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

Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IVY

I don’t know where I’m going. I’ve been driving around in circles for twenty minutes like a neighborhood creeper. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to see flashing lights behind me. I’m sure it’s safe to go back now, anyway. And if Ethan’s truck is still parked outside my house when I get there, I’ll just pick a new neighborhood to drive circles around.

I could visit someone, but there’s a prideful gash in my ego that makes me want to lick my wounds alone, without the pressure of having to pretend everything is okay.

So Ethan has a date. Why am I so butthurt about it? I’m the one who drew the boundary lines in our relationship by keeping up the fake boyfriend ruse in front of him. Not to mention, Ethan’s a well-known serial dater. I scold my heart for getting so excited and fluttery. The flirty banter and lingering looks were never meant to be taken seriously. That man has always had heartbreak written all over him—case in point.

Today should be a reminder that, ultimately, Ethan and I are enemies. That’s how our relationship began, and it seems we operate best within those parameters. He growls; I do something that pisses him off. Hating him isn’t as fun as liking him, but it’s certainly safer for my heart. And today has proved that straying from that dynamic is too risky.

I wish I could say I had the heart of a lion, but mine’s more of a chocolate covered marshmallow that I keep patching up with more chocolate. It’s melting and sticky, and my insides are all warm and gooey, but I still can’t help offering a piece of it to everyone. Call it my toxic trait. I’m a people pleaser.

By the time I get home, Ethan’s truck is thankfully nowhere in sight, allowing me to sulk up the front porch steps. But I scrunch my forehead in confusion when I slide my key into the lock, only to find the front door open. Ethan has been nagging me to keep it locked, yet he goes and leaves it unlocked, himself? It’s another strike against him. Maybe it’s inconsequential, but at least it’s something and right now I’m looking for any excuse to add to his cons list.

“Ross!” I yelp after flinging the door open and discovering my brother standing in the living room, looking awfully fidgety. “What in Bilbo’s butt are you doing here?”

“Still doing that weird thing with curse words I see.” He tries to smile, but he’s obviously on edge.

“How did you get in here?”

“Door was unlocked.” He shrugs with a jutted out lip.

Dang it. Ethan hadn’t forgotten to lock the door. My dear brother just has a particular knack for getting into places he shouldn’t. “Right. Well, next time, wait outside, will you?”

“Sure. Sorry. Uh…you good?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you being so weird?”

“Can’t a guy just pop in to say hi to his favorite sister?”

I’m suddenly so angry I could scream. He’s never available when I need to get hold of him, yet now he shows up out of the blue, only to gaslight me? “If this was a normal occurrence, sure, but you’ve been MIA for weeks, so excuse me if I find your reappearance in my home a little strange.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair,” he gestures to the door, attempting to make a quick exit.

“Oh no, you don’t!” I hold up my palm, stopping him. “What’s going on here?” My face is frozen in a permanent frown as I search his eyes for any semblance of the playful little boy I once knew. But right now, I can’t even recall the last time Ross seemed like my older brother, the last time I felt a true connection to him.

He inhales, holding his breath while his gaze wanders to the kitchen. His eyes narrow before returning to me with an exhale.

“Look, Ivy. I know I’ve messed up. I’m trying to fix it, though.” His face looks pained and he shakes his head remorsefully. “I’ve gotta go. Sorry for showing up like this.”

My mouth hangs agape as he walks past me, and this time I let him go, dumbfounded wondering what in the heck he expected from me.

Ross shuts the door behind him, and I let out a heavy sigh. How am I going to shake off this poop storm of an evening, now? There’s still plenty of work to be done, but I need something to cheer me up, something that’ll renew my determination.

I’m too scared to explore Gran’s secret room by myself, so I leave that for another time. Getting locked in that tiny space all alone would basically be my worst nightmare.

Maybe I’ll ask Toby to come over and help. Ha, that would serve Ethan right!

Except Ethan already knows Toby and I aren’t really dating.

Dang it .

I kick an empty box on my way to the kitchen, sending it flying down the hall.

I shouldn’t be thinking of ways to make Ethan jealous, anyway. And it’s a good thing I’m not jealous. Jealousy is very unbecoming on a woman. That green-eyed monster is capable of unleashing a host of uncharacteristic behaviors.

I stalk over to the master bedroom and grab the ladder. The ceiling trim and fixtures need to be removed, and I’m about to show it who’s boss.

When I started this renovation fiasco, Ember very kindly discouraged me from climbing higher than three feet. And I may have a slight propensity for injury, but today’s frantic need to accomplish a task overrides her warning.

However, it turns out carrying a ladder that’s taller than I am isn’t as easy as it seems. The walls gain a few more scuffs and my arms accrue new bruises as I drag the darn thing into the living room and stand it up.

I get some music going while I prepare by performing all the steps Ethan showed me before starting on this kind of task. Okay, first safety step—shutting off the power. These fixtures really are hideous, and while the room already looks considerably better by the time I’m done removing them, the job feels less empowering than I’d hoped. I stare at a hole in the wall as it morphs into Sandra’s face. I don’t even know what she looks like, but my imagination has conjured up a big-haired, over-perfumed woman that I’d kind of like to push off of a ladder.

Nope. I don’t care what Ethan’s date looks like or how she might be hanging all over him right now.

I need to demo something.

Smashing a wall would be ideal, since I’d get rid of some of the unfortunate rage that’s started building up every time I picture Ethan flirting with his date. But I have no idea how to do that safely .

I hate how much this is affecting me. He just proved he can’t be trusted by openly flirting with me and dare I say almost kissing me while he already had a date lined up for the same evening. Men like Ethan— people like Ethan—they always let me down. Sooner or later, they find a reason to leave or discover the next best thing. Something less complicated and less broken.

That feeling of yearning for someone to have my back is at war with my need for self-preservation. Maybe one day I’ll find another Toby, one I’m actually attracted to. A guy who’s stable and reliable but still makes my heart skip a beat.

That’s the type of man I’m holding out for. Not an arrogant, cocky ding-dong who looks mouth-wateringly good in well-fitting jeans, a white tee, and a toolbelt.

I turn the power back on before climbing to the top step of the ladder, giving a knock and a tug on the trim around the ceiling. It’s horribly outdated and should be easy enough to pull off. The pile of tools Ethan left in the corner should have something to do the trick.

I pause for a few minutes to pull up a Youtube video that explains the process simply enough to give me the confidence to tackle the job. As long as I get to use a hammer at some point, this’ll be great. Climbing back up the ladder with tools in my arms proves tricky, but I manage without incident.

I’m totally killing this ladder game. Ember will be so proud.

I follow the Youtube instructions and whip out that carpet knife, wielding that bad boy to carefully slice along the molding. I switch tools, using the narrow spatula-looking one to wedge beneath the seam. Now to work out my rage with that hammer. It’s not necessary to complete the job, but I wiggle the spatula just enough to loosen the trim, then move on to the hammering.

I watch as the wood falls to the ground with a satisfying crack. Then I turn, letting out a loud shriek and throwing my hands up in shock when my eyes meet the gaze of a very angry-looking Ethan beside the ladder.

The next five seconds feel like they stretch over two hours.

Tools fall. The ladder wobbles. I think I shout out another curse—probably a celebrity name. The legends make such wonderful expletives. You want a good cuss word to shout out, try yelling David Duchovny or Schwarzenegger next time you stub your toe.

Meanwhile, I’m still falling at an unfair rate. I’m the cat who’s used up her nine lives, and my slow descent forces me to face every one of the regretful decisions I’ve made over the last five minutes.

Ethan’s deep scowl spreads into a grim line as he balances a pizza box on one arm and clenches a six pack of root beers in the other. Days from now, I’ll marvel at my ability to notice these small details with such clarity, assuming I survive.

The slow-motion montage finally ends, and I force my pinched eyes open, groaning. This feels like a reenactment of Dr. Suess’s Fox In Socks with me splayed out on top of tools, on top of a smushed pizza, on top of leaking root beer, on top of Ethan, who’s spread out on his stomach, on top of an empty, overturned pizza box.

Every girl dreams of being caught while falling off a ladder, landing in the strong arms of her knight in shining armor, right? But I certainly didn’t plan this, because if I had, my hero would have actually caught me.

And while the smell of root beer and pizza would normally elicit cheerful feelings, the bruises I can already feel forming on top of my other bruises are ruining the effect a little.

“You okay?” Ethan grunts as he pulls himself out from beneath the wreckage.

“Yup,” I manage without groaning .

A burst of laughter springs forth when I notice the sauce and bits of topping smeared across his cheek, like he was slapped with a slice of pizza. I point and continue giggling deliriously.

He looks unimpressed as he wipes it off with soda-soaked napkins. I move to help him, but he stops me.

“Careful, there’s glass everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You broke my fall.” Then I break out into another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“You sure you’re okay? Did you bump your head?” His brows knit with concern as he crouches close, his hands trembling as his eyes scan my body. My heart is still beating as if I’ve just hugged Jeff Goldblum. Gosh, I love that man. So classy in the weirdest way, am I right?

Maybe I did bump my head. I bring a hand up, patting my hair. Nothing feels sore.

“I don’t think so. I’m okay. But you should have known I wouldn’t react well to being snuck up on. Snuck upon?”

“I’m learning this,” he says with another scowl.

He helps me stand, and I swipe at the remnants of the soggy pizza. He doesn’t release my hand, holding it up and guiding me to safety as I tiptoe over everything. These wedges are coming in handy now, with their thick soles. I can see Ethan fighting a glower as he purses his lips, entirely unamused when his eyes track my steps. He’s being forced to appreciate the very things he detests most. It almost elicits another maniacal laugh from me, but I manage to contain my evil cackle.

I feel slightly unhinged and can only think to blame it on a serious adrenaline spike.

Ethan holds up a palm, like I’m an overexcited puppy that might jump back into the mess. “Stay there.”

I shoot him a dirty look, but he turns his back before it lands .

He gingerly picks up what he can, tossing the ruined pizza and larger shards of glass into a trash bag while I try to appear helpful. I fail. Every time my hand reaches for a piece of debris, he snatches it up with a wide eyed glare.

He turns to me once he’s swept the last bits of the glass. “I’ll mop this later. But I’m starving, and you squashed our dinner. Do you need to change before getting in the truck?”

“Oh goody. Grumpypants Ethan has returned,” I say, folding my arms. “Didn’t eat on your date? ”

“No,” he grunts before disappearing down the hallway. That liquid fire still burns in his eyes when he returns a minute later with my lilac Crocs in hand.

My, aren’t we extra grouchy tonight…

I’m starting to wonder whether his date didn’t go so well, after all. And that thought makes my mouth curl up into an involuntary smile.

“Your death traps are covered in root beer,” he mutters before crouching in front of me. I’m perched on the arm of the sofa, stunned silent while he lifts each of my feet and shimmies off one wedge at a time. I can feel my cheeks heating when those callused fingers graze my ankles as he slips the Crocs on. Then, before I know it, he rises and stomps out the door. Why couldn’t that moment happen in slow motion, too? It was delicious enough that I’d like to remember it later, maybe even recall the whole exchange in vivid detail while I fall asleep. But Ethan’s heavy steps are already permeating the front porch, so it looks like I’m keeping the sticky and dusty clothes on, then.

I follow Sir Grumpylicious outside, and he silently clasps his hands around my waist and hoists me into his truck when I reach the passenger door. It really is a problem that I’m enjoying all this physical contact so much.

It must be because I’ve fallen…off that ladder, I mean.