Ivy
THE MOMENT I’M outside, I take a deep, gulping breath, the cold air filling my lungs, kissing my skin, and making me shiver. I’m angry, but thankfully the air cools my heated emotions and I lean against the railing that overlooks the golf course, happy no one else is around. Considering I’m in the farthest corner of the terrace from the open doors of the ballroom, that’s no surprise.
I still can’t believe what Archer said to me. He is the biggest jerk on the planet, I swear to God. He actually said I have a stick up my ass. I mean, what the hell? Could he hurl any more insults at me? Oh wait, I’m sure he can.
No wonder I always avoid him. This is what usually happens between Archer and me whenever we spend any time together. I try to be nice. He’s his usual jerky self. I get defensive. He insults me. We argue. We then avoid each other until for whatever reason we’re forced to see each other again.
We’re like a broken record. No matter what, we can’t get along. He is the most frustrating person I’ve ever met. He drives me crazy. And that I’m in his territory tonight, in Napa Valley where his resort is located—not too far, as a matter of fact—also makes me uneasy. Why, I’m not sure.
I wish I were back home in San Francisco, in my comfort zone. At my little apartment, where I’d watch a movie while contemplating going to bed early on another exciting Saturday night.
Frowning, I sigh heavily and hang my head. I’ve turned into this pitiful, dateless creature all in a matter of hours. What confuses me more? That despite our arguing and the constant animosity that brews between Archer and me, I felt something else between us earlier? Something I would never dare contemplate before?
Sexual attraction.
Tilting my head back, I drink in the night sky. Away from the city lights, I can actually see the stars and there are a bazillion of them stretched across the night’s velvety blackness. They twinkle at me, full of mystery and hope and opportunity.
My life is good. I shouldn’t let guys hang it up and make me miserable. Marc is a jerk who happened to be a bad kisser. Archer is an ass**le who could probably kiss the pants off of me, but I won’t go there.
Damn it, I should be happy. I’m working my dream job as an interior designer under one of the best designers in all of San Francisco. I have my own apartment—no more living with my parents, and thankfully no more college roommates. I have great friends and a supportive family. I shouldn’t let this sort of thing bother me.
But what Archer said . . . it bothers me. I don’t have a stick up my ass, do I? I’m not uptight. I swear I’m not uptight.
Maybe I can be a little controlling, but never stick-in-the-ass uptight . . .
Whipping out my phone, I send my friend Wendy a quick text and wait anxiously for her reply.
She responds in seconds, which impresses me since I know she’s out on a date tonight.
No, you’re NOT uptight. Who told you that? Let me gues . . . Marc. What an ass**le.
Laughing, I shake my head. I appreciate her immediate defense of me. That’s what friends are for, right?
Not Marc, I respond. Someone else. Someone I’ve known since high school.
Since I met Wendy in college, I don’t think I’ve mentioned Archer to her, have I? God, I don’t know. We talk about all sorts of stuff. She’s my closest friend.
So of course I’ve mentioned Archer to her.
One of your brother’s friends? She texts back.
Yeah.
Which one? Let me guess . . . Archer Bancroft. He’s hot. But he also must be a complete ass**le for calling you uptight.
Laughing, I type her a quick reply. “Isn’t that the truth,” I mutter.
“Isn’t what the truth?”
Gasping, I whirl around to see Archer standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets and looking absolutely miserable.
Good.
Oh, and also absolutely gorgeous, which sucks. Why, oh why, did this man have to be so handsome?
“That you’re an ass**le?” I smile as serenely as possible, ignoring the buzz of my phone indicating I have another text. I shove it in the pocket of my dress, thankful it came with one. A girl and her phone can never part.
“Listen, I came out here to tell you I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up completely. Which of course makes him even sexier, and that’s so unfair it’s ridiculous. “It’s just . . . every time we’re together, we somehow end up arguing.”
“I can’t help it if you’re rude,” I say with a sniff. I sound like a complete snot but I don’t care.
“You push all my buttons,” he admits, his voice quiet and edged with a mysterious darkness that sends a thrill shooting down my spine. He keeps his eyes trained on me as he slowly draws closer.
“Right back at you.” Why do I sound so breathless? It doesn’t help that he’s stopped directly in front of me, his big, broad body obliterating everything else until he’s all I can see.
“I’m hoping you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” He reaches out his hand toward me and I stare at it, not sure what he wants me to do. “Please?”
Did Archer Bancroft just say please? I’m sure this is a rare moment in history. “Why do you care about having my forgiveness?” I keep my gaze trained on his hand for fear he’ll see the confusion and emotion in my eyes.
Shit. What is wrong with me?
“Fuck, Ivy, why do you always have to be so difficult?” His hand drops.