Chapter 7

Saturday fell over Big Bend and the surrounding area in a lazy manner. The sun rose slowly, spilling light across the Rockies, making the snow-capped peaks glisten and shimmer like diamonds.

Ivy was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. A quick glance at the clock in the kitchen told her it was too early to be Kip—he wasn’t due to fly into Bozeman until early afternoon. Besides, he had a key of his own. She yanked on the edge of her faded, ratty sweatshirt and grimaced at the dubious stains that laced the front of it. Sauce from last night’s pasta?

Her hair was a mess, pulled up into a bun, and there were two spots on her face coated with dried blue toothpaste. Who knew that hitting the big Three-O would give her more acne than she’d had the entirety of high school? It wasn’t fair.

She peeked out the window, then smiled when she spied Oliver Royce, the drummer in Cal’s band. A transplant from England, Cal and Ivy had first met the tall Britain in a seedy bar off the beaten path in Nashville. They’d bonded over a shared love of Elvis, Waylon, and barbecue. He’d been a part of Cal’s band ever since. With rehearsals being moved from Nashville to Big Bend, Ollie had found a place in town to rent and had been staying in the area.

He came inside like a storm, stomping his feet, shedding snow and gravel across the matt, then tossed his jacket and wool hat onto the bench by the door.

Ivy paused, a half-smile in place as she sipped from her mug. The entire time she’d known the man, he’d sported a shaved head, so it still took her by surprise to see the beautiful mop of blue-black hair he’d grown over the last year or so. It was longer than the last time she’d seen him and was now touching the tops of his shoulders.

He crossed the kitchen and grabbed a mug from the cupboard.

“Help yourself,” she said with a chuckle.

“You got any tea?”

“I don’t know.”

She sidled up to the counter and claimed a high stool while he rooted through the cupboards. Eventually, he gave up and poured himself a coffee, mumbling as he did so. “I don’t know how you Americans start your day without a proper cuppa.” He looked over his shoulder. “Top up?” he asked.

She held out her mug, then added a small scoop of sugar after he’d filled it.

“What’s got you up and at ‘em this early on a Saturday?” Ivy was curious. It was barely nine in the morning.

“Bloody auction I got roped into.”

“Auction?” She sat back, puzzled.

His eyebrow shot up at that. “Millie Sue has this way, you know? I couldn’t say no.”

“What auction?”

He stared into his cup and sighed. “I’m being offered up like a slab of meat at some charity event in town tonight.” Ollie glanced up and nailed her with a no-nonsense look. “And you’re coming with me.”

“I…what?” She tried to hide her smile but, in the end, gave in and buckled over, laughing. The charity event had been on her radar. She just hadn’t realized it was this weekend. “You’re one of the bachelors up for auction?”

“Number eleven.”

Oliver Royce was tall and built like a Mack Truck. Heavily tattooed, his mouth had a habit of running salty. He was handsome, dangerously so, with the kind of edge that would appeal to a lot of the local women. But he wasn’t the kind of man to stand on a stage like a trained dog and wait while women fawned over him and tossed money at the charity for a chance to spend the night with him.

“How in hell did Millie Sue convince you to do this?”

“It’s that damn baby of hers. She handed him to me, and the little guy started to cry. I mean, I’m a bloody oaf, why wouldn’t he? Then she came at me with the auction stuff, and I couldn’t do anything but nod my head while trying to get the wee man to stop crying. After I said I’d do it, she took him back, and the little devil immediately stopped.” Ollie made a face. “I think she has him trained. I think the whole thing was planned.”

Ivy laughed. “That is totally possible.”

“You need to bid on me.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you the money.”

She had to work hard to keep a straight face. “You want to pay me to bid on you?”

He nodded and downed his coffee, then filled another cup to the brim. “Yes. I don’t have time to get tangled up with a woman right now.”

“You do know it’s a charity thing, right? The ladies know it’s not real. They bid on you. You take them out to dinner or?—”

“Drum lessons.”

“What’s that?”

“I said I’d do drum lessons.”

“I already know how to play the drums.”

Oliver set down his empty cup with a triumphant smile. “Exactly.”

“I’m engaged.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t think it would look good if I bid on you.”

“Why not? You just said everyone knows this charity gig isn’t real.”

“Kip wouldn’t like it,” she said after a few moments, lifting her chin, decision made. It was bull, but she had no qualms about using it as an excuse. Ivy had no plans to attend the charity event.

“Your so-called fiancé wouldn’t give a flying fuck if you bid on me.”

“What do you mean so-called?” Annoyed, she glared at the man.

He gave her a look that said it all. Busted . They’d had too many conversations fueled by vodka and wine and long, lonely nights on the road when neither of them could sleep. Ivy sighed, and with shoulders slumped forward, considered her answer.

“Has Cal ever said anything to you about me and Kip?”

“No. He’s wrapped up in Millie Sue and their new little boy. He’s not paying attention to anything but them.” A sly smile touched his face. “But I’ve noticed some things.”

“What things? She asked, maybe a little too aggressively.

Ollie raised his eyebrows. “If I were to take a walk about this home, maybe check out the guest bedroom, would I find it in use?”

How in the actual hell? “How did you…why would…” Ivy sputtered over her words before swearing and looking away.

“It’s none of my business, and I don’t care what’s going on here. I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready, which brings me back round to the reason for my visit. Can I count on you tonight?”

Just then, her cell phone pinged, and she held up her hand before crossing over to the large, overstuffed chair in the living room. She’d left her phone there the night before. There were a bunch of messages—she ignored the ones from her mother—and clicked on the most recent, from Kip. She read it over and made a face. His plane was delayed because of a snowstorm, and he wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

Great.

“You’ve no excuse now.”

Ivy nearly jumped out of her skin when Ollie spoke, his voice close to her ear. It was obvious he’d read her message, and she glared at him over her shoulder. “That was private.”

“It was.” He grinned. “And now you have no excuse.”

“Ollie,” she began, already tired, and she’d only been up for less than an hour.

“Don’t, Ollie, me.” He stood back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Look, I’ll make this easy. You help me out, then I’ll owe you.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Pretty self-explanatory, Luv,” he answered with a wink. “I’ll owe you a favor.”

“So, if I call you in the middle of the night and you’re getting busy with some local woman, you know, one of the ones you have no time for, you’ll?—”

“Drop everything and come running.” A slow grin touched his face. “Come on, Ivy. You’ve nothing else on. Help a mate out.”

He was laying it on thick, and she set down her cup. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are you so adamant about me being the one to win the date? Who are you trying to avoid?”

A tick appeared near the corner of his eye, and his gaze slid away from hers. “That damn Tabitha woman is relentless. I made the mistake of having a go with her between the sheets, and now she won’t leave me alone.”

Tabitha Bailey was the kind of woman who was used to getting what she wanted. Mostly because she usually did. Of course, the fact that she was beautiful certainly helped. It was just too bad that the amount of beauty she possessed wasn’t matched by an actual personality. She was vapid, mean-spirited, and demanding.

I wonder if Mike Paul’s screwed her.

The thought snuck in, and she immediately shook it off. She didn’t give a rat’s ass if Mike Paul and Tabitha had knocked boots, even if the chances were pretty damn high. He was Mike Paul after, the biggest charmer in Big Bend, and she was, well, Tabitha fucking Bailey.

“You look like a cat just peed in your cuppa.”

“What time?” she asked, grabbing his cup and depositing both of them into the sink.

“That’s my girl.” Ollie grabbed his coat from the chair where he’d flung it. “Doors open at six for cocktail hour. I expect to see you no later than seven.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and grinned. “Wear something nice. I have a bit of a reputation to uphold.”

She tossed a rag at him, but he ducked it easily, and with a chuckle left before she had a chance to say something snide. Ivy sighed and headed for the bedroom. She had nothing appropriate to wear, which meant three things.

One, she headed to town and spent more time than she wanted shopping in one of the local boutiques while avoiding anyone she knew. Two, she drove to Bozeman and spent more time than she wanted to, shopping a wider selection of boutiques where she’d hopefully not run into anyone she knew. Or there was the third option. Millie Sue Bridgestone’s closet. Her friend wasn’t home at the moment—she and Cal had gone out of town for a few days. But that didn’t mean a thing. Ivy had the code to their place.

She looked down at her cell and called her friend. Millie Sue’s closet was the winner.

Which was why at exactly six-thirty that evening Ivy rolled up to the community center in a sleek SUV, with a driver and champagne and everything. It was fancy, and she’d already had two glasses of bubbly when she stepped out of the vehicle—all provided by Oliver. It was the least he could do, and she accepted the driver’s hand as he helped her up the stairs.

The driver was a young man she knew from town, Kevin Baker. He gave her an appreciative once over as Ivy reached the top step, which she ignored—the kid was barely twenty, and well, she was engaged, even if it was fake. There were appearances to keep up and all that. She gave a small wave and, thankful for the champagne to fuel her evening, headed inside.

The foyer was decorated with black material strung across the ceiling, speckled with white twinkling lights. There were Christmas trees, presents, an elf or two, and Mr. Paulmert, who had to be nearly one hundred years old, parading the room dressed up as Santa. There were a bunch of town folks milling about, all of them excited and chatting before heading into the main room. She skimmed over them and winced inwardly because the first person she saw was her mother.

The second? Mary Margaret Christchurch.

Not in the mood for either of the women, Ivy turned in the opposite direction. She took exactly two steps and spied the Darlingtons. Normally, they were in Florida this time of year, and though she loved them dearly, they were pretty much the last people she wanted to chit-chat with.

Along with their son, that is.

With no choice but to head inside, Ivy made a beeline for the banquet room and headed for the bar. Was it smart to drink on an empty stomach? Especially one already dealing with those pesky butterflies? Hell no, but she needed the liquid courage because if Mike Paul’s parents were here, the chances of him attending were pretty damn high. Which was something she hadn’t thought of when she’d agreed to Ollie’s proposal. Mike Paul had never been the kind of guy for these sorts of things—he usually donated directly to a cause—but then she hadn’t been around Big Bend for years, so what did she know?

People change. That’s what he’d whispered in her ear the other night.

“Shit,” she muttered as she pulled up to the bar. This was a bad idea, and if she didn’t like Ollie so damn much, she’d bail. Instead, she exhaled slowly and ordered a white wine. While she waited for the bartender to grab it for her, Ivy heard a low wolf whistle. She glanced to her right and spied Ryland Bridgestone with a beer in his hand. Seriously? If Kevin Baker was a kid, then Ryland was still a baby.

“Looking good, Wilkens.”

She had to smile at that. He was a perfect mix of his brothers, Cal and Benton. And Mike Paul, she thought, but whatever.

“The only person who calls me that is your brother, so stop.”

“Looking good, Ivy.” Ryland winked. God, the kid was blessed with the kind of looks that spelled trouble.

“You’re not twenty-one,” she said dryly, eyeing the beer in his hand.

He moved to her side and leaned against the bar. “I will be someday,” he grinned, that Bridgestone charm emanating from him effortlessly.

“Two years from now.”

His smile widened. “You gonna tell on me, Ivy?”

“Finish that and no more.” Her tone was no-nonsense.

“You’re no fun.”

“This night will be no fun if Manley sees you.”

“Shit.” Ryland stood taller and glanced around. “He’s here already?”

“Yep. Saw your father and Martha Pullman in the foyer.”

Ryland downed the rest of his beer and set the bottle on the bar. His eyes, bluer than any of his siblings, crinkled as he gave her a salute. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He frowned. “Where’s Kip?”

“On a plane.”

“Want some company?”

“Will you stop with the flirting?”

“Nope.” Ryland backed away and tugged on his tie, loosening it. “If you dump Lafferty, give me a call.”

“In your dreams, kid,” she quipped. Ivy shook her head and watched him disappear into the crowd. She’d known Ryland pretty much his whole life, and sometimes she worried about him. The Bridgestones had had a lot of traumas to deal with, and though they’d managed to pull together a once fractured family, that kind of stuff didn’t go away. Ivy knew hidden scars were the worst kind to deal with. They left the kind of marks that never went away. The kind of marks that were always with you even if you thought it was long gone.

She should know. She had a few of her own.

Ivy straightened and swore under her breath because as she faced the large room, one of them was headed her way.

Her night had gone from mediocre to bad in the space of five minutes. She looked at her empty wine glass and thought of leaving. Then as she raised her head and met a pair of big green eyes, she thought fuck it.

She wasn’t going to make things easy on Val Hutchins.

She turned and ordered another glass of wine.