ben held out one hand, palm up. “That is, if your husband doesn’t mind my usurping you for a few minutes.”

  For all of his earlier twitchiness, Ben rose to the occasion like a champ. Or a well-practiced gigolo. Ivy’s stomach fluttered back into place, and she checked one major worry off her list for the evening. Her parents and Ben had survived introductions without any major fallout. Every bit of her plan was falling into place.

  A blissfully happy father, a party-loving, grateful mother, and a boyfriend who, if she didn’t miss her guess, was on the cusp of declaring his love. Especially as an adult, nobody went through the bother of meeting the parents unless they had serious plans for the future. Right on cue, guests began to trickle through the doors. Waiters began to make the rounds with trays of caviar-topped potatoes and mushroom dip. Another signature Aisle Bound event was going off without a hitch.

  * * *

  “You used to travel constantly for your work?” David asked. Ivy hadn’t known the safest place to stick Ben at dinner, so she’d put her easy-going father on one side, and Sam on the other, next to her. Here they were halfway through the lobster and filet, and conversation still flowed freely.

  Ben shrugged. “Sometimes I’d be in three different countries before dinner. Other times we’d hunker down in a city for weeks at a time. The only thing you could count on was the unpredictability. Of course, when I worked on Wild Wedding Smackdown, it’d be a different town every weekend. I figure I know the ins and outs of most airports better than the TSA agents do.”

  “How does it feel to have your wings clipped, staying here in Chicago all summer?”

  “I like it.” He leaned in closer, but Ivy could still hear him. “Maybe I’m getting old, but I’ve got to admit I enjoy having a hot shower every morning. Not taking malaria pills, or shaking out my shoes to check for scorpions or snakes. Even better, Gib’s managed to get me running with him most mornings.”

  “Ah.” David nodded knowingly. “You must jog along Lake Michigan. The path where all the girls in spandex and bikinis run.”

  Huh. She wouldn’t have pegged her father as an ogler, but if it helped him stick to an exercise regimen, more power to him. Truth be told, Ivy particularly enjoyed doing her yoga at the North Avenue beach so she could watch the shirtless guys playing sand volleyball.

  “Certainly keeps me motivated.” Ben shoveled in food like he hadn’t eaten in three days. Then he drained half a glass of an excellent pinot, and motioned for the waiter to fill his glass. Ivy had lost count of his drinks by this point, but knew it to be enough she couldn’t believe he could still form coherent sentences. With a subtle jerk of her head, she shooed the waiter off in the opposite direction. She’d never seen Ben drink like this. If it took this much alcohol for him to cope with her parents, he’d need a liver transplant by Christmas.

  “Harder in winter.” David winked. “Come October, I switch from running outside to Zumba at the club.”

  Ivy almost choked on her asparagus. “You what?”

  “Zumba. You know, it’s like aerobics, but set to salsa music. All the ladies love the class. I still get to watch all the jiggling, then I go home and show off my sweet moves to my main squeeze. Everybody wins.”

  No. She refused to imagine her father shaking his booty to Shakira in sweat pants. There were some things a child just shouldn’t learn about their parents.

  “You should come with me, Ben. It’d be nice to get a little more testosterone in the class.”

  Ben paired a vague, unintelligible sound with a nod.

  To her great relief, Sam dove into the breach. “How’s fishing this season up at the cabin, Mr. Rhodes? Catch any big on
es?”

  “Work’s piled up. We hadn’t planned to go until July.”

  Samantha chimed in from the other side of the round table. “But now we’ll need to go up at least a few days early to start the search.”

  Oh no. Ivy knew exactly where this conversation was going. Kind of like watching a semi that had lost its brakes careen down a mountain road. Unstoppable.

  “We’ve got to start looking for a new cabin,” David announced.

  Sam shook his head. “Aw, did that last blizzard in February do in the roof?”

  “No, she’s in great shape. But family tradition says the cabin passes down from each generation at the wedding of the oldest child. A wedding present. Does your family pass down any traditions, Ben?”

  “Just a curse.”

  The whole table laughed, thinking he’d told a joke. Ivy knew better, and noted the tic in his clenched jaw. Her dad pushed away his empty plate, patted his stomach, then continued.

  “From the looks of things, this’ll be our last summer before the cabin passes to Ivy.”

  Ivy could not risk looking at Ben. She assumed him to be either ghost white, slack jawed, or moving away from the table at the speed of light. “I’m not getting married. I’m not engaged. You didn’t just jump to conclusions, Dad, you pole-vaulted.”

  “Now, now. Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I’m being pragmatic, honey. We’ve already got four cabins at the compound. I’m not sure there’s room to build another. If we want to find something in the immediate vicinity, we can’t afford to drag our feet another three or four months until you’ve got a ring on your finger.” David turned back to Ben. “Do you fish?”

  “Not unless it’s the only way to get dinner.”

  “Wisconsin is God’s country. You’d love it up there. We fish and hike, and in the autumn we build enormous bonfires. And we all know that every man’s got a little bit of a pyromaniac in him, right? Who doesn’t like to poke at a huge, roaring fire?”