Writing On The Wall (The King Brothers Duology #2)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ETHAN

My Saturday mornings are usually slow, and that’s how I like it. It’s the one part of my life that holds a semblance of a routine. I’m a spur-of-the-moment guy in general, always ready to fly off to different locations or down for an adventure at the first suggestion. But Saturday is the only day of the week when I allow myself to act like a boring, old bachelor, spending my morning with a good book while I sip coffee in the rocking chair on my front porch.

I don’t make any commitments for the first half of the day. The second half is reserved for running errands and working on my own home renovations.

And this house has been my favorite fixer-upper so far. It’s the closest I’ve come to customizing everything to fit my tastes instead of what’s easiest to sell and the closest I’ve come to calling a house mine , despite never seeing myself being able to settle down in one place. I’ve always been afraid of watching my sense of adventure mockingly wave goodbye as soon as I claim a piece of land as my own. But for some reason, I’ve been feeling oddly satisfied with my work on this reno. I keep waiting for that familiar sense of restlessness to kick in, but so far, it’s been replaced by a fondness for things like front-porch coffee sipping and my weekend routine.

So my Saturdays have become mine, and my family knows not to expect me to be present unless absolutely necessary.

But not this Saturday. Today I’m tasked with offering my help to an alligator that hasn’t been fed in too long. Although, I kind of feel like a hangry alligator, too, with my weekend being disrupted. I’d originally planned on checking in on Ivy and her house reno tomorrow, but the producers scheduled a conference call to go over some of the logistics for my pilot episode, and no telling how long that will take.

I squint as I try to make sense of the road names, leaning forward to peer under the visor at the house the GPS led me to. A mighty Spanish moss-draped live oak frames one side of the cottage-style home. The house is whimsically bathed in the yellows of morning light, and I feel a tug at my lips when I imagine a younger version of Ivy scaling the limbs of the ancient oak tree. I bet she was a menace as a child, stomping on hearts and bossing kids around like an angry little dragon.

I inhale deeply, trying to curb the last bit of my annoyance at having my Saturday hijacked. Because if my grumpy attitude were to meet the piranha-like fury of Ivy Marsh, I’m afraid we might leave a giant crater behind.

I’m careful not to shut my truck door too loudly so I can snoop out the condition of the house without alerting the ogre inside. Boxes litter the porch, and I stop to give the front-porch steps a good bounce, testing the integrity of the wood. The squeaky reply tells me that either the wood is dry or the boards haven’t been nailed down securely.

I walk around the house next, scratching at the paint and finding that the slightest wind would be enough to flake it off. The entire exterior will need to be blasted and repainted .

I continue my inspection on the other side, and Ivy passes by the window at the same time I walk by. She does a double take and flinches, before she clutches the back of a chair and lets out a high-pitched screech. I stop and offer her a friendly wave, while her comically round eyes bug out and her hands fly up to cover her mouth. That scowl still manages to do something to me, though, and the way it makes my stomach dip is concerningly addictive.

“Ethan King,” she bellows through the glass. “What. The. Heck! ”

“Mornin’, Ivy June,” I reply calmly, attempting to contain my amusement.

Her stomps echo through the cottage, and the front door swings open.

The ground threatens to swallow me up as she glares, folding her arms over her light blue cropped T-shirt. She’s a pastel paint sample with her cream sweatpants and baby pink hair ribbon. And, of course, the platform sneakers. They’re not heels, but they’re technically still safety hazards.

“Explain yourself,” she demands through her teeth.

I lean casually against a tree, crossing my feet and my arms. “Well, let’s see. Where to start? You already know my full name. Ah, yes. I’m twenty-nine-years old, and I was born in?—”

“Ethan! Why are you being a creepy McCreeperson and stalking around my house?” she asks with wide eyes and a tiny headshake.

“I came to offer my help,” I say simply.

“Ember put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“Do you want to cause her more stress and have me tell her you refused help? Help which you clearly need.” I gesture to the house with a wave of my hand.

Her brows pull down a fraction more, making her glasses slide lower on the bridge of her nose. She uncrosses an arm and reaches up to touch the corner of the frames. The movement reminds me of a fierce lioness pausing mid-roar to sneeze.

I run my eyes over her again. She just looks so damned cute and huggable, and I wonder whether she’d melt or explode if I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her right now.

Whoa. We won’t be doing any of that , King. You don’t like each other, remember?

Her fingers tap against her arm while she contemplates her predicament. “Fine,” she grunts after a while, turning back toward the house. I follow her inside, but before I make it through the door, she whirls around, that fire in her eyes lighting me up from less than a foot away.

“House rules, King: Don’t tell me what to do, don’t comment on my shoes, and don’t be a butthead,” she counts off on her dainty fingers, two of which are wrapped in Elsa and Grogu Band-Aids. Then she whips back around, barely scooting a chair out her path in time to stop herself from tripping.

“Am I even allowed to breathe?”

“If you can do it without being a butthead, sure.” She tilts her head with a tight-lipped smile. If there was ever someone whose feathers I enjoyed ruffling, it’s this woman staring at me like she’d relish the chance to watch me fall into a pit of lava.

“You forgot one rule,” I say, resting an elbow on the kitchen counter and ignoring the state of the place since it looks like it was abandoned mid-demolition.

“Please, enlighten me,” she adds with an eye roll.

“You’re supposed to forbid me from falling in love with you.”

She snorts out a sardonic laugh. “No chance of that, I assure you. Come on,” she turns, leading me down a short passage. “Might as well put that height to good use.”

I want to ask her why she’s so sure I’m not in danger of falling for her, besides the obvious fact that she’s already dating that doofus, Toby. But my eye catches on a mattress lying on the floor in the first room we pass.

I stop at the open doorway, blinking in disbelief at what I presume is her bed. Ivy and her swishing blonde hair and pink ribbon continue for a few steps before she notices my absence.

“You can’t sleep here. This house isn’t habitable.” I cross my arms as she takes determined steps toward me.

“That’s a violation of rule number one,” she announces with a tsk. “And I don’t remember asking you for permission.”

I groan, running my hand through my hair. “Seriously, Ivy, look at the ceiling!” I gesture with my palm.

“What about it?”

“There’s a giant hole in it!” I yell incredulously.

She leans forward, peering into the gaping portal above us, then shrugs a shoulder. “The roof is still there.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Whatever you needed my height for can wait.” My eyes scan over all the areas of concern, citing the red flags everywhere. “We need to write a list,” I announce, pursing my lips.

Her head turns my way, eyes locking onto mine. There’s a question swirling in her gaze. This woman is always armored up, on the defense, and the curiosity in her green eyes is the only sliver of vulnerability she’s showing me.

She won’t use words to reveal any of her weaknesses, but her expression tells me she’s desperately trying to figure out if I mentioned “writing a list” on purpose. I didn’t. I’ve picked up on the fact that, for whatever reason, she isn’t comfortable writing things by hand. But realizing she believes I’d purposefully say something to make her feel bad is a sharp blow to the gut. She really does think I’m a giant ass.

My words come out with a gentle rasp. “ I’ll take notes. ”

She swallows hard and nods before she goes into a different room. “I’ll get the paper,” she mumbles over her shoulder.

My hands rest on my hips as I walk the space, busying myself with taking mental measurements. But it’s either that or cataloging all the bits and pieces of the chaos around me that make up Ivy. I can’t help noticing some of it anyway, like the unopened boxes with misspelled labels scrawled over the sides.

Before I know it, I’ve unintentionally made a list of all the things I’ve learned about this woman.

There’s an attempt at order, but each area looks incomplete, like the next one distracted her before she could finish. The only flat soles in sight are the running shoes peeking out of a gym bag against the wall. Stacked boxes labeled “pots” and “kitchen utensils” await their unpacking, although I assume it’s because Ivy wants to do something about the outdated cabinets before stocking them.

Where is that woman, anyway?

“Ivy?” I call out.

“Keep your panties on, King. I’m coming.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh once she steps out from the room where she’d been bustling around, a fresh Olaf Band-Aid adorning her arm. How does she manage to go into a space for five minutes and come out with a new injury?

My jaw pulses as she nears. “What happened to you in there?”

“Rule. Three.”

I groan in response. “Did you at least clean it properly?”

“Yes, Nurse Ethan. I managed to thoroughly clean my gaping wound before stitching and bandaging myself up.” Another eye roll. She must practice those with Ember. “But I wasn’t able to find any paper.”

“No problem. Hang on to this.” I unclip the measuring tape from my belt, holding it out to her. “You can take measurements in a minute.” I dig a hand into my pocket, searching for my carpenter’s pencil.

A few seconds pass before I realize she hasn’t moved to take my offering. I look up, finding Ivy gnawing on her lip again, staring at the tape measure like it’s a spider I’ve asked her to cuddle.

Then I notice the grooves etched on her brow. Just as I’m about to lower my hand, she reaches out slowly. Her fingers brush against mine, sending a tingle throughout me as she tentatively takes hold of the tape.

“I can?—”

“It’s fine.” Her words are clipped, and she flashes a tight smile. “What now?”

The air grows thick with tension as she avoids my eyes. It feels like I’m tiptoeing across a fragile glass ceiling, every step threatening to shatter it. But I’m not alone—Ivy is there with me, and one wrong move puts us both at risk of getting hurt.

I’m learning there’s a lot more to this woman than I thought. Yes—she’s still a porcupine with complicated written all over her—but seeing what makes her so prickly makes me want to put on a thick coat and hold her closely so she doesn’t fall through any ceilings—literally and metaphorically.

“Now, we make a plan.” I grin and walk to the end of the living room. Various stains and sun-bleached patches decorate the bare walls. I write ‘FIXIT LIST’ in big, bold letters across the center of the twelve-foot-wide wall.

A gasp echoes behind me. “What are you doing?”

“Relax. We’ll paint over it. This way we don’t lose the list. I do it all the time.”

Ivy inhales and releases a heavy sigh, like she’s dealing with a child who’s testing her patience to the limit.

This house is a huge project. But I think the bigger mission— hopefully not an impossible one—will be getting through this without killing each other.