She gestured toward the cabinet tucked into a corner, its varnish chipped but polished clean. "You want to help put some of these in?"
"Sure." He paused, his eyes fixed on her. She wasn’t the shimmering dancer bathed in stage lights tonight. Just Ivy in her plain T-shirt and leggings, standing in her modest apartment. It fascinated him.
Winn bent, lifting one of the boxes and began moving them toward the living room table. The muscles in his forearms flexed, the veins visible, and Ivy caught herself watching him for a beat too long. She quickly busied herself opening the cabinet.
His gaze flicked around her home, drinking it in. The faded rug. The secondhand sofa with a little tear on the armrest. Then his eyes snagged on the photographs hanging neatly on the wall.
Pictures of Ivy smiling beside her parents, her father’s arm draped proudly around her shoulders.
"So," Ivy broke the silence, as they began arranging the bottles in her father’s old bar. "You didn’t have anyone else to these to?"
He gave her a sharp look. "If I did, I wouldn’t be here gifting thousands of dollars’ worth of wine to my secretary, now would I?"
"Sorry, just making conversation," Ivy said quickly, biting her lip in that nervous way that made him notice her mouth far too much.
"Where are your parents?" Winn asked casually. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novel[f]ire.net
"My dad is late, and my mum... she... is not around." The hesitation gave her away. He didn’t push.
"So what do you do in your spare time?" That includes men ogling you on a pole, he almost added. She didn’t need to know he’d been in that glass booth, watching her writhe under neon lights.
"Uh... I... um... have a job as an event usher." The lie slipped out easily.
Bold little liar. "Did you go this weekend?" he pressed, curious to see if she’d twitch.
"Hmmm...Event usher uhn. What kinds of events do they hold at night?" He arched one brow at her, his eyes glinting.
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Just parties..." Then, faster than lightning, she added, "Did you hear from the Dutch investors yet?" The way she pivoted so smoothly almost made him chuckle. God, she’s good.
"No. We will see what next week brings," he replied evenly, noting the switch, the deft little sidestep. She was a dancer, alright—on stage and in conversation.
By the time they finished stocking the last bottle into her bar, Ivy exhaled in relief, wiping her palms on her leggings. "Well... all done." She walked him toward the door.
"I’ll see you on Monday, sir," she said politely.
Winn lingered, his hand resting on the doorframe. For a fraction of a second, he wanted to tell her—I know. I know about the mask, about the way your hips move when Enrique sings. I know about the fire you try to hide behind that innocent face.
But instead, he simply nodded, masking his thoughts and stepped out into the night air. His Maybach purred to life, headlights cutting through the quiet street. He needed to keep an eye on Sylvia anyway.
Still, as he slid into the seat, he couldn’t shake the image of Ivy’s lips forming that lie so sweetly.
The next day, Ivy made her way to the nursing home. She hated the place because it reminded her of how fragile everything was, how quickly time could turn someone vibrant into a ghost of themselves.
When she slipped into her mother’s room, Mary sat in a chair by the window, hands folded on her lap.
"Hey, Mum," Ivy said in a sing-song voice, forcing cheer into the air.
Mary turned her head. Her gaze settled on Ivy. "Who are you?" she asked.
"Ma, it’s me." She crouched by her chair. "It’s me, Ivy."
Mary’s eyes softened, some recognition flickering. "Ivy? When did you grow so big?" She rose suddenly, surprisingly nimble, and moved closer, reaching out.
"You ask me that every time, Ma," Ivy said. She caught her mother’s hand gently, pressing it to her cheek. "I grew big when you weren’t looking. How have you been? Have they been taking care of you here?" she asked, trying to anchor her mother into conversation. The staff were kind, but Ivy still felt guilty every time she left, as if she’d abandoned her.
Mary’s face clouded, lips pulling into a frown. "Why am I here?"
Ivy inhaled deeply, her throat tightening. The question never got easier. "Because there will be no one to watch you at home, Ma. You’ll forget to eat. Forget to lock the doors. Forget yourself."
Her mother shook her head. "I want to go home. Take me home. Where is your father?"
"Ma, come on," she coaxed gently, squeezing her hand. "Come sit. I got you something."
She reached for the bag she’d carried in. Inside were cookies and a sweater.
"Oh...you always were such a sweet girl," Mary murmured.
Ivy pulled the sweater fully out of the bag, holding it up. "Look, Ma! It’s almost winter. Can’t have you freezing."
Her mother’s eyes lit, and she reached for it. "It’s pretty," she said, pressing it against her cheek before slipping her arms through.
Ivy clapped her hands. "Oh, would you look at that—New York’s next runway queen. Chanel would kill for this look."
They both giggled, laughter filling the room. For Ivy, these moments—when her mother wasn’t lost to confusion, when she could laugh—were priceless, little lifelines to the woman who birthed her.
Time slipped by. Soon Mary’s eyelids drooped, her head tilting as she surrendered to sleep, sweater bunched at her chin. Ivy lingered by her side. Part of her wanted to stay—just sit there, guard her dreams, steal another half hour of stillness.
With a sigh, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mother’s forehead. "I love you, Ma," she whispered. She stood, smoothing her jeans, and forced herself to walk out.
(ViolaM, JReilley, Fentagro - I see you. Thank you.)