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

Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

IVY

Ethan’s latest message stares at me from the wall, a little reminder that my life is still a giant mess.

I like that you’re fun-sized.

Below the message I only discovered late this afternoon is a brand new pair of lilac Crocs. I’ve been staring at them for the past ten minutes while they teasingly coax open that lid on my emotions. But those feelings got crammed into that jar for a reason, despite the way they’re so eager to escape.

It’s not like I could do anything about my growing fondness for Ethan, anyway. I’m in a fake relationship with another man, and I don’t see a way out of it that would allow me to protect the sense of security I so desperately need. If Gran finds out I’m not dating Toby, there’s a chance she’ll take the house back—or in the very least be debilitatingly disappointed in me.

So I’m standing here, staring at these darn Crocs like they’ve got all the answers, my feet yearning to experience the comfort they promise. They are my favorite color, after all.

I growl as I pivot sharply toward the kitchen. The new cabinets were delivered and installed yesterday while I spent my day off at school, painstakingly organizing the recital schedule. And it would have taken even longer if Toby wasn’t there to help.

You should stop saying yes to things that are out of your depth.

Yeah. I know.

The kitchen looks drastically different with the new cupboards. The wood is painted a soft white, accented with black handles and paned-glass uppers. All of this lower cabinet space has me itching to unpack the boxes that have been shoved against the wall since I moved in. I spend the next hour meticulously finding a place for every piece, desperately trying to ignore the Crocs calling me from the next room.

“Ugh!” I grunt after I realize I’ve been wiping the same spot on the table, and I toss the washcloth onto the floor.

Fine. But I’m only trying them on.

Standing before the alleged pillow-soft shoes, I take a deep breath and remove my platform Vans. This is like the opposite of Cinderella. I don’t know how Crocs have managed to become trendy, because teenage Ivy still cringes at how uncool they once were.

I slide my feet into the Crocs and start with slow steps around the room. I’m aware of their lack of height, but wow . They weren’t lying when they said it’s like walking on a cloud.

I smile with giddiness. I definitely get the appeal now. In fact, I feel the need to apologize to every person I condescendingly questioned about their Crocs-allegiance. It’s like asking why people like watching Friends.

I’m so enamored with my new footwear that I don’t notice the footsteps treading up my porch until Ethan is swinging my door open with a “knock-knock.”

His eyes drop to my shoes, and the corners of his mouth immediately curl up. I feel like I’ve been caught in the middle of a shameful hobby instead of trying on a popular brand of comfort shoes.

“Look away! Avert your gaze!” I shout.

“Nope. You can’t be grumpy while wearing those. Those are happy shoes,” he points, taking measured steps toward me.

“Don’t try to convince me you own a pair of these.”

“What? Of course I own a pair of Crocs. They’re like therapy for your feet. I stomp around in these heavy work boots all day. My feet deserve some TLC, too.”

I narrow my eyes as he steps closer.

“The difference is, you’re actually wearing them.” He smiles softly.

“Yeah. Thank you. It was very thoughtful. Bold, but thoughtful.”

“Handsome, thoughtful, bold… Any other compliments you want to give me?”

I roll my eyes, taking a step back and putting some distance between us. I don’t wear perfume or fragranced lotions because they give me a headache, but whatever subtle scent Ethan uses is like catnip. It doesn’t smell like anything from an aerosol can. It’s earthy and fresh, with a hint of wintergreen, and I want to get a good ol’ whiff of it. And I mean the kind of whiff you only get from a creeper sniff. These shoes must be doing something to my endorphins, because I’ve never been so tempted to press my nose against a man’s skin before.

“I never said you were handsome,” I reply, clearing my throat and gesturing to our list. “What’s next?”

Ethan’s jaw shifts to the side, like he’s formulating a plan. “Those new light fixtures get delivered?”

“Yup. And the ceiling fan for the master bedroom.”

“I picked up the faucets you chose. Looks like we’re doing fixtures today. If you have any old towels, you can put them in the bathroom.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute before making my way to the hall closet. “Stop staring at them,” I throw over my shoulder, referring to my Crocs.

When I look back, Ethan’s eyes are on my legs. “They’re nice to look at.”

Shut it down, sister.

I pull a stack of old towels out from the hallway closet, trying not to blush. “You know I have a boyfriend, right? I don’t think he’d appreciate your boldness.” My eyebrows raise with a stiff smile, but I’m snickering on the inside, because my fake boyfriend would be all too happy about Ethan showing an interest in me.

“About that,” he begins, stalking closer.

What in the heck is happening ?

It’s like he’s been swapped out for his flirty twin. The real Ethan is probably on a solo trip to the forest to grunt at fluffy squirrels and chop down trees with nothing but a sharp glare.

Meanwhile, this flirty Ethan is very confusing. The way he’s standing there, looking so yummy in a bicep-hugging white tee— dang it —it threatens my resolve and my ability to keep him at a platonic distance. Who the heck wears white for a job like this anyway?

His hands graze over mine as he takes the towels from my arms. He’s standing so close that, without my heels, I have to crane my neck to meet his gray eyes, the ones that are suddenly hypnotizing and making my head feel swirly.

Stop it.

“You should break up with Toby.”

The nerve of this man! “Excuse me?” I squeak.

“I know you’re not in love with him. Break up with him.”

“ Rude. You don’t know anything about my relationship with Toby.”

“Interesting that you didn’t correct my accusation that you’re not in love with him.” He smirks, making me want to confess the whole thing, if only to have the truth out there.

No. This man was a twerp up until a few days ago. Remain strong.

Just because he’s turned on the swagger doesn’t mean I’m entertaining whatever he thinks is happening here. I’ve worked too many late nights and need a nap. That’s what’s happening. I’m sleep deprived, and it’s messing with my brain. I’ve woven an intricate web of white lies that will become infinitely more complicated if this continues.

“Who made you the relationship analyst? Also, rule number three!” I want to stick my tongue out so badly. That’s the problem with hanging out with eight year olds—you pick up their mannerisms. But I can’t risk anything else that would make me seem younger while I’m wearing these ridiculously comfortable shoes.

“I’ll be in the master bedroom. Excuse me.” I reply with a flat smile, retreating to the safety of an Ethan-free space. Because, while I know he’d do anything to prevent me from another physical injury, it’s my heart that feels like it’s in need of protection.