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

Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IVY

My lips are throwing a full on hissy fit, screaming at me as they leave Ethan’s cheek. Kiss him on the mouth, you impudent hussy!

As tempting as that thought may be, I’ve drawn a line in the sand, and I’ll do my best to stay on my side of it. Yet, the warmth from Ethan’s body feels like an alluring wave, drawing me in until, before I know it, I’m inching closer and closer to that fragile line. And it’s even more dangerous because I’m too tired to hold my ground right now.

Retreat.

I take a step back, my words tumbling out in a rush. “Okay, thanks for stopping by. Goodnight.” I wave like an idiot before turning and darting into my room.

Ethan looks way too amused as he leans an arm on my doorway, his eyes sweeping over my space. He points a finger with the hand that’s angled above his head. “That a blow-up mattress?”

“Yeah…”

“Great,” he says as he steps inside, his manly presence filling the room. When he’d been standing at the threshold, my plan to sleep off this bout of lowered inhibitions felt manageable. But now, that plan crumbles with every step he takes. He rolls out the folded mattress and plugs in the pump.

“Whuh…what are you doing?”

“Either I get this sucker inflated,” he begins, wiggling his eyebrows, “or this becomes a one-bed trope.”

“How do you know what a trope is?”

He clicks his tongue. “A man’s gotta have some mystery.”

“What makes you think you’re staying here?”

“I’m not leaving you alone. You’re exhausted, and you might need something during the night. Honestly, I don’t have much confidence in your coordination, and I’m not willing to risk letting you hurt yourself further.”

“I’m not a sleepwalking drunk. I plan to get in bed and stay there. Because I’ll be sleeping. ”

“Perfect. You won’t even notice me.”

“Ethan, I don’t need you to stay here. I’ll be fine on my own.” I yank open a drawer, pulling out my very unsexy pajamas. Maybe they’ll deter him.

“Maybe I need you, hmm?” he proposes with a cocky smile. “It’s the strangest thing, but I’m suddenly terribly afraid of the dark. Just developed this evening.”

This man. First, I can’t seem to do anything right. Now he’s like a barnacle that won’t let go of my rusty side. “Whatever. I’m changing in the bathroom, then I’m going to crash.” I point a finger at him. “You better not snore.”

I leave the room and perform my nightly routine, feeling like I could pass out right here with my face in the sink. I reach for the hem of my scrub top, letting out a hiss when the movement pulls at the stitches on my side.

I take a deep breath, trying again. The sting is just as bad.

No, no, no, no, no. This cannot be happening! I take a deep breath, exhaling with a noisy flutter of my lips. Am I really going to ask a man to help me take off my top? Completely platonically, of course—no sexy vibes here. My granny muumuu will make sure of that.

I swallow my pride—or flush it down the toilet. Either way, I’m seconds away from collapsing, and I refuse to sleep in scrubs, so I trudge back to my room, finding Ethan in a fresh shirt and—Lord, help me—gray sweatpants.

“You came prepared for a sleepover?” I muse.

“I keep a gym bag in my car.” He shrugs and frowns at my top. “You don’t look prepared for a sleepover.”

Kill me now.

“About that…” I glance to the side, rolling my lips then mumble under my breath, “I need help.”

“What was that?” Ethan leans a little closer, tilting an ear toward me with a cocky smile.

“I’ll only say it again if you swear to uphold rule number three.”

“Cross my heart.”

“I can’t get out of my shirt.”

His eyebrows raise like I’ve just handed him the best ammunition ever.

“Rule number three ,” I enunciate with narrowed eyes.

He nods obediently, rubbing his hands then blowing on them. “Right. How are we doing this?”

My eyes widen as they track the eager movements of his hands. “Down boy.”

He clears his throat, standing straight with his arms crossed behind his back. “Sorry. Awaiting orders, ma’am,” he drawls and nods again.

His serious face has a bubble of laughter erupting from me, making me wince at the sting on my side. Ethan’s hands shoot out, then he hesitates, looking so unsure of what to do .

“You okay?” he grits his teeth on my behalf.

“Yeah,” I breathe, holding my side with one hand. “Lift slowly from the hem. Slowly . And keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”

“You’re killing me,” he groans, reaching for the bottom of the scrub top.

“Ethan.”

“What? A beautiful woman just asked me to take off her shirt—my brain understands the no-groping part, but my hands can’t compute.”

I scoff. “Nevermind. I’ll just sleep in this.” I begin to turn, but he gently catches my arm.

“I’m kidding…sort of. But come on, let me help you. I’m dying to see your pajamas. This thing is coming off.” He shuts his eyes, holding his hands out near his waist.

“I’m wearing a sports bra—you don’t need to shut your eyes.”

He mumbles something then breathes deeply, locking his eyes on mine. I lift my arms like a reluctant sloth under arrest. The last thing I see is Ethan’s jaw clenching before my view is cut off when he pulls the top over my head.

“Thank you.” My words come out breathy as I hug the shirt to my chest. There’s heat in his eyes as that muscle in his jaw ticks again. Two dangerous words are floating around in my mind, goading me, tempting me to utter them: kiss me.

But then my eyes catch on the quilt that Gran gave me, and the chest of drawers that have held my clothes since childhood. There’s the mirror that eight-year-old Ivy danced in front of, all of it reminding me that I have something to lose, that giving in to those delightful kisses would be playing with fire.

“There are spare sheets and a pillow in the hallway closet.” I curtsy awkwardly, clutching at my side, then spin and scurry back to the bathroom .

I decide this old sports bra is due for retirement anyway, so I grab a pair of scissors and cut it off, opting for the easy way out. I manage to wrangle a waterproof bandage, shower, and dry myself off. Then, I slowly climb into the least sexy pajamas known to humankind—a white cotton nightgown with a yellow ribbon threaded through the chest seam. The long sleeves cover every inch of my skin. These are the pajamas your grandma wore, practically designed to repel any man with romance on the brain.

I enter my room to find Ethan is on the inflatable mattress he’s pushed against the far wall. It’s an entirely new situation for me, allowing a man to make himself comfortable in my bedroom. I thought it would feel unsettling and intrusive, yet the more I look at Ethan, the more I acclimate to his presence, the more I find it comforting. I think I might actually like having him here while my mind is so overcome with anxious thoughts and worries.

He’s got an arm propped behind his head, a book resting in his hand—the one that still has one of my hair ribbons tied around it. When did he find that? I squint, trying not to alert him to my presence while I read the title of his book.

Journey To The Center Of The Earth.

Figures he’d read an adventure novel. It’s another reminder that he’s a wanderer at heart. I’d hold him back from that. Aster is perfectly quaint, and it’s my home. I’m comfortable here, and I have no desire to leave. Sure, I’d like to travel someday, but my roots will always be here, with my Gran. She’ll be buried here, anchoring me to this part of Texas forever. And since she’s the only person who ever truly allowed me to be myself, I owe it to her to stick around.

Ethan turns a page, his gaze cutting to mine. Pure elation overtakes his face while his eyes consume my outfit. I hold my hands to the sides, palms out, letting him get the full effect.

“Ivy June, I did not expect this,” he says as a snorty chuckle escapes. “I figured you’d come out in some kind of cartoon-themed pajamas, or even Star Wars. But this? The height of sexy-pioneer fashion?”

“It’s timeless. Gail made it.”

I maneuver myself into bed, feeling my cheeks heat up under Ethan’s scrutiny. I can still see the amused grin plastered on his face from across the small room. He leaves to use the bathroom and climbs back onto the air mattress when he returns. Even though he’s five feet away, the distance feels like it’s shrinking by the second. Once he’s settled, I click off the lamp and mumble a goodnight.

You can do this, Ivy. Just ignore the fact that there’s a hot man in your room.

Ethan’s throaty chuckle bounces my way. It’s a delightful soundtrack for going to sleep. I turn onto my back, smiling as my eyelids grow heavy. Then Ethan shifts, and his mattress audibly protests. Again. And again. Every few seconds, an irritating creak or squeak rips me from slumber.

I rub my forehead, letting out a heavy sigh. “Ethan King, that thing sounds squeakier than a bed at the Playboy Mansion. For the love of all that’s good in this world, get in this bed.”

“Ivy Marsh, are you propositioning me?”

“This is a queen-sized bed. We’re both adults and can share the space responsibly. But I will stab that mattress with a stiletto if you don’t vacate the room or relocate to the space beside me.”

He growls in response. “But it’s really hot when you’re bossy, and I’m just supposed to lie next to you and keep my hands to myself?”

“You’re welcome to leave,” I retort, knowing he’s too much of a gentleman to oblige. I also know he’s too much of a gentleman to get handsy without my permission. And it’s honestly rather fun torturing him a little after all the frowning and buttheadedness I’ve had to put up with for the past three months.

He sighs heavily, the mattress groaning as he rises and makes his way across the room to join me. My mattress is still on the floor, too, because I didn’t want to put the bed frame together only to disassemble it once I move everything into the master bedroom.

“Stay on your side. And no funny business,” I order sleepily.

“So that’s a no to spooning?”

“Hmm, that sounds nice. But I can’t spoon with you. Too dangerous,” I slur before drifting off to sleep.