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

Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ETHAN

“Did you press record?” I ask, leaning against Ivy’s kitchen counter.

“Well, now you’re gonna need to edit this out, ‘cause yes, I know how to press a red button, Ethan,” Ivy retorts, heavy on the sass.

“You’re a real peach, Marsh.” I smile flatly. “Okay, walk with me,” I motion with a tilt of my head, followed by a wink. She leans out from behind her phone, pretending to gag. I shake my head, turning on my charm as I address the camera directly and do my best to imagine Ivy’s not the one filming me right now. I give a tour of the living room and kitchen, explaining what we plan to do to the rest of the house. Once we make it back to the kitchen, I signal for her to stop recording.

I’m feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious as I clear my throat. “How was that?”

“It was great. I’m not so confident in my camerawoman skills, though.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. And this isn’t anything they’ll actually use. It’s more of a ‘pre-sizzle’ reel for Glenn to get a better idea of my persona in front of the camera. I’m flying to Frisco later to film the actual screen test.”

“Look at you with the production jargon.” She snorts. For some reason, she’s still clinging to that giant D-bag image of me in her head. I don’t know how or why we’ve trapped ourselves on this axis, stuck sharing the same orbit while unable to move away from seeing the worst in one another, but her response still ticks me off.

Yeah, okay, maybe I’ve been a tad crabbier than usual today, but she seems intent on keeping me in a very one-dimensional box, regardless of what I say or do.

And for the record, it actually took some in-depth Googling of all the terms Glenn’s been throwing at me to understand half of what he says. Ask me about load-bearing walls or stock forecasting and I’m good to go. Or better yet, let me build something with my hands. That’s the part of this show I’m excited about—having a large budget and a small timeline to make people’s dream homes come to life.

I scratch my brow with my thumb, recognizing the need to step away before I end up snapping at Ivy in an attempt to defend myself. Not that it would do any good.

“Yeah. I, uh…I’ve gotta grab a pair of gloves from my truck before we film that mock demolition. It’ll just be some B-roll, like a minute of pulling out one of the cabinets.”

Ivy looks up from her job of rewatching footage on the phone. Her eyes sweep over me like she’s trying to read my mood. “Okay…should we try it from a different angle? Switch it up?”

“Sure.” I nod, breezing past her. As I walk down the porch steps I hear her sarcastic “Why, thank you, Ivy, how thoughtful of you,” in her deep, faux-Ethan voice again, making the corners of my mouth curl up without permission.

I locate the pair of gloves in the back of my truck before I stall for a few minutes by quietly reorganizing a toolbox. I’m delaying going back inside, psyching myself up for whatever I’m going to do that will affirm my asshole status in Ivy’s mind. Why am I so bothered by what she thinks of me anyway? That’s half of my frustration—that I care in the first place.

Don’t overthink it, King. Just get this over with.

I finally walk back into the kitchen, and I freeze, my jaw clenching as my nostrils flare to stifle a growl.

“ What are you doing?” I grind out in a low voice.

Ivy stands with one heel-clad foot on a step stool, which is precariously placed on a rickety chair, and the other foot balancing on the counter. She glances up from the phone, her brows slightly furrowed.

“Waiting for you,” she says matter-of-factly.

I keep my feet planted and my movements slow, because I’m legitimately afraid of what will happen if I cause her to react and turn this trapeze act into a worst-case scenario. “Ivy, were you by any chance a circus performer or a gymnast in your former life?”

Her nose scrunches up with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

I close my eyes, running a finger over my brows. “I’m trying to understand why you think this is a good idea.” I gesture to her setup with my palm.

The corners of her lips dip down as she leans over to survey her location, and I instinctively jump forward.

“Woman! Would you get down from there?”

She wobbles for a moment, then straightens as if it’s no big deal that she just nearly toppled off her Cat-in-the-Hat tower. “Ethan, you’re being silly,’ she reassures me with a smile. “This spot has the best lighting. I’m taking creative liberties. You’ll thank me in editing. ”

“I don’t care about the lighting, Ivy. You’re not filming from up there!” I grind out.

“Would you take off your bossy pants for one minute? I’m already up here!”

“Not for long,” I declare, stepping forward and wrapping my arm around her thighs. I lift her from her perch, and the tightness in my stomach eases once she’s finally safe.

Everything she does feels like torment for me.

She lets out a small yelp of surprise as I pull her closer, her body pressing against mine as she clings to my shoulders. When her feet touch the ground, I release her, needing a break from the sizzling current between us. But I’m still unable to resist pushing her buttons, so I lean in with a cocky smile. “I’ll just pretend you didn’t ask me to take off my pants.”

She scoffs in disgust. “Ugh! Figures that’s the only part of that sentence you’d hear. And stop manhandling me!” She steps back to dust herself off before flexing her fingers.

“Stop testing the laws of physics, and I won’t have to!”

“Can we just get on with this?” She forces a smile. It’s one that says I’m still firmly in the asshole box and not likely to escape the label any time soon.

I have to work extra hard to turn on the charm once she starts recording again because I’m still thinking about how much she annoys me by doing something reckless every few minutes. But there’s also that tiny niggle of self-consciousness making me hyperaware of her irritation with me.

I don’t think I like this awareness.