Wrapped Up in You (Heartbreaker Bay, #8)(5)

Right now, the owner of the Pacific Pier Building allowed her to park overnight in the alley, which was like having a golden ticket. But that was only temporary, and playing Russian roulette with the parking police wasn’t easy. Plus, she really wanted to have the truck more safely stowed at night because she came from a world where your possessions could be taken away at any moment if you didn’t clutch them tight to your vest.

Having it so far from her apartment was a constant source of stress. Other than her slowly growing savings, the truck was all she had. And both were thanks to the business plan she’d painstakingly put together when she’d taken over the taco truck.

She’d come so far. Granted, she still had a long way to go, but pride filled her. And as usual, right on the heels of that was an odd sense of loneliness because she didn’t have anyone to show off to. Her mom was much more interested in her next singing gig than her children, so contact was extremely infrequent. As for Ivy’s brother, he was sweet and charming and charismatic and . . . utterly incorrigible. He was one of those guys who could use their powers for good or bad.

He’d tried to choose good. It just hadn’t worked out for him. It was always about the next get-rich-quick scheme. And unfortunately, along with those came trouble. She’d had to distance herself.

It’d hurt because in spite of all his faults, Brandon was blood, and he cared about her. In his own way. Which wasn’t always the right way. Or any sort of legal way. The biggest problem they had was that she couldn’t trust him to keep her safe. Or to put her first in a bad situation—which she only ever landed in when he was involved. Some of those memories were bad enough that they still haunted her.

So she’d gone west without a forwarding address, and instead of wishing for her family to change, she’d gone after making new connections. She’d made friends here, and was happy. The only thing that kept her from enjoying her life fully was knowing she’d lied to everyone about her past.

But that was a problem for another day.

Leaning back in her kitchen chair, she looked around. Her apartment was a third floor walk-up, and she used the word apartment loosely. The building had once upon a time been a single family dwelling, and when the owners had renovated each of the floors into individual units back in the 1930s, they’d called the attic a “generous loft.”

The two hundred and fifty square feet hardly qualified for generous anything, but she had a roof that leaked only in big rainstorms, decent electricity—if she didn’t run her toaster and her blow dryer at the same time—and almost always could get hot water for a good three to four whole minutes at a time.

But the best part of the deal was that the landlord, a sweet old lady named Evelyn, adored her and gave her a huge discount on the monthly rent—in exchange for leftovers from Ivy’s truck every day.

Tonight that had been brisket tacos, and Evelyn had been thrilled. She’d talked Ivy into having a seat and joining her as she’d eaten, telling stories about her kids, and her kids’ kids . . . none of whom, at least that Ivy could tell, ever came and saw her.

Evelyn also always made Ivy tell her a story about herself as well, and tonight was no different. Evelyn had wanted to hear about Ivy’s famed brother, so she’d drawn a deep breath and did what she did.

She told stories.

She was good at it. She’d been making up stories about her family since she’d been little, each different, each more exciting than the last, and all as far from the truth as she could possibly get. Because the truth wasn’t a story, it was a nightmare. Mentally sifting through a long list of fantasies, Ivy told her landlord all about Brandon the artist, who was living in Paris at the moment, becoming famous for his incredible oil landscapes. She left off the fact that he peddled stolen art instead of creating it, and it hadn’t been Paris, France, but Paris, Texas.

Now, in the attic with her lights dimmed and the only sounds the creaking of the old bones of the building that had seen better days decades ago, Ivy shook her head and clicked on one of her open tabs to view her savings balance.

Still there, and she felt the smile curve her lips. A few more weeks and she’d be able to talk to Caleb about getting the paperwork started for the condo. Her condo. It was almost unreal to her, given how she’d grown up in a string of motels, each more roach infested than the last because Brandon, ever the fun-loving, trouble-seeking stoner of their threesome, had burned down the one halfway-nice trailer they’d had.

Ivy had left “home” at age sixteen to strike out on her own, couch surfing or living out of her car, working at whatever jobs she could get, mostly in bar kitchens, which was where she’d learned to cook.

Something that had given her purpose, and now a job she loved.

With a smile, she changed venues, moving to her office desk—which was really her bed. She fluffed her pillows behind her and stretched out her legs. She considered going to sleep. It was late, midnight, and she had to be up at five a.m. for kickboxing class.

Ugh.

Well-known secret: Ivy hated kickboxing class. She hated the gym. She hated to work out at all, but she hated the way her clothes fit when she didn’t do it even more. And yet she still might’ve taken the extra hour to sleep if her exercise app hadn’t texted her a notification with a picture of a guy working out, captioned: This is Jack. Jack got up on time for his workout. Be more like Jack . . .