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Three
Bitterness can be handled in many ways. The worst is to pretend it isn’t there. Recognize it, identify it, embrace it. Then get over it.
—excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)
Dillon was a big, fat liar.
Ivy sipped her champagne and glanced up at him through the pale pink, lingering light of sunset across the patio table. Eyes as blue and crisp as the ocean stared back, tangling her up in their gaze like a fish in a net.
A shivery zing of awareness started in her scalp and rippled with lightning speed down to her toes. And though she mentally squirmed and flopped, she couldn’t seem to break loose.
Instead, she stared him down with a cool, disinterested look. Hoping he couldn’t see the frantic flutter of her heartbeat at the base of her throat. The goose bumps dotting every conceivable inch of her flesh.
He was supposed to be avoiding her. He had agreed to leave her alone, hadn’t he? Yet, as she feared earlier on the balcony, it was crystal clear that he had no intention of keeping his promise. In fact, he was doing everything he could to make her as uncomfortable as humanly possible.
And he did it damned well.
Throughout dinner, every time she looked up from her plate of mostly untouched food, his eyes were on her. He wasn’t even attempting to be subtle, the big jerk.
At this rate she would be leaving the country a total basket case.
Blake kept shooting Ivy apologetic smiles, and Deidre had started stress eating. She had finished her own meal and was stealing bites from Blake’s plate when she thought no one was watching. Blake’s brothers, Calvin and Dale, observed with blatant curiosity.
Deidre’s bridesmaids were another story. The motor-mouth twins—or as Deidre liked to call them, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum—were too busy flapping their jaws to notice Ivy. Or anyone else for that matter.
They weren’t actually twins, although they may as well have been. They had the same burnt-out blond hair and surgically enhanced, anorexic, size-one bodies. They even shared an identical flair for mindless, irrelevant conversation. Ivy was guessing that their collective IQ’s ranked somewhere in the low double-digits.
“A toast to Deidre and Blake,” Dillon said, raising his glass, his eyes still locked on Ivy. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d dropped the good ole boy twang. Tonight he sounded decidedly more upper-crust Dallas. “May you have a long, happy life together.”
Like we didn’t, his eyes seemed to say. Was he suggesting that was her fault?
Yeah, right.
Around the table crystal stemware clinked and everyone sipped. Ivy downed the contents of her glass in one long swallow. She’d never been much of a drinker, but the champagne felt good going down. It tickled her nose and warmed her nervous stomach.
One corner of Dillon’s mouth tipped up and his eyes sparked with mischief. He was mocking her.
She sat a little straighter, pulled her shoulders back, all the more determined to see this through. She refused to let him win.
May be the trick to making it through this week was to drink alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Hadn’t that been Dillon’s method of coping with stress? Hadn’t he spent the better part of his time in college intoxicated?
Although she did notice that he drank only mineral water with dinner and had barely touched his champagne. Was it possible he’d given up drinking?
As if reading her thoughts, Dillon reached for the bottle of champagne the housekeeper had left chilling beside the table. He rose from his chair and circled to her side, moving with a subtle, yet undeniable male grace that was hypnotizing. Even the Tweedles, deep in some inane conversation about the difference between clothes sizes in the U.S. as opposed to Europe—in Europe Dee had to buy a size three, gasp!—stopped to watch him with unguarded interest.
Ivy sat stock still, resisting the urge to turn in her chair as he stepped behind her. His aura seemed to suck the oxygen from the air around her, making her feel light-headed and woozy.
He leaned forward, resting a hand on the back of her chair—his fingers this close to her skin but not quite touching her—and filled her empty glass. As he poured, his arm brushed her shoulder.
His bare arm. Against her bare shoulder.
Time ground to a screeching halt, and the entire scene passed before her eyes in slow motion. A twisted, messy knot of emotions she couldn’t even begin to untangle settled in her gut, and a weird, this-can’t-possibly-be-happening feeling crept over her.
Why didn’t she do something to stop him? Bat his hand away or jab an elbow into his gut? Why was she just sitting there frozen? It was not as if she was enjoying this.
Yet she couldn’t deny that there was something about him, about the feel of his skin that was eerily familiar.
Not just familiar, but almost…natural. Which was just plain freaky, because there was nothing natural about her and Dillon being anywhere near each other.
Silence had fallen over the table and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at her and Dillon.
Which Ivy realized was exactly what he wanted.
Under the table, her foot was tapping like mad. If she didn’t calm down, she was going to wear away the sole of her sandal.
She forced herself to relax, to pretend she didn’t care when in reality she was wound so tight she could crack walnuts on her rear end.
What felt like an eternity later he finally backed away, making it a point to run the length of his arm across her shoulder while the hand that rested behind her chair brushed ever so softly against the back of her neck. If this was what she had to look forward to every time she emptied her glass, May be the heavy drinking wasn’t such a hot idea after all. She was much better off keeping him at the opposite end of the table, where he could only touch her with his eyes.
“Anyone else?” he asked, offering a refill to the rest of the table.
Dee raised her glass. “I’d love some.”
As he poured, Ivy couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t rest his hand on her chair, nor did he brush against her with his arm. Everyone else seemed to notice, too.
It confirmed that he had only been trying to antagonize her. Hadn’t he caused her enough grief? Couldn’t he act like an adult and leave her alone?
Just as she’d suspected. He hadn’t changed a bit.
“Dale told us you guys used to be married,” Dee said as Dillon returned to his side of the table and slid easily into his seat.
The way he could look so relaxed and casual, yet emanate an aura of authority, boggled the mind.
He retrieved his napkin from the table and draped it in his lap. “That’s right.”
Dee’s eyes widened a fraction and she looked to Ivy for affirmation. “Really?”
“We were,” Ivy confirmed. “For about a year. A long, long time ago.”
“He married you?” Dum asked, looking first at Ivy, then to Dillon, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Wow. I really thought Dale was kidding.”
Gee, thanks, Ivy wanted to tell Miss Tactless. Just go ahead and say what’s on your mind. Don’t worry about my feelings.
“She left me and broke my heart,” Dillon said, flashing Ivy a wry grin.
A look passed between the twins, like sharks who had just smelled blood in the water and were gearing up for a feast.
“She left you?” Dee, who obviously missed the sarcasm oozing from his words, clucked sympathetically, shooting Ivy a look of disdain. She reached across the table to pat Dillon’s hand and assured him, “You deserve better.”
Oh, please. Ivy experienced a severe mental eye roll. Even if she had wronged him somehow, which she absolutely hadn’t, it had been ten years ago.
“It’s no wonder,” Dum said. “Blake, didn’t you say she hates men?”
Deidre’s jaw fell and she shot Blake a look.
“That’s not what I said,” Blake told her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He turned to Ivy, looking as though he wanted to disappear. “I swear, that’s not what I said. I was just telling them about your book. Man-hating never entered the conversation.”
Ivy believed him. In all the time she’d known Blake, she’d never heard him say a disparaging word about anyone. But she could see the needle on Deidre’s stress meter creeping into the red zone. Deidre eyed the Tweedles’ untouched chocolate mousse with ravenous eyes and asked, “Would anyone like seconds on dessert?”
“Not me,” Dillon said, rubbing a hand across what Ivy was sure was still a washboard stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
“Like she needs seconds,” Dee mumbled under her breath, but conveniently loud enough for the entire table to hear. Dum snickered and Blake’s brothers exchanged a look, one that said Deidre’s fluctuating weight had been a topic of conversation in the past.
That didn’t surprise Ivy. The Tweedles hadn’t exactly been Deidre’s first choice for bridesmaids. In fact, they weren’t her last choice, either. They ranked somewhere just below the never-in-a-million-years category. But Blake’s brothers were the groomsmen, per their gazillionaire father’s demands, and they had refused to stand up in the wedding without their girlfriends.
Since Deidre would be stuck as a part of the family for the next fifty years or so, and Daddy was footing the bill for the wedding—and the house they were moving into after the honeymoon, and the cars they would be driving—Deidre felt it best to acquiesce.
The whole arrangement set off warning bells for Ivy, but she was keeping her mouth shut. Deidre seemed happy, and Ivy didn’t want to burst her bubble. There was a very slim chance it would all work out, and Ivy was clinging to that hope.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, and Deidre lowered her eyes to her lap, shame flaring in red-hot splotches across her cheeks. Blake looked awkwardly around, everywhere but at the woman he should have been speaking up to defend. Ivy felt torn between defending her cousin and not wanting to make things worse.
Blake was a genuinely nice guy, and he loved Deidre. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much in the way of a backbone.
Of the three brothers he was the youngest, and while he hadn’t taken a beating with the ugly stick, he wasn’t what you would call a looker, either. He was sort of…nondescript, and he let everyone, including his family—especially his family—walk all over him.
Which is why Ivy feared Deidre would be bowing to her in-laws’ wishes for the rest of her natural life.
“So, Ivy, I hear you’re a practicing psychologist now,” Dillon said.
Uh-oh. She distinctly felt an attack coming on.
Wonderful.
At the very least, taking potshots at her would deflect the attention from Deidre. It would be worth a little humiliation.
“Yes, I am,” Ivy said, unable to keep the defensive lilt from her voice. One corner of Dillon’s mouth quirked up in a very subtle grin, and Ivy raised her chin, bracing for the onslaught of insults. The “shrink” jokes she’d already heard a million times. The “little book” jabs.
She fisted her hands in her lap, digging her nails in the heels of her palms, her foot tapping like mad under the table, steeling herself for the worst.
Bring it on, pal.
“I find it truly fascinating,” Dillon said, and Ivy thought, sure you do.
Dee covered a yawn with fingers tipped in bright pink, clawlike nails, and Dum made a production of looking at her watch. Did they think they were the queens of stimulating conversation?
Dale and Calvin, on the other hand, looked thoroughly amused by the entire situation. Those two were even worse than Dillon. They needed to grow up and get a life.
“Her book has been on the New York Times bestseller list for months,” Deidre said, a note of pride in her voice. “She’s famous.”
Unimpressed, the Tweedles rolled their eyes.
“I’m particularly interested in the study of self-esteem,” Dillon said.
Self-esteem?
Was that some sort of veiled insult? Was he honestly suggesting that Ivy had low self-esteem?
She felt her blood pressure shoot up to a dangerously high level, and her foot was cramping up from the workout it was getting.
She was incredibly comfortable with herself, thank you very much.
“I once read that people with a negative or low self-esteem will insult and belittle other people to boost their own egos.” His expression was serious, but there was a spark of pure mischief in Dillon’s eyes. His gaze strayed briefly to the Tweedles, then back to Ivy. “Is that true?”
It took a full ten seconds for the impact of his words to settle in, and when it did, Ivy was so surprised she nearly laughed out loud.
He wasn’t attacking her. His observations were aimed directly at the twins.
“That is true,” she told him, in her therapist’s, I’m-not-speaking-of-anyone-in-particular-just-stating-the-scientific-evidence tone.
Dale and Calvin weren’t looking so cocky now, and a grateful smile had begun to creep over Deidre’s face.
The Tweedles were a bit slower to catch on.
Ivy watched with guilty pleasure as the two of them digested his words with brains no doubt impaired by bleach overexposure. She relished the look of stunned indignation on their faces when the meaning hit home.
She had never been an advocate of “an eye for an eye” and preferred not to lower herself to the Tweedles’ level, but it felt damned good to knock those two down a peg.
“In fact,” she continued, “self-esteem is one of the most widely studied areas of psychology.”
“Why is that?” Dillon asked, feeding the flames, while the Tweedles grew increasingly uncomfortable.
Her conscience told her that what she was about to do was childish and just plain mean, but she couldn’t deny the satisfaction she felt watching the Tweedles squirm. And who knows, May be her words would strike some sort of chord, and they would think of other people’s feelings for a change.
Should she or shouldn’t she?
Oh, what the hell.
“Because self-esteem plays a role in virtually everything we do,” she explained. “A lack of it can have dire effects. People who are unsure of themselves sometimes have trouble sustaining healthy relationships. Since they often feel embarrassed and ashamed without due cause, their irrational reactions tend to baffle and alienate others.”
“That is fascinating,” Deidre agreed, casting a grin Ivy’s way.
On a roll now, Ivy added, “Even worse, low self-esteem can cause or contribute to neurosis, anxiety, defensiveness, eating disorders and even alcohol and drug abuse.”
“How tragic,” Dillon said, looking pointedly to Blake’s brothers. “Don’t you think?”
Dale and Calvin exchanged an uneasy look, but neither uttered a sound. It was clear they were of the collective opinion that they shouldn’t mess with the billionaire oil man.
The balance of power had just been established. At least for once Dillon had used that clout and influence for someone’s benefit other than his own.
She would have to thank him later.
“Well, I think I’ll take a walk on the beach before it gets dark,” Dillon said, rising to his feet, and with his eyes on Ivy asked, “Anyone care to join me?”
As if. She wasn’t that grateful.
“I will!” Deidre said, popping up from her chair with such enthusiasm that she bumped the table and sent her champagne glass teetering precariously. Blake grabbed it before it could topple over and shatter against the glass-top table. It was a nice save and, if Deidre’s doe-eyed smile was any indication, might just compensate for his letting her down earlier.
Blake stood, brushing remnants of his dinner from the front of his clothes. Clothes that hung on his narrow, gangly frame. No matter how well he dressed, he always looked a tad…untidy. “I’ll come, too.”
“We’re going into town to hit the bars,” Dale said, answering for that side of the table. All four of them looked as though they could use a stiff drink. Or May be five. Hopefully, in the future they would take the time to think about what they were saying before they opened their mouths, and realize there were certain people you just didn’t mess with. Not without getting burned.
Ivy rose from her chair. “I’m going to head up to my room. I have to check my e-mail.”
“But you promised no work this week,” Deidre said with a pout.
“I know, but I’m expecting a message from my editor,” she lied. The truth was, she’d told her editor, agent and writing partner that this week had been reserved strictly for relaxation.
What a joke. There would be nothing relaxing about this week. She would be lucky if she didn’t return to Texas a certified Froot Loop in need of intensive psychotherapy.
Deidre clutched Ivy’s hand in a death grip. “Come with us. Please.”
Ivy knew what she was trying to do, and it wasn’t going to work. She wanted Ivy to forgive Dillon. To “get past it,” whatever “it” was.
Yes, Dillon had done something nice, shown that he had an unselfish side, but it didn’t excuse the way he’d taunted her all evening. It also didn’t change the fact that he would most likely continue to taunt and harass her until she boarded the plane Sunday morning.
She pried her hand free. “Next time. I promise.”
Deidre looked as if she wanted to press the issue but let it drop.
Everyone went their separate ways, and Ivy headed upstairs, feeling uneasy and not quite sure why. Something weird had just happened down there. Something disturbing that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
She stepped into her room, closed the door and leaned against it.
A disaster had been diverted, thanks to Dillon. She would go so far as to say the entire situation, while childish and petty, had actually been fun—
Wait a minute. Fun? With Dillon?
The truth grabbed hold and shook her silly for a second.
That’s what was so weird. Tonight had reminded her, if only for a few seconds, that at one time she and Dillon had made a good team. They used to have fun.
Even worse, she was pretty sure she actually disliked him a little less than she had this morning.
Oh, this was bad.
Hating Dillon was her only defense, her only ammunition. She depended on it.
Without that hate, she could no longer ignore the fact that he’d irreparably broken her heart.
Four
Do you suspect your man is lying to you? Trust your intuition. Odds are, he probably is.
—excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)
Ivy learned two important lessons that night.
The first was that the only thing worse than having to face her ex again was having to face him in her ratty old nightshirt with the sleeves torn off, wet, tangled hair and no makeup.
The second, more valuable, lesson was always lock your bedroom door.
“Whoops,” Dillon said from the open doorway when he saw her lying in bed on her stomach, on top of the covers, her laptop open in front of her.
She scrambled onto her knees, tugging the shirt down over her pale, sun-deprived legs, kicking herself for not visiting the tanning bed a few times before she left. Then kicking herself a second time for caring what he thought. “What are you doing in here?”
He looked genuinely baffled. “Guess I got the wrong room.”
She couldn’t help wondering how he’d managed that, since Deidre had had the decency not to put them in adjacent rooms and his was located at the opposite end of the house.
“Huh.” Dillon glanced down the hall in the direction he’d come from. “I must’a made a wrong turn at the stairs.”
She dragged her fingers through her knotted hair, cursing herself for not running a brush through it. Her mother, the cosmetologist, had spent years hammering into her head that to avoid damage to the ends and give her thin hair more body, it should be brushed after it dried. Which shouldn’t have been a problem since she hadn’t been anticipating company.
Or in Dillon’s case, an intruder.
You don’t care, she reminded herself.
“Well, as you can see, this isn’t your room, so…good night.”
He looked casually around, as if he had every right to be there. “Hey, this is nice.”
“Yeah, it’s great.” And she knew for a fact it was not much different than his room.
Rather than leave, Dillon stepped farther inside, wedging his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. A move completely nonthreatening, but she felt herself tense. “I think your room is bigger than mine. And damn, look at that view.”
Without invitation, and in a move arrogantly typical of him, he crossed the room to the open French doors and stepped outside onto the balcony.
Ugh! The man was insufferable!
Forgetting about her unsightly white skin, she jumped up out of bed and followed him. Staring at her from a balcony a dozen yards away was one thing. She could even live with the teasing, but this was her room, her only refuge this week, and he had no right to just barge in uninvited. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only a hazy magenta ghost in its wake, and specks of glittering light dotted the heavens. And in the not so far distance she could hear the waves crashing against the bluff. Add to that the cool breeze blowing off the water and it was a perfect night. If not for the man standing there.
He whistled low and shook his head. “Yes, ma’am, quite a view.”
“Your room faces the same ocean, so I doubt the view is all that different at the opposite end of the house. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you go check.”
Ignoring the razor-sharp edge of irritation in her voice, he propped both hands on the railing and made himself comfortable. “No, sir, you don’t see stars like this in Dallas.” He sucked in a long, deep breath and blew it out. “No smog, either.”
She wasn’t quite sure of the point of the “aw, shucks” routine, but it was getting really annoying. “Dillon, I want you to leave.”
He turned to her, his face partially doused in shadow, wearing that crooked grin. “No, you don’t.”
Damn him. He still knew exactly which buttons to push. But she wasn’t going to take the bait. She wasn’t the young, emotionally adolescent girl he remembered. She was going to stay calm. “Yes, I do.”
“It’s been ten years. We have a lot of catching up to do.” His eyes strayed to the front of the threadbare, oversize shirt and the grin went from amused to carnal.
Exactly what kind of catching up did he think they would be doing? And was he familiar with the phrase, when hell freezes over?
“You always did wear T-shirts to bed. Usually mine.” He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and something dangerously hot flickered in his eyes.
“You said you liked ’em ’ cause they smelled like me.”
She crossed her arms and shot him a chilling look.
Undaunted, his eyes wandered over her. “And I see that you still wait until your hair is dry to brush it.”
She hated that he still knew her so well. That he’d bothered to remember anything about her at all. And the only reason he had was to use it against her. To make her uncomfortable. To knock her off balance and lower her defenses so he could go in for the kill.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’ll bet you do all those things subconsciously,” he mused. “Because deep down you still love me and you want me back.”
The mercury on her temper began a steady climb, and she clamped her teeth over the sarcastic reply that was trying like hell to jump out of her mouth.
You will not show this man how angry he’s making you, she chanted to herself. You will not let him get the best of you.
“Isn’t there a technical term for that?” he asked.
Yeah, there was a term for it.
Nuts.
Which he was if he honestly believed she had any feelings left for him. Favorable ones, that is.
“Don’t we have a high opinion of ourselves,” she said.
He grinned. “May be, but you can’t say that I’m not consistent.”
No, she definitely couldn’t say that. He’d never once failed to let her down.
And this conversation was going nowhere.
“Look, I appreciate the way you defended Deidre against the Tweedles at dinner, but let’s not pretend that I don’t know exactly what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.”
Amusement quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Tweedles?”
Ivy slapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, jeez. Had she really said that out loud?
“Like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?” A deep rumble of infectious laughter rolled from his chest and had a grin tugging at the corners of her own mouth.
And just as quickly it fizzled away.
Ugh!
He was doing it again. Softening her up. Lowering the ick factor of just being near him.
“You need to leave,” she said. “I have work to finish.”
He didn’t move. “I guess you got that e-mail from your editor, huh?”
“That’s right,” she fibbed. “I’m incredibly busy right now.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” He eased away from the ledge, and she resisted the urge to step back. “You know, I could always tell when you were lying.”
“I guess it takes one to know one,” she snapped.
The humor slipped from his face, and she could see that she’d hit a nerve. Well, good. He had it coming.
Then why did she feel like such a louse?
He took another step closer. “Did I ever lie to you, Ivy?”
“I am not doing this.” She turned and walked to the closet. She flung the door open and snatched her robe from the hanger. “I refuse to get sucked into a conversation about a relationship that has been over for ten years.”
She thrust her arms through the sleeves and bound the belt securely at her waist. She swung around and nearly plowed into him. He was right behind her.
“The truth, Ivy.” Every trace of playful cockiness had disappeared from his voice. “Did I ever once lie to you?”
Her heart rattled around in her chest. She remembered this man. The quiet, serious, alter ego. His appearances had been rare, but they had always intimidated the hell out of her. And Dillon knew it.
Had he been hiding in the background all this time, waiting for just the right moment to pounce?
“I don’t owe you a thing.”
He stepped closer, his eyes locked on her face, and every cell in her body went on full alert, every neuron in her brain lit off like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Did I ever lie to you?”
Don’t do it, she warned her traitorous subconscious. Don’t you dare say what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter anymore. It will only make things worse.
Don’t say a word.
He stepped closer, until he was only inches away. His hair was a little windblown from his walk along the beach, and she could smell the scent of the ocean on his skin and clothes. Steel-blue eyes bore through her, stripping her bare, and her feet felt cemented to the floor.
She couldn’t move.
“Ivy?”
“No!” she shrieked, no longer able to contain the anger and frustration and hurt that had been festering for far too long. “You never lied to me, Dillon. In fact, you made it distinctly clear just how little our marriage meant to you.”
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth, but it was too late to take them back. She was still bitter and hurt by the divorce and now he knew it. And she didn’t doubt he would use it against her.
For several long seconds he just stared at her, his expression impossible to decipher. Finally, his voice neither warm nor cold, he said, “I wasn’t the one who walked out the door.”
His words felt like a slap across the face and literally knocked her back a step. He wasn’t suggesting the demise of their marriage was her fault, was he? There was only one person to blame, and he was standing right in front of her.
Who had repeatedly stayed out every night and come home drunk while she had done her best to get an education? Who had blown his money gambling week after week?
And who had sicced his father on the grant committee and had her scholarship revoked?
May be he hadn’t lied, but what he’d done was worse.
He’d let her down.
For a second they just stood there looking at each other, then he shook his head, so subtly she had to wonder if she’d really seen it or if it had been a trick of the light.
“Good night, Ivy.” He turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
And for some stupid reason she felt like crying.
She didn’t care what he believed. What had happened to their marriage was not her fault. She may have been the one to physically walk out the door, but emotionally, Dillon had already been long gone.
Ivy dove into the pool, limbs slicing across the still water like a hot knife through cool butter. Thanks to Mr. I-never-lied-to-you, she’d slept like hell and woke at dawn. But with each stroke she could feel the stress from the previous night begin to evaporate, burned away by the adrenaline and endorphins coursing through her bloodstream.
She’d always had something of a love/hate relationship with exercise. She’d been blessed with a naturally slim figure, so her sporadic visits to the gym never caused her concern. In the last few years, however, she’d noticed things gradually beginning to expand and spread.
Hence her daily morning swim. It was the one thing that felt the least like real exercise. And while it wouldn’t bring back the figure of her youth, she was able to comfortably maintain her present weight.
She only wished some of that extra weight had been redistributed to her less than impressive bustline.
She completed her laps and surfaced, and there, not three feet away, lay Dillon in a lounge chair beside the pool, a mug of coffee in one hand. Watching her, of course.
Here we go again.
She couldn’t see what he had on from the waist down, other than the fact that his feet and calves were bare, but from the waist up he wore a deep tan and a sleepy smile. One that said, hmm, how can I mess with Ivy today?
