Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  Chapter Eleven

  Energy and persistence conquer all things.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  Ivy heard a sound not unlike elephants shod in fleece racing down the hallway. Her bedroom door slammed open to reveal a panting, pajama-clad Daphne.

  “Ben’s coming up the stairs.”

  “Already? He’s ten minutes early.” Ivy spun to the mirror, hands shifting to autopilot to fluff a sexy tousle into her loose curls. “Why on earth did you let him up?”

  “He buzzed. What else am I supposed to do, leave him standing on the curb like a hobo?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Daphne threw herself into a prone position on the bed. “I still think you’re crazy. After the hours we’ve put in the past few days, wouldn’t you rather be in your jammies eating pizza on the couch with me?”

  “Tempting, yes. But you should’ve seen him. The man all but begged. And threatened to keep begging until I caved. If I get it out of the way tonight, he won’t bother me any more the rest of the time he’s here.”

  “I don’t buy it.” Daphne toyed with the drawstring on her pink-and-white-striped bottoms. “You don’t cave. You don’t let yourself be boxed into a corner. There’s some other reason you said yes, isn’t there?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “To me. Probably not to Ben. So hurry and tell me. With legs that long, he’ll cover those two flights of stairs in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m going to be the best date he’s ever had. Fun, flirty, sexy. He’s going to ache with wanting me. And then I’ll cut him loose. See how he likes being the one left wanting.” Ivy sat on the edge of the bed. “Does that make me a terrible, vindictive person?”

  “Oh, yeah. But if you were perfect, I couldn’t be friends with you. Everyone needs a flaw or two.”

  Three hard knocks echoed through the apartment. Ivy smoothed the straps of her sin-red sundress, chosen to set Ben to drooling the minute he saw her. “Don’t save me any ice cream. I plan to eat my way through Ben’s credit card limit tonight.”

  “Go get him, tiger.”

  Ivy’s needle-thin stilettos tapped against the hardwood floors. She opened the door to catch Ben mid-knock. His hand froze, upraised, as his eyes inched down in a slow slide past the cotton lace-up bustier, past the skirt so short she couldn’t bend over and stay decent, then back up to hover at her glossy, vixen-red lips.

  “Va va va voom, Ms. Rhodes. You look incredible.”

  “You look early,” she replied, gratified by the stupefied expression slackening his jaw. Of course, she had to remember to keep hers from dropping as well. At this point, she’d almost gotten used to how rakishly sexy Ben looked in his wedding uniform of a tuxedo. She thought she did a pretty good job of not openly staring at his muscled thighs when he wore cargo shorts to the office. But tonight he displayed a whole new sartorial side. The summer linen suit over a pale blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck made him look relaxed and suave. Sort of like James Bond on a Caribbean island.

  “Better than late, right? Besides, I had an inkling you’d try to keep me out of here. Half expected you to be waiting out front.”

  Well, that had been her plan. There was an inherent intimacy to letting him into their place. He hadn’t earned that privilege. She didn’t like him being one step ahead of her. “Don’t be silly. We love to show off our place. Daphne and I spent two solid months painting and sprucing when we first moved in.”

  She stepped back and swept her arm to the side in invitation. The pale lavender walls covered with close-up photographs of individual flowers didn’t exactly measure up to the grandeur and elegance Ben was used to at the Cavendish. Extra wide chairs covered in a watercolory print of lilac sprays were super comfortable for reading away an afternoon. She and Daphne had chosen the deep purple velvet sofa for its make-out potential: had to be long enough for a tall man to stretch out full length. Although it hadn’t seen much of that type of action, she loved the dramatic flair it brought to the room.

  Ben, however, bypassed the comfort of the couch and ambled straight to the fireplace. Flanked by built-in bookcases, it was Ivy’s favorite part of the room. The wide white mantel held a whimsically mismatched collection of picture frames.

  “Looks like you’ve got your own gallery up here.” Ben ran a finger along the edge of several frames in a row.

  “We call it Ivy’s heart on display.” Daphne sprawled on the couch, a pizza box balanced on her stomach. “Everyone she cares about is up there. Kind of a place of honor. If you make it onto the mantel, you’re in the inner circle.”

  “Good for people to know where they stand,” he said absently. His finger lingered on a shot of her family in Adirondack chairs at their lake cabin in Wisconsin. Then he jammed his hands in his pockets, which raised his jacket high enough to show off a very fine ass. “Don’t want to be late for our reservations. We should go.”

  Like a cloud passing overhead, his mood had shifted for a moment, darkened. Or maybe she imagined it. The tight roundness of his ass certainly qualified as a distraction. Ivy collected her bag and a white pashmina from the mirrored armoire by the door.

  “I’m going to wait up, so don’t expect any post-date nookie, Westcott,” Daphne warned.

  “Actions have consequences, Lovell. Cock blocking me means I nix my plans to bring you back a dessert.” He closed the door behind Ivy before Daphne could splutter out more than a few angry syllables.

  “Interesting choice of words,” said Ivy, picking her way down the stairs.

  Ben laughed. “Daphne and I enjoy shooting the shit. We both dish it out as well as we take it. Neither one of us means anything by it.”

  “Does that mean you’ll still bring her dessert? You can’t toy with her when it comes to her sweet tooth. Because, and let me be clear on this, Daphne’s presence at the apartment is not what’s stopping you from getting laid tonight.”

  “No kidding. I live at a hotel. She could camp out in your living room for a month while we run through every condom in the city.”

  Ivy overshot a step and almost lost her footing. Obviously they weren’t on the same page about the agenda for the evening. “I think you’re missing my point. Allow me to strip you of any illusions you might have, there will be no sex tonight. Not in your hotel, not in my apartment.”

  “What about on the desk in your office?” Ben opened the front door and led her through with one hand cupped beneath her elbow.

  Was he being deliberately obtuse? Obstinate? Idiotic? Suddenly involved in a body swap with a sex-crazed fifteen year old? “No.” His mouth started to open, and she held up an index finger to shush him. “Oh, and before you ask, also not on the observation deck of the Hancock Tower or the end zone at Soldier Field.”

  His open palm moved to the small of her back, guiding her down the tree-lined street. “Ivy, relax. I’m just poking at you.”

  “That’s the only poking you’ll be doing.”

  “For God’s sake, I don’t expect you to put out for a glass of wine and a meal. Is that really what you think of me?” Legs braced wide, Ben stopped walking. He skewered her with a laser-sharp gaze. Dusk crept in from shadowy corners, darkening the sidewalk even as the sky morphed into an abstract painting with thick streaks of apricot and periwinkle. Mockingbirds twittered from behind clusters of vivid green leaves. The first crickets of the night began their rasping song. A warm breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle. The moment couldn’t be more romantic if she’d orchestrated it herself. Not to mention the thoroughly handsome, albeit annoyed man waiting for an answer.

  “No. No, I’m sorry, Ben. I guess I’m more exhausted than I realized. I should’ve known you were kidding.” After all, the hard freeze punctuating their first few days together had thawed all the way to occasional friendly, if not warm, banter. She’d watched Ben jovially joke with everyone in her office, although to a far lesser extent with Julianna. Her assistant refused to drop her guard around him. “You were just kidding, right?
”

  Ben opened the door of a sporty silver convertible and helped her in with old world manners. She rubbed her hands over the butter soft leather of the seats while he walked around to his side. With an ease she’d always assumed required stuntmen and wires, he planted his hand and vaulted over the door into the seat.

  “Yes.” Smoothly manipulating the gear shift, he pulled out into traffic. “Unless you offer up a quickie at the Art Institute. I’ve always been a sucker for Monet.”

  This time he had to be kidding. Probably. Ivy snickered. “I’m not interested in getting horizontal anyplace with a marble floor. I bruise too easily.”

  “Duly noted.” Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while they idled at a light. His wind-tousled hair drooped into his eyes, giving him a boyish, innocent look. As if!

  Ivy trailed her arm over the edge of the door and thought about how the last few minutes had played out. For all intents and purposes, Ben gave every indication of being a decent guy. In hindsight, sure, he’d hurt her. But only by being upfront and completely honest about his feelings. He didn’t deserve her doling out this ongoing punishment for such sterling qualities.

  “Look, I’ve obviously got a hair-trigger response to you. Which seems kind of ridiculous, since I’m the one that offered up the peace pipe. Starting tonight, I truly promise to let bygones be bygones. A guaranteed fresh start.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  She worried about how quickly his response popped out. Had he truly heard what she said, tuned out to deal with traffic, or possibly not trust her to follow through? “Really? It’s that easy?”

  “Don’t go looking for trouble under every single rock. Life’s too short to hold grudges. I take people at their word.” Ben slid a quick look her way before swinging onto Lake Shore Drive. “You tell me we’ve got a clean slate, I believe you.”

  Ivy looked at the beautiful expanse of Lake Michigan, shimmering on her left. Due to the holiday, the blue water sported more sailboats and speedboats than usual. The park edging it overflowed with families crowded around tables groaning with food, and the acrid charcoal scent of portable grills made her mouth water. A patchwork quilt of music with a Latin beat pumped out of dozens of boomboxes. She’d worked all the summer barbeque holidays for years, always going home to crash at the end of the four day slog. It was nice to be out in the middle of the festivities for once, sharing the holiday with millions of other Americans. Even nicer to experience it with an easy-going, yummilicious man.

  * * *

  If Ivy could’ve chosen any place in Chicago to be on a warm almost-summer night, the rooftop deck at Pegasus would be it. Located in the heart of Greektown, the view from their candlelit table encompassed the entire downtown skyline. The casual, fun atmosphere was exactly what she needed to relax and let go of the accumulated stress from the last four days. How had Ben done it? In a city with literally thousands of restaurants, how had he so perfectly gauged her mood?

  “You did well, Mr. Westcott. A spectacular view, great food, epitome-of-summer atmosphere, not to mention the convertible ride down Lake Shore Drive. Less than half an hour in, this night is already about as perfect as it can get.”

  Crossing his hands behind his head, Ben kicked back to balance his chair on two legs. The position exposed a vee of golden chest hair, and spread his shirt tautly across his pecs. All stretched out, he kind of looked like an actor in a really sexy cologne commercial.

  “I realize it’s no satin sheets on a sailboat—”

  “And for that I thank you,” she interrupted, with a mental shudder. Never again would she let her mom set up a blind date. Ever.

  Ben chuckled, deep in his throat. “Let’s call it my own brand of romance.”

  Where could she sign up to be the spokesperson for his brand? “Wow. Look at that. You used the R word without breaking out in hives or gagging.”

  “Very funny. All kidding aside, I don’t believe romance is evil.”

  “Really? ’Cause you do a pretty convincing impression. You see a guy walking down the street with a dozen roses, and you all but whip out the holy water, garlic and crosses.”

  His chair clattered to the floor. “I’ll admit it has a place in the world. In measured doses. Too many people become addicted, or worse, wield it like a weapon. Let me tweak a line from Spider-Man, one of the greatest comic heroes of all time: with great romance comes great responsibility.”

  Cute. She could picture the pre-teen comic book nerd hiding behind all those muscles and self-assured smile. “I bet you’ve got an ancient, faded shirt with Spidey plastered across the front.”

  “Used to. I’m not much of a hoarder.”

  “I don’t mean a packed storage locker. You must have a dresser drawer or two full of keepsakes.”

  “Nope. Mostly because I don’t have a dresser.”

  He might as well be speaking Croatian. The words coming out of his mouth didn’t make any sense. “No dresser in your apartment? Where do you keep all your clothes?”

  “In a steamer trunk. Well, I keep everything in there. A couple of awards, books, photos and some extra clothes.”

  “You’ve crammed your entire life into a trunk? I’ve heard horror stories about the size of New York apartments, but this verges on the ridiculous. How tiny is your apartment?”

  Ben nodded his thanks as the waiter deposited a footed wine bucket next to their table and began the process of uncorking. “There’s the five-dollar question. I don’t actually have an apartment. I keep my trunk at my sister’s place.”

  Hmm. He didn’t fit the nerd stereotype—they guy who lived with his sister because no other woman would have him. The perfect cut of his jacket indicated he tailored his clothes, which meant financial constraints didn’t force him to bunk there, either. Odd. “Do you have some weird co-dependency thing going on with your sister? Aren’t you waaaay too old to live with her?”

  The waiter stifled a snort. He quickly poured them two glasses of a crisp viognier and backed away. Ben shook his head, a downward slant to his lips. “Thanks for taking a non-judgmental approach to that question.”

  “Sorry. When I’m this exhausted, the tact filter on my tongue goes haywire.”

  “Relax.” He reached across the table to pat her hand. Except then it stayed there, his long, thick fingers tracing idle patterns across her skin that skittered a trail of goose bumps all the way up her arm. “I’m pulling your leg. Truth is, I don’t live with my sister. She just lets me keep my stuff there. I’m on the road so much I probably spend three weeks total under her roof. No point paying sky-high rent, or even subletting. RealTV keeps a couple of long-term hotel rooms near their headquarters. About a dozen of us cycle through there when we’re in town—basically a crash pad. You never know who else will be there, but it’s just a place to sleep and shower.”

  “Sounds sensible. And quite lonely.”

  “Nah. I like the freedom. Aside from work, I’m not answerable to anyone.”

  Ivy mustered a good deal of self control to keep from responding. Said control only gained by pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth (a trick she used when faced with particularly obnoxious brides) and looking away, out over the rooftops of Greektown. His life sounded isolating and sad. Articles popped online every day about the importance of a social network to keep the elderly young at heart. At this rate, Ben’s heart had to be aging prematurely. Funny how he gave the impression of being the exact opposite of a loner. What scared him so much about putting down roots?

  “I didn’t mean to judge you. Honestly. Since I see you every day, I forget that you spent the last few years hopping to a different city every weekend.”

  He huffed out a breath that stirred the long, streaky strands of golden hair dipping low on his forehead. “Longer than that. My dorm room was the last place I spent any longer than a month.”

  Wonder of wonders, Ben was opening up. Ivy had bided her time for a week now, waiting for the right time to discuss his pa
st. For all his jovial, open demeanor, she’d noticed that Ben maintained a very private core. This might be her chance to stick a stiletto in that emotional crack and shove it wide open.

  She moistened suddenly dry lips and plunged ahead. “Sam told me.”

  “He told you what? How I skinned him for fifty dollars at poker?”

  “No, but I’ll be sure to tease him about that the next time I see him.” Ivy flipped her hand over, to lace her fingers through his. “Sam told me about your old job. The, uh, incident.”

  Ben let his head loll to the left, eyes flicking to the shiny cityscape. “You mean my public branding as a coward and subsequent lynching by the nation as a whole via every media outlet known to man?”

  A flash of insight almost made Ivy gasp. Had he shifted to avoid looking at her, or because he worried she might not be willing to meet his eyes? How many women had walked away once they realized they were on a date with the infamous Cowering Cameraman? “Incident felt like a shorter way to sum that all up.”

  “Good call.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t come up with a snappy acronym for it.” Success! Poke the bear with a stick long enough, and it’ll turn and look at you. Ben didn’t move his head, but rather slanted those slits of icy blue back in her direction.

  “Now you’re sassing me.”

  “A little.” Hopefully not too much. Kind of a gamble, really. Ivy already regretted saying the careless, teasing words.

  He rubbed one wide palm across the back of his neck. “Making fun of my abject misery.”

  “Just to break the tension.”

  Legs shifting, neck cracking, he squirmed like a toddler in a sandbox. “Well, as long as you’ve got a good reason to rub salt in the wound.”

  “Quite the opposite. All kidding aside, it floored me once Sam shared the whole story. I’m talking about the real story, not the one the media manufactured for shock value. The courage it took to not buckle under all that pressure? To fight tooth and nail to maintain some semblance of the career you love in a field that didn’t want you?” She let fly the words she’d kept bottled up since Sam shared the story over bagels a week ago. The words which equally scared and compelled her to speak Scared by both the possibility he’d storm off, furious she’d even broach the painful subject, and also petrified by how he managed to stir such strong feelings in her. “Bennett Westcott, you’re the bravest man I know.”