Chapter 11
Thanks for tuning in as I post chapters of my new novel When Ivy Met Adam: A second chance, forced proximity, sexy, queer love-triangle romance. Your feedback is everything. Please post comments here or email me. I’m so excited to hear what you think.
Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapters 8&9 Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Merry Christmas to me. Ivy is walking this way wearing a long, emerald Hawaiian print dress. As she gets closer, I realize we look like a Christmas card: she’s in green, I’m in red. Fucking adorable. I wonder if she’ll want to take selfies together.
“Good morning,” I say as I bend to kiss her cheek. She smells intoxicating, bright lemon and something spicy. It’s complicated and sexy. Perfect for this complicated, sexy woman.
“Good morning. Merry Christmas, Adam.” She is smiling her happiest smile.
“You look great. You must be feeling better.”
“Much better. I slept like a baby. Which seems insane because I feel like I was out cold most of yesterday.”
“Benadryl will do that to you.” I give her what I hope comes off as a sympathetic smile.
“Shall we?” She gestures to the restaurant.
“I’d be delighted.” I offer her my arm and feel a thrill to my core when she takes it. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished. Did I eat yesterday?”
“They brought you a tray at dinnertime. But, no, you didn’t eat much.”
“Well, I’m ready for some celebratory dining now,” she says. So freaking cute.
Brunch begins with a warm blueberry scone, butter, and jam—and, of course, lots of cherished and much-needed coffee. The elixir of physicians and lawyers the world over.
“God, I love coffee,” Ivy says.
“I know,” I say. I bury my face in my cup so she can’t see me wince. God, I hope she hears “I know, right?” and not “Yes, I know you do.” I cannot explain the latter right now.
“I know,” she repeats as she reverently sips her coffee. Light and sweet like she used to drink it in school. God, I’m really starting to feel like a creepy stalker now. Be present, Adam. Just be here. In this moment. Now.
Out of an overabundance of caution, we decide against alcohol so soon after Ivy’s shock. “But I want to celebrate. Maybe they’ll bring us sparkling cider?” she asks in that most Ivy way with her voice pitching up. I didn’t even realize how much I missed her—that voice, her smile, her way—until I got her back. Am getting her back?
So, we order two glasses of nonalcoholic bubbles.
“Here’s to the best doctor a girl could ask for when her tongue is swelling up like a balloon,” Ivy offers a toast.
“Here’s to the cutest patient I’ve ever had.” I clink my glass to hers. Cute? Really, dude? But she doesn’t hate it.
“Dr. Lopez, are you flirting with me?” She’s smiling and, if I’m reading her right, totally into it. Totally into me.
Finally. Fuck. I can barely contain my excitement. I’ve been waiting a dozen years for her to be totally into me. This is like a dream.
“Yes, Miss Gardiner, I certainly am.” However, this isn’t a dream and I need to play it cool. “Is that okay with you? You are technically no longer my patient. Plus, I had plans to sweep you off your feet and make you fall madly in love with me long before yesterday’s brief trip down adrenaline shot lane.” I wink at her. I guess I’ll play it cool-ish.
“You did? Long before? Tell me more,” she flirts.
How shall I explain this without oversharing? I take a moment to gather my thoughts and cover my ass.
Before my hesitation to respond becomes too awkward, our server brings us each a poke sampler: sashimi, shrimp, oysters, and a bunch of different sauces (not one of them contains pomegranate, I checked). So damn good. Worthy of a delay in the conversation, maybe even a full detour. I say, “This is exceptional fish. Do you like it?”
“Very good, yes.” She is blushing just a little. She has zero poker face. I can read every thought in her head written clearly on her beautiful features. “You don’t want to talk about meeting online? I kind of like our little meet cute. I was looking forward to telling it to my family someday.”
Oh, sure, I can talk about that. “We’ve met more than once at this point. Right?” I beam at her, maybe to distract from my mental tap dancing. I need to get my thoughts and this conversation under control. “Quite a story to tell our grandchildren.” Facepalm. I mean, not actually. But jeez.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t take the bait. “Are you new to the apps?” she asks.
“I mean, kind of. You’re one of the first and by far the most interesting person I’ve met on a dating site,” I reassure her. “Seeing you on Bumble was a mind-blowing experience.” Tap dance. Tap dance. “I have always wondered if meeting online is more or less authentic than meeting in person. I love the idea that you and I met both ways.”
“Ah. Yes. There is always that question in the back of my mind about online matches. If I met this person in person, would I have been as interested? Yeah, I get that.”
I lean in so I can look her in the eyes when I say, “I promise you, I am very interested in you, Ivy. No matter when or where or how we met, I would have pursued you shamelessly.”
She really blushes now. It looks so good on her. “Oh, my. Is that what you’re doing, Adam? Pursuing me?”
Yes. Yes, I am. “As far and as fast as you’ll let me, Ivy.” Instead of reaching to take her hand in mine, I gently run my index finger from her wrist to her fingernail. I give her my best smolder. (Flynn Ryder would be proud of this smolder.) Her reaction to my words, my touch, my look is intoxicating. Who needs champagne when there’s Ivy Gardiner in your world?
After our poke course, brunch includes both herb-crusted prime rib and a steamed lobster tail—each! It is so much food. We eat for hours. Talk. Drink faux mimosas and our much-worshiped coffee.
“Tell me about your dating profile,” she prompts.
“Sure. What do you want to know?” Tiptoe into this conversation, Adam. This could quickly bring us back to South Bend. Let’s not go there just yet. I want more time in the here and now.
“Your profile says you’re pansexual.” She looks a little nervous.
I can help with that. “Yeah, it’s really the easiest word for me. It took me a long time to find a word that fits. Growing up, I didn’t have a way to explain how I felt—” like I was broken and nothing fit me at all. That is how I felt. Awkward and backward. But I don’t say that. I do say, “And really, I prefer the shortened pan—leave the word sexual out of it altogether.” I study her. Is she getting this? I feel like I'm speaking in code. “Pan-, like the prefix it is. All, every, whole, all-inclusive. Love is love, after all.”
She smiles. Thank fuck. I feel like I’m doing a terrible job at this. Her smile gives me hope.
“Does being pan mean being polyamorous for you?” she asks.
I pause to think about the answer. “Maybe? In theory? But in practice, I’m kind of a serial monogamist.” Danger, Will Robinson. Danger, danger.
“Me too.” She looks away. “Or, I guess, I was?” God, who is she thinking about? How many relationships has she been in? “Are you single now?” she asks quietly.
“Yes, very single. Super single. I’m looking to not be single, that’s how single I am.”
She blushes. She’s so fucking cute. “Me too.”
“Yeah? Super single? Or looking to change it?”
“Oh, look, dessert,” she dodges. It seems we’re both tap dancing through this supremely awkward (and yet absolutely delightful) conversation.
It’s like an entire dessert table brought just for us. Two little dishes of lilikoi parfait with pineapple jam, and toasted coconut. Two decadent chocolate tarts with milk chocolate sauce and shaved dark chocolate. Finally, lilikoi ice cream bon bons covered in dark chocolate—clearly designed to tie the other two desserts together. Divine.
“I’ll never eat again,” I say after the dishes are cleared, and it’s just Ivy and me and our coffees.
“No need. This was the best meal. I could die a happy woman right now,” Ivy says.
“Too soon,” I say, cocking an eyebrow at her.
Her eyes fly open wide. “Oh! Ha! No. I’m not ready to come that close to dying ever again. You’re right.”
We settle the bill (my employee discount finally convinces Ivy to let me pay for the meal), and I suggest a walk on the beach. She’s game, and I’m feeling bold, so I take her hand. She lets me and it feels like a victory. A victory over my past—and over the time and distance that has separated us. It’s like winning something. Big.
We walk in companionable silence for a while. The afternoon sun is warm and the ocean view is breathtaking. Her next question threatens to burst my happy little bubble.
“Tell me about your family,” Ivy says. “You’re not with them today. Are you close?”
“Yeah,” I measure my words carefully. “I am close to my parents. I’m an only child, but they both come from huge families. So, they’re with all my extended family, grandparents and everyone.”
“Do they miss you?” She’s not digging, I don’t think. Just curious. First date questions. That’s all. Right?
“Nah. We have spent quite a few Christmases apart. How about you? Are you close to your folks?” All the red flags in my brain start waving at once. This is a stupid question, Adam. The more you talk about your families, the closer you’ll get to “hey, I’ve known you forever and nah, I’m not a total creeper, and yeah it’s cool if you never want to speak to me again” territory.
“It’s complicated.” I’m saved by the fact she doesn’t want to talk about her folks. She stops and turns to me. She’s so little. I’ve got more than half a foot of height on her. Now she’s looking up at me with those huge, beautiful, slightly sad, puppy dog eyes. “I’m glad to be spending Christmas with you, Adam. This isn’t at all what I expected from this vacation.”
“I bet not. Not every tourist gets to see the emergency department of the hospital. You’re special, Ivy Gardiner.” I can’t help myself. I tuck a stray strand of her gold-blonde hair behind her ear. Her glasses are cute. They're new.
“Gah, there’s something so familiar about you, Adam. I feel so comfortable with you. Like I’ve known you forever.”
The fire that’s been banked in the back of my brain flames up sky high. I fight the urge to back away from her. Every emotion I’ve felt about this woman revisits me at once: love, lust, guilt, shame, hope, fear, possessiveness, resentment. My body wants to scoop her up into my arms, but my brain is screaming with terror that she’s going to start connecting the dots before I’m ready. I finally settle on saying something innocuous. “I’m glad you’re feeling so much better, Vee.” Oh. Shit.
She tilts her head. “What did you say?” She drops my hand and puts her hand to her throat.
“I’m glad you’re feeling so much better,” I repeat. That’s not going to cut it. She obviously heard me call her Vee. Shit shit shit.
Now she’s shaking her head. She knows. “I can’t believe—. I didn’t—.” She crosses her arms over her chest in a blatantly self-protective move. “You are—. Who are—? How could you? What the fuck, Adam?” The anger and fear and incredulity on her face create a perfect storm of I’m so fucked.
“Ivy,” I start.
But she’s backing away from me. She holds both her hands up like she’s pushing me away—but that would be welcome. She’d be touching me if she were actually pushing me away. This distance is much worse. “Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve had so many opportunities to just tell me.”
“To come out to you? Yeah, I guess I have.” I am sorely tempted to get defensive, maybe even pissed off. But this isn’t about me right now. I’ve hurt her. “Things got a little out of my control yesterday, Vee.”
“Do not call me that.” She is seething. Waves of angry heat are washing off of her. I can see her boiling fury barely contained. She looks away from me, at the ocean. She is so fucking beautiful, with the sea breeze in her hair and her absolute fury coloring her cheeks. I take a mental picture because that may very well be all I get after this. She finally turns to me and says, “Say it.”
“Ivy.”
“Tell me who you are,” she practically growls.
“My name is Adam Narvaez-Hinojosa Lopez.”
She bursts into sobbing tears and runs—literally turns around, puts her head down, and runs—away from me. Fuck.
