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“Every inch, Ivy.”
My brows knit as I search his face. “What does that mean?”
Gray shakes his head, his mouth tilting with a faint smile. “Nothing really. Just something I say before a game. For luck.”
Swallowing hard, I touch his face. His jaw is warm and rough with stubble. “Well, then,” I say. “Every inch.”
The broad line of his shoulders sags on a sigh, and he nods as if I’ve given him a rare gift.
I leave him then, relief mixing with a strange sense of wrongness within me.
Eleven
Ivy
With Gray out of town, I find myself struggling with an excess of restless energy. I don’t know what to do with myself. And, really, I should be figuring it out. I’m a college grad without a job. I know what I want to do, but I dread telling my dad, who’s been footing my bills until now.
Skin twitching and gut clenching, I soothe myself the only way I know how. I bake.
Hours later, the house smells of golden, buttery-sweet goodness. I have enough donuts to feed Gray’s entire team. Which sucks since they’re not around to feed.
Fi arrives just as I finish glazing the last batch.
“Hermey, Rudolph, and Yukon Cornelius, what the hell smells so good?” Like a tracking dog, she stalks into the kitchen and nearly sticks her nose into a tray of donuts. “Is that bacon on the top?”
“Yup. Honey-chili bacon. I’m trying to break out from the standard maple bacon.”
She picks up a donut and takes a bite, groaning as she does. “You done good, Iv.”
I select a raspberry-filled with a toasted marshmallow topping. The flavor combination is reminiscent of peanut butter and jelly, but not as heavy and more creamy. Fi steals a bit of it and groans again.
“Hey,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t go getting me sick.”
“Bah. I’m not sick any longer, and if you were going to get sick, it would have already happened. Ooh…What’s that one?”
“Christmas donut. Eggnog flavor with a burnt rum-sugar crust like you’d get on a crème brûlée.”
“Yum.” Fi continues to munch on her bacon donut and speaks around a mouthful of food. “So what’s with all the baking? You channeling Mom?”
Hedging from answering Fiona, I reach for the bottle of red wine on the counter. “Want a glass?” I ask instead.
She eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “Red wine with donuts? Why not?”
I don’t talk until we both have a full glass of wine. “I like baking. It relaxes me.”
“Of course you do. It’s in our blood. I mean, I hate it but…” She grins, her cheeks plumping, before becoming serious. “Seriously, Ivy, why are you cringing like a guilty convict over these donuts?”
I take a sip of wine and glance away. “I realized today that I bake best when I’m tense.”
The kitchen wall clock ticks away as Fi watches me. “You bake a lot, Ivy Weed.”
“I know.” Before me is a sea of donuts, each perfectly frosted. “I’ve always thought that I should join Mom because I was good at baking. I like working with my hands, working the dough and coming up with new flavors. I like feeding people. But lately, I’ve started to think about how I want to live. The thing is, Fi, I want to be excited.”
“And baking doesn’t excite you?” She glances at the donuts.
“It inspires me, makes me feel good. But running a bakery? I hated it.” A flush washes over me as I confess. Because I did hate that part. I’d hated getting up before dawn, always being on my feet, worrying about the store and customers. Before, I’d pushed that concern to the back of my mind, but now it’s too close to ignore.
“So don’t do it.”
Setting my glass down, I start to wipe away a glop of honey glaze on the counter. Fi watches me do it.
“If you don’t want to run one of Mom’s stores,” she asks carefully, “what is it that you want to do? Not that you have to know or anything.”
My fingers curl around the damp rag and I toss it aside. “I don’t know.”
But I do. I just can’t seem to voice what I want because it sounds too crazy. And I’m not ready to face it.
I take a large gulp of my wine, letting the mellow smoothness warm my blood. I feel foolish, frustrated. Doubt creeps over me with sticky feet. Maybe this is just a stupid flight of fancy.
“Mom and Dad are going to think I’ve lost it.”
“Hey,” Fi says softly, “I’ve changed my major about six times in two years.”
“You’re a sophomore. You have time. And you love decorating. Why not do that?”
Absently, she nods. “Yeah, maybe.”
For a moment, we’re silent. Then Fi sets her glass down and reaches for another donut. “I’m gonna regret you,” she says to the donut. “But I can’t seem to care.” Her gaze finds mine. “I’m calling a frat boy I know to pick the bulk of these up before we go into a sugar coma. Then we’re going to celebrate my birthday in style, which will include drinking more wine and telling our deep dark secrets to each other.”
“Fi,” I’m trying not to laugh. “That basically sums up all our nights together.”
“Does not! What we drink and eat always varies.”
I grin and start packing up the donuts.
Much, much later, we find ourselves sprawled on my bed among the copious throw pillows. The wine has been ditched in favor of mojitos, and my head is swimming.
“Red wine makes me sleepy,” I complain.