As soon as Ivy starts to sing, my new obsession revs up around a thousand goddamn gears, landing
somewhere around overdrive. I vaguely remember wondering if she had a good singing voice the first time I heard
her speak.
Her voice is more than “good.” It’s the kind of voice that stops people in their tracks. Not a single person at
this party is talking. Everyone is completely riveted by her. Not just by the way she sounds, but also by the way
she looks under the spotlights, like a gorgeous little tattooed angel who just fell from heaven and decided to sing us
a song.
She has a stage presence that I might not have expected when I first met her. She’s practically glowing with
endearing charisma and pure artistic radiance.
She’s so fucking beautiful, her soft presence somehow buffering all the harder edges of reality as she gives off
a magical, otherworldly vibe.
The song is smooth and melodic. Perfectly in tune. There’s a bell-toned clarity to some of the notes and a
smoky edge to others.
Like everyone else here tonight, I’m starstruck. Ivy Laine is very, very talented.
And I’m in very, very de ep trouble. Not to mention so hard it hurts.
If I’m meant to love, then give me the greatest love there
ever was. Ask me for a match and I’ll give you wildfire. Ask me for a light and I’ll give you the sun. I don’t
know how to feel exc ept in tidal waves of roughed-
up, star-studded emotion. I don’t know how to love exc ept with the glow of a
thousand stars.
And I don’t know how to deal with this vision of her, with her pink lips still wet from our kiss and her face
still flushed with her innocence. Her third kiss.
Bring it on, baby girl. I’ll see your glow of a thousand stars and raise you the whole goddamn universe.
I don’t know how she does it, but my hardened cynicism has lifted at the edges—and this part of me is so
ingrained, the absence of it is wildly noticeable, like a dark cloud has moved away from the sun and the world is
suddenly much brighter. I don’t quite know what to do with my new sense of... calmness. Of something that
almost feels eerily like hope.
“We were about to tell you two to get a room.” Someone laughs and pats me on the back.
I look up to see Ethan Jackson pulling out the chair next to Ivy’s. He shakes my hand but I’m in no state to
stand up right now. I’m hard as a fucking rock from... that kiss.
Holy hell. From the feel of her warm little squirming body on my lap, I could tell she was wet for me.
Fuck. The girl is like something out of my wildest fantasies. And I don’t have fantasies. Until the minute that
cute-hot little goddess st epped through that door and into my world, I only did reality. 24/7. Every minute of my
goddamn life.
Fuck reality. I’m sick to death of reality. My soul feels parched and needy for some of that es capism she was
talking about. With her. I want to feast on her and bask in her glow like I’ve never wanted anything.
I murmur some expected r eply to Ethan. He’s a guy I’ve met a few times at Leah and Blake’s dinner parties in
the city. He’s a broker who works for Blake’s company, probably four or five years younger than me. Leah once
described him as a “manwhore.” I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but I sure don’t like the fucking sound of
it now. He sips his champagne, watching Ivy, like everyone else at this party is doing. Not appearing to have his
own date.
“Ivy Laine, huh?” he says. “How the hell did you score her?” I glare at him, furious that he’s distracting me
from the little goddess on stage. I don’t even know how to r eply to that. What I feel like doing is strangling the
little punk with his own tie. I can hardly tell him the truth. I scored her by paying her a quarter of a million dollars
to pretend to like me. And now I’m drowning in a brand new obsession that’s digging into me with razor-sharp,
lust-spiked claws because she’s addictive in every sense of the word and I’m already dreading Sunday afternoon,
when I potentially have to watch her walk away and disappear from my life only to be preyed on by douchebags
like you. Which feels strangely, insanely unbearable.
I have two days to convince her. Convince her of what, you asshole? You’ve known the girl for a total of two
hours. What the fuck are you planning to do?
I don’t know. I have no idea. But something. Definitely something. Ivy finishes her song, strumming her last
chord to enthusiastic applause. Leah is close to the stage, clapping happily with Blake by her side. Ethan whistles
loudly and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to punch the little fucker in the face.
I have no idea where this caveman tendency is coming from but I’m feeling it hard.
Ivy takes a bow. “Thank you so much.” She picks up her half-full glass of champagne from where it’s sitting
on a nearby amp and she raises it. “To love. To Leah and Blake and a lifetime of wedded bliss and beautiful
happiness.”
Everyone raises their glasses and I tip back the rest of my Moët. The band takes the stage as Ivy st eps off.
She’s accosted by an excited Leah and stops to get hugged before making her way back toward our table.
Ethan watches her approach. “Damn,” he comments. “You lucky bastard. How long have you two been
together? Are you exclusive?”
I seriously can’t handle this. At least my fury is calming my lust by a single degree. I stand, buttoning my
jacket. I pluck his named place card from the table, crumpling it and tucking it into the pocket of his lapel. “In the
interest of not making a scene by rearranging your face at Blake and Leah’s rehearsal dinner, I’m going to ask this
politely once and once only. Do not even think of going anywhere near her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even fucking
look at her. She’s mine. I’m therefore not responsible for how fucking ballistic I go if you don’t fuck off
immediately. We both know I can get you fired with a single conversation. I can also make sure you never get
hired in the state of New York again. Third, I can easily pummel you into next week if I choose to. The only way I
want to see you for the rest of the evening is from a long fucking distance. And to answer your question, yes, we
are exclusive. Very. Fucking. Exclusive. Am I making myself clear enough?”
What are you even doing right now? But my common sense is no match for the enraged yeti who’s taken up
residence in my subconscious. All he wants to do is claim Ivy Laine and ke ep her entirely to himself.
I don’t understand it but I’m going with it tonight because it’s the only thing I’m capable of.
He stares at me. “Jesus, dude.” But he gets the message loud and clear. Maybe it’s because my fists are
clenched and the rage is practically beaming itself out of my eyes. “Fine. Fine.” He stands up from his chair,
noticing that I’m a good six inches taller than he is and outweigh him by a significant margin.
He holds his palms up and wanders into the now-lively crowd to try his luck elsewhere.
“Thank you to Ivy Laine,” Margot says, into the microphone. The shrillness of her voice mostly takes care of
my hard-on. “I’d now like to welcome to the stage The Sailors, the Hamptons very own local and much- loved
band! Please help yourself to more drinks at the bar and the delectable hors d’oeuvres, which our wonderful
waitstaff has just begun to pass around. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock.”
Ivy stops to sign an autograph. The candlelight catches the red and gold hues of her dark hair. Her olive skin is
so flawless and smooth-looking, she doesn’t look real. She laughs at something the woman says to her and she
looks so gorgeous, not only does my cock spring back to instant rock-hard life, but my chest aches with an acute
kind of longing that’s new to me.
Damn, she’s pretty. I shove my fists into my pockets and watch her walk back to me. She sees me and smiles,
at my intensity maybe. I offer her my arm. “Come for a walk with me.”
“Where are we going?” “Over to the water. It’s a nice view.” I’ll use any excuse but the truth is, I want to be
alone with her, without the curious gaze of a hundred or so people watching her every move.
She slides her arm through mine. The light scent of her citrus-spice perfume makes me practically fucking
dizzy.
How can I be so hopelessly addicted to this edgy little stranger? I feel like I just tasted a brand new drug that
I’ll burn my entire world to the ground to get more of.
I need to calm the fuck down. We walk in silence for a minute, past the fountain, to the covered pergola that
looks out over the water. Pendant lights hang from the rafters and the moon is low, painting the ocean water with
its shimmering white trail. Most importantly, there’s no one else over here.
I’ve spent enough time in the Hamptons to be familiar with its scenery. The view of the hotel, the expansive
garden, lawns and the ocean, with sailboats and yachts anchored offshore, could be enough to make even a
die-hard sk eptic like me appreciate the view. But I’m not looking at the view. I’m too captivated by my gorgeous
little date—so much that I’m really starting to hate that it’s technically a fake one.
“This place is something else,” she comments, still holding my arm. “I have to hand it to Blake and Leah. And
Margot. They really know how to throw a party. The whole thing is beautiful. I’m sure tomorrow will be even
more over the top.”
“I’m sure.” “I’m sorry again for making you late. They acted like that was way out of character for you.”
It’s true. Punctuality is just another one of those things that was drilled into me as I was being groomed for my
role by my father, who absolutely would not tolerate waiting for people. Especially his sons. And especially his
oldest son. “Diligent oldest child here.”
“I’m the oldest too.” She already mentioned she has a younger brother. She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask
her to. I don’t want her to withdraw from me.
“For you, I didn’t mind waiting,” I hear myself saying, trying like hell to ignore my raging urge to kiss her
again and to distract myself from how hard and hot my cock is.
And how addicted to my fake date I already am.