Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(109)

“A little more.”

I follow her instructions.

“Hmm . . . no. That’s not right. Maybe back to the right.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Ivy’s perched comfortably in her chair, legs propped on the new front desk and crossed at her ankles, her slippers tapping the surface. I’m not used to seeing her in anything but boots, but I guess she wasn’t planning on going anywhere besides the front porch when the detective rang the bell.

She flips through a magazine, feigning indifference. “Yeah, I am. I just wanted to make you sweat a little.”

There’s the attitude I’ve missed so much. “You like making me sweat?”

She tries to hide the smirk by adjusting her chair farther away from me, to face the brand-new monitor.

“So? What do you think?”

Her eyes roam the space—the newly hung mirrors to the new, black window shades, to the security system that I had wired, to the floors that I sanded down and varnished in a warm honey finish, with the help of Fez and Bobby.

Black Rabbit is basically ready for business.

“I think your ease with breaking into places makes me very uncomfortable.”

“Besides that.”

She tosses the magazine to the desk. “Why’d you do all this for me?” There’s a hint of vulnerability in her voice now.

“Because I don’t want you to leave San Francisco.”

She snorts. “You don’t even live here.”

“I will. If you’re staying.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then I guess I’m not.” I wander over to lean against the desk, lifting her legs at the ankles and settling her feet on my lap. “I want everything to go back to the way it was before.”

“It can’t go back to that.”

“I know. But we can go to something better.” No more lies.

We simply stare at each other. We’ve gotten good at doing that, of communicating without words. Like, right now, I’m hoping she understands how sorry I am that she went through this, how I did everything I could to protect her, how I can’t stand the idea that this is the end of us.

She nods toward the monitor. “What do you think about these for the waiting area?”

I smile. She’ll probably never be one to talk openly about her feelings, but that’s okay. We seem to manage just fine without words.

I check out the screen, stealing a feel of her calf as I run my hand up along her leg. She doesn’t pull away. “What are they?”

“What do you mean ‘what are they’? They’re chairs.”

I snort, taking in the abstract orange plastic shape. “Those aren’t chairs.”

“Yes. They are. See? Chairs.” She taps the screen.

“Hmm . . .” I switch positions, releasing her legs and coming up behind her, crouching to rest my chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, watching her chest rise with a deep inhale, as I look at the screen. “Still don’t look like chairs.”

“Well, they are.”

I tap on the exorbitant price next to them. “You want to spend that on something that ninety percent of your clients won’t use because they won’t be able to identify?”

“Carry on with your grunt work, then, man servant,” she mutters, waving an annoyed hand toward the chair. But when I make to move, that hand lands on the back of my head, pulling my mouth to hers. Her fingers weave into my hair as our faces mash together in a deep kiss that could easily mean good-bye.

She breaks away abruptly to peer up at me. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“I know.”

Her breath skates across my face in a deep sigh.

And then she’s kissing me again.

EPILOGUE

SEBASTIAN

TWO MONTHS LATER

We step through the door and she inhales deeply. “Mmmm . . . sawdust.” Her eyes wander over the interior of the house, about halfway between her uncle’s—now sold—and Dakota’s.

The real estate agent handed me the keys twenty-four hours ago.

“It needs some work. A new kitchen . . .”

She opens the door to the main-floor bathroom. I gutted it this morning while she was working.

“A new bathroom . . .”

She peers over her shoulder at me, her typical cool, coy smirk on display. “Plumbing issues. How ironic.”

I smile at the dig. “The bathroom upstairs works, if you need it.”

She makes her way into the kitchen, her hand running along the smooth marble countertop, her gaze on the cheap, white melamine cupboards. “It’s nice.” A mischievous glint catches her gaze. “A bit . . . boring.”

“Are you calling me boring?” I stretch my navy T-shirt out with my hands. My “uniform,” as Ivy mocks. “Even with this?” I peel it off to reveal her handiwork, now fully healed.

Fire lights in her eyes, like I knew it would.

I rope my arms loosely around her waist. “You can help me with the design, then. You’re better at that sort of thing.”

“That’s right, I am. You’re just the brute strength.” Her hands slide over my biceps and her gaze wander the space again. “So I guess this means you’re officially staying in San Francisco?” Dark, almond-shaped eyes land on mine, pleading quietly.