Ten Thousand Hours

by Ren Benton

  Leashed.

  Her dad cocked his head, but the accompanying inquiry was mercifully impersonal. “Did you hear your mom’s car?”

  She didn’t have his ear for distinguishing automotive personalities, but she could tell the slam of a car door that followed came from the driveway.

  “You help Griff,” Byron instructed on his way to the kitchen. “I’ll distract your mom.”

  Suddenly, she was alone with a man she would have treated radically differently if she thought she would ever see him again, starting with not fabricating her entire persona.

  A woman who baked brownies and hung out with her parents on the weekend would be a huge letdown after Livinia Dangereuse, Duchess of Dangereusia.

  Caught in the unglamorous truth, she reverted to the servitude expected of her. “Help you do what?”

  Griff inclined his dark head toward the empty curio cabinet. “I need some measurements.”

  She noticed the sagging shelf for the first time. “Oh. I thought the guys were out to be dusted.”

  He eyed the collection on the table. “I was too busy avoiding eye contact to notice their raunchy nature earlier. Where’s the crabby mushroom?”

  “On the shelf of honor in the living room after usurping their previous king.”

  The smug tilt of his lips told where his allegiance lay. “Hence the revolution.”

  “In which you seem to be playing a significant role.” He had installed the new ruler and now appeared to be rallying the troops.

  “I’m every bit as surprised as you are to find myself embroiled in Dangereusian intrigue again.”

  “Which is exactly what you’d say if you masterminded the revolution.”

  “True. You seem a little tense, Duchess. ”

  Rigid, was more like it. She’d been so proud of herself for pulling off a performance that convinced one person she was interesting and sexy and exciting, and his presence here, in the house where she had grown into Boring Old Ivy, robbed her of that triumph.

  She took a deep breath and released it along with her delusions of wildness. There was no time to mope while someone was relying on her to be helpful. She put the brownie box on the table. “What do you need me to do?”

  He passed her a tiny tape measure. “Hold this so I can snap some pictures.”

  She pulled out the tab. The tape was only a quarter inch wide, the numbers printed along the edge minuscule. She hoped his camera had better resolution than the one on her cheap phone. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Side view, horizontal. Start at the top and work down.”

  She raised her hands overhead to stretch the tape along the top of the molding, lining up precisely at the edges, careful to keep her fingers from obscuring the relevant numbers.

  “Got it. Bottom of the molding.”

  She moved down in the dictated increments, squatting to measure the legs. If she’d squeezed herself into tighter jeans that morning, she wouldn’t have had the mobility for this job.

  “I need a couple circumference points.”

  She gave them to him around the fat part of the leg, which she thought of as the thigh, the narrow ankle, the foot, and the height, just to be thorough.

  While his focus was on the tape measure rather than her, she asked, “Did you tell anyone about me?”

  “Not your... dad?”

  The question was nothing new. “Step. Since I was four.” Byron had been in her life that long. It took a few more years to make it official, but since he was the only father figure she remembered having, she counted from the day he came into their lives.

  To spare herself the casual racism that also was nothing new but hadn’t become easier to stomach after a quarter century of living in a multiracial family, she relentlessly pursued the awkward topic of the day. “Does that mean you told someone else?”

  “Word of my hot wedding date made the rounds. I confirmed the existence of said hot date. Bottom up.”

  Her face burned so hot, sweat beaded along her hairline. Did he have to go into detail about positions?

  A gentle tone corrected her. “With the tape measure, Duchess.”

  Somehow, the misunderstanding was even worse. Her cheeks would blister before this ordeal ended.

  She held the tab in place with her bare toe and stretched the tape to the top of the cabinet, too mortified to look at him.

  “Even if I was inclined to be indiscreet, I didn’t have any identifying information to divulge, remember?”

  Her impulse to remain anonymous had been smart, at least. If her vacation fling lived anywhere else on earth, no amount of indiscretion would have troubled her. Here, she would worry every time she met someone new that she already occupied that person’s brain space in the form of a sweaty fat girl with bleeding hair who took advantage of a man’s sleep deprivation and emotional trauma to manipulate him into sex. If Griff was here, his friends were here, and anyone she encountered might be carrying that knowledge, even if they didn’t connect it to the mousy-haired frump in front of them at the time.

  Oh, god. Now he did have identifying information to divulge. Vague queasiness evolved into full-blown nausea. Her words were barely loud enough for her own ears. “Did you say anything embarrassing about me?”

  “Ivy, nothing I could say about you would be cause for embarrassment.”

  Her name — her real name — spoken by that voice carried more intimacy than a name should. Other people used it a hundred times a day with no more meaning than hey, you. Those two syllables from Griff attested that she had been mysterious, but now she’d been exposed.

  “All right?”

  She could point out more than a few gaffes, but if he wanted to be kind, it would be foolish to insist otherwise. She nodded.

  “Measure the same points across the front.”

  She measured. He photographed.

  The screen door in the kitchen creaked open.

  The tape snapped back into its case in Ivy’s palm. “Mom.”

  Griff lowered his phone. She tossed the tape measure; he caught it one-handed and vanished it behind his back while she snatched his sketch off the table and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  Oh.

  His loose fingers around her wrist agreed she had no right to be so familiar with him.

  She had never been that invasive with a man even after months of dating, so seeing Griff naked once was no excuse for her behavior. She withdrew her fingers from his pocket. “Sorry.”

  He released her wrist. “Don’t be.”

  “Ivy?”

  The voice hailing her from the kitchen did not belong to her mother, did not belong in this house at all, in fact, and certainly did not make her squirm with clandestine awareness at its pronunciation of her name.

  Griff detected the minute stiffening of her posture and turned his body toward the kitchen to shield her from the menace.

  His protective reflex only amplified the ridiculousness of the situation. Of the two men in the house, Jared was by far the least capable of causing drama. “I’ll deal with him. You finish up here before Mom catches you.”

  She crossed the threshold of the kitchen and was greeted by a bobbing cluster of balloons, a picture-perfect bouquet of ruby roses, and a teddy bear the size of a real bear.

  At the sight of her, Jared dropped to one knee and tapped the screen of his phone, unleashing a blast of music.

  Ivy’s shoulders jerked upward in instinctive protection of her ears. If this was punishment for her sins, she needed no other incentive to be on her best behavior in the future. She raised her voice to be heard over the racket. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s your favorite song,” he explained, confident enough in his assertion to dismiss her revulsion as confusion on her part.

  “I would rather jam steak knives in my ears than listen to Taylor Swift.”

  His dubious expression called into question her authority on the subject of her listening preferences. “Camille sa
id she was your favorite.”

  She closed her eyes and wished she could do the same for her ears. Camille wouldn’t have joined Jared’s fan club when he demonstrated not even a hint of insight as to what kind of music she liked and what she couldn’t stand, so she had made the best recommendation to achieve maximum annoyance. “Turn it off, please.”

  He complied.

  Her sigh covered both appreciation for the blessed silence and exasperation for the rest of the fiasco. “What are you doing here, Jared?”

  She hoped with all her heart the answer began with I swear, it’s not what it looks like.

  He remained on bended knee. “My previous proposal apparently left something to be desired. Approaching it practically may have given you the impression I hadn’t put forth adequate effort.”

  “You did less than this last time?” Griff entered the kitchen, pieces of the broken shelf balanced on one hand and a brownie in the other. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m done in there and this is painful to listen to, in every sense of the word.”

  Jared pushed to his feet. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he puffed out his chest. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Griff. He’s...”

  She started the sentence before considering how to finish it. Neither working on a secret project nor generous with bestowing orgasms seemed appropriate to share with a former boyfriend persisting in his futile quest to upgrade to fiancé.

  Griff defined himself when she couldn’t. “A family friend.”

  “Why haven’t we met before?”

  “You’re not part of the family,” Griff reasoned, “and judging by what I see here, you’re no closer to joining.”

  A muscle in Jared’s jaw bunched. “Are you an expert on the subject?”

  “Nah. I have zero successful proposals to my credit. But I do know that Ivy hates romantic cliché and teen pop. So you went to all this... effort” — he hesitated over the word as if delicately suggesting one of them didn’t know what it meant — “for the wrong audience. Not that it’s any of my business.”

  Redness crept from Jared’s collar toward his ears. “You’re right about one thing. It’s none of your business.”

  Griff shrugged. “That’s one thing more than I’m usually right about. Will you be okay if I head out?”

  It took Ivy a moment to realize the question was directed toward her, and another to figure out why he’d imagine she wouldn’t be okay. When she did, she didn’t know whether to melt over his concern or laugh about it. She could handle Jared, and Griff had already seen too much. If she had more upper body strength, she’d pick him up and toss him out the door before this got any more awkward. “I’ll be fine. Not even a fake head injury.”

  Their private joke won a smile from him. “Your hair looks nice, and these are the best brownies I’ve ever tasted.”

  The screen door banged behind him on his way out.

  Jared’s gaze circled her head. “Your hair looks the same.”

  Actually, it was a shade lighter than her natural color after bleaching out the red dye and tinting to correct the orange stain that remained. It was also several inches shorter to get rid of the damaged ends resulting from all that processing, but Jared would never entertain the possibility she’d do anything differently — nor notice if she had. He relied on her being a creature of habit. If she was less one, he wouldn’t have been able to corner her at her parents’ house on a Sunday afternoon. “We’ve been over this. I’m not marrying you, and the quality of the proposal isn’t the reason.”

  “Is that guy the reason?”

  She was her own reason. Griff was only the tool she’d used to scratch through the veneer covering her dissatisfaction with herself and her life.

  But even without him, she couldn’t have gone through with marrying Jared. The institution had been corrupted enough without contributing her own hypocritical union.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re slumming with that... grease monkey.”

  She gave her head a little shake to clear her ears of words she knew he had not just spoken to her. Her father worked as a mechanic. Her mother worked as a housekeeper. She worked in retail. If there was a slum around here, Mr. Elitist Snob Banker had let himself in without an invitation.

  She’s not married.

  The revelation buoyed Griff’s mood as much as the second brownie he’d snatched while shamelessly eavesdropping on her continued not-marriedness. On the island, he assumed she was, and not only because of her secrecy. She flirted like she was out of practice but with a violent zeal suggesting intent to punish someone. He’d seen the signs before, though Ivy had been unique in her reluctance to commit to outright infidelity once a willing partner had been secured.

  He’d felt no remorse for his role in what he thought was her play. Whatever the imaginary husband had done to inspire such drastic maneuvers, the bastard didn’t deserve her loyalty. If a fun, sexy woman wanted to use Griff as a one-time revenge fuck, he was happy to be of service, but he drew the line between being available and goading her to follow through. The story she told her husband afterward was up to her, but he didn’t want to be the villain in the version she told herself.

  But there was no husband, after all — just a guy trying and failing to become one.

  He would be more sympathetic toward Jared if the man knew Ivy half as well as Griff did after spending a total of six hours with her, despite her fake identity. The first proposal sounded like a real dud, but the one he’d witnessed was an insult. I don’t know you at all, but marry me because I found all this leftover Valentine’s Day crap on clearance.

  The clueless idiot hadn’t even softened her up with food.

  Under the circumstances, he hoped the Duchess gutted him like a fish.

  “Griff!” Violet waved from the garage. She was tall and slender as a willow switch, her eyes bright sea green, bearing little more resemblance to her daughter than Byron. “What brings you here?”

  The broken glass in his hand provided an excuse that wouldn’t spoil her surprise. “I know a guy who can give you a discount on a new shelf.”

  “You’re such a sweet boy. You know, I have a daughter who—”

  Byron patted the air with his hands. “Will you two keep it down? I’m trying to eavesdrop.”

  His intervention spared Griff from telling Violet, Yeah, go ahead, set us up, please and thank you very much, which would be disastrous. He liked these people too much to be unwelcome in their home and business after he fell short of their expectations of a match for their daughter.

  She remained a woman he couldn’t have.

  Both the screen door and the open window above the kitchen sink offered spying opportunity, but whatever discussion was taking place inside emerged only as a muted hum. Unless one of them started shouting—

  “Excuse me?”

  Then again, one degree short of shouting with a distinct note of You better pray I heard you wrong carried quite well. Whatever Ivy said next was a fierce buzz, but slumming and snob had sufficient punch to pass through the screens in stereo, as did You’ve had your say. It’s my turn.

  Violet twisted her hands together. “I’m sorry. Ivy’s not usually like this. She’s really very sweet natured.”

  If Violet felt the need to apologize when her daughter barely raised her voice to put a pushy idiot in his place, Ivy was being held to an inhuman standard for sweetness.

  She had far more interesting flavors that Griff preferred.

  “I’ve told you no, twice, and you’re still here, but I’m being unreasonable?”

  Apparently her mother wasn’t the only one who expected her to sweetly yield to pressure. “Should someone go in there?”

  Violet fanned away the notion. “Ivy can take care of herself.”

  There was no doubt in his mind Ivy could fight her own battles, but some opponents were incapable of hearing they’d lost until it was explained by a voice with some bass in it.

  Byron correctly interpr
eted his unease. “Jared’s harmless. Dumber than I figured him for, but harmless.”

  “He’s persistent,” Violet said in the idiot’s defense.

  “That’s one word for it,” Byron grumbled like a father who didn’t appreciate his daughter’s choice being ignored.

  Parental opinion appeared divided on the issue of Jared. Good. Then it wasn’t just personal bias shaping Griff’s impression that the guy was a tool — not that he had any personal stake in the outcome of proposal number two.

  Violet crossed her arms and frowned at her husband. “If you’d given up when I told you no, the day we met would have been the last time we saw each other.”

  “You never said no. It was always some variation of ‘not now.’” Byron pointed toward the window and the muffled tirade beyond. “That is just plain ‘no.’”

  The screen door flew open. Jared pounded down the steps, empty-handed. Without so much as a glance to acknowledge the spectators in the garage, he stalked toward a white Mercedes parked at the curb.

  Griff’s brother drove the same car, which didn’t lessen the tool impression.

  A succession of loud pops from the kitchen made Violet jump.

  “Balloons,” Griff explained, not even trying to stifle his amusement. If they had a garbage disposal, the roses would be feeding it soon. He pitied the poor bear whatever fate awaited it.

  “Are you staying for dinner, Griff?” Violet asked as if she’d understand a desire to flee from her dangerous and unpredictable offspring.

  It would be his pleasure to help Ivy burn off her frustration again, but maybe not on her parents’ dinner table — particularly under the watchful eyes of the miniature horde. “Thank you for the invitation, but I have other plans.”

  Byron knew a no when he heard one. “Sorry to hear that, but more brownies for me.”

  2

  Tuesday evening, Ivy presented at the appointed hour for her other weekly date. Because her hands were full of six pounds of peanut butter cup cheesecake, she knocked with her toes on the door of Camille and Von’s townhouse.