The Man Plan (3 page)

Would she want him with the same intensity? The same desperate yearning that had consumed her for nearly the whole of her life? Or would time and distance and newfound maturity have altered her perceptions, her emotions?

Would she meet him again and be chagrined to discover her devotion was nothing more than an illusion? A faded crush? Or would she see him and experience once more the old breathless thrill? Know, as she always had, that he was the one for her?

Moving to New York was her chance to find out. Her opportunity to explore her emotions and to act upon them if she found her feelings unchanged.

“What in the hell’ve you been doing, man?”

Neil’s question ended her reverie. Josh Moran was shouldering his way through the front doorway, the muscles in his arms bulging from the weighty carton he carried. Tall and stocky, his auburn hair trailed in a neat ponytail halfway down his back. “Where’s this go, Ivy?”

She rushed over to check the top.
Books
was scrawled in black felt-tip marker across the cardboard. But what kind of books? she wondered. After three years of college, she’d collected a lot of them, from cheap paperbacks to fine-art first editions.

“Living room!” she decided.

As he headed in that direction, Neil followed close behind.

“So, where’d you disappear to, man?”

His burden unloaded, Josh dropped down onto the L-shaped navy blue sofa that dominated the space. “I didn’t disappear anywhere.”

“Then where’ve you been?” Neil persisted.

“I was thirsty. I stopped at the water fountain for a drink and missed the elevator.”

“It took you ten minutes to get a drink of water? You’ve been smoking again, haven’t you?”

Josh bristled. “No, I haven’t been smoking. I’ve got this damned patch on, haven’t I?” He yanked up the short sleeve of his shirt, flashed it at Neil. “You’re not supposed to smoke if you’re wearing the patch.”

“What’s that mint scent, then? Smells like breath spray.”

“It’s not breath spray,” Josh said in a hard voice. “Must be the Tic Tac you smell. The one you shoved up your butt alongside the stick you’ve already got in there.”

“Hey, guys,” Ivy said, stepping between the squabbling pair. “Take it easy. It’s been a long day and you’re both tired.”

“If you’ve been smoking again—,” Neil warned, shaking a finger.

Josh bared his teeth. “You’ll what?”

“Please, enough. I’m sure Josh only took a few extra minutes to catch his second wind. And, Neil, you
probably smell the mouthwash I used last time I was in the bathroom. Don’t fight, guys, hmm?”

Neil retreated a step, stuck his hands into his jeans pockets, and ducked his head. “Sorry, Ivy.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Josh said. “
Not
smoking is making my fuse kind of short today.”

She waved aside the apologies, already accepted. “You guys must be hungry. I know I am. There’s a market a block over. How about I run over and bring back sandwich fixings?”

“Sounds great, but we can’t stay.” Neil checked his watch. “The rental truck has to be back by seven, and the Prince of Pop here has a late gig at the club tonight. Don’t mean to leave you in the lurch, cupcake, but we have to bounce. Will you be okay?”

Deflated but determined not to show it, Ivy pasted on a wide smile. “Of course I’ll be okay. The building couldn’t be more secure, the neighborhood’s great, and God knows I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.” She gestured toward the mass of packing boxes.

“You’re right about that, but it’s not what I mean. Will you be okay
alone
?”

She smiled, touched. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I have been by myself before, you know.”

“Yeah, but being alone and living alone are two different things. I’ll call you tomorrow, see how your first night went.”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” she promised with a grin. “Now, you two get going before I make you late.” She gave Neil a fierce hug, then Josh, who’d risen from
the sofa to join them. “Thank you, thank you, both of you.”

“I’m still pissed you aren’t moving in with us,” Josh grumbled. “Don’t be a stranger. Drop by the club some night. I’ll make sure you get a front-row seat.”

“And we’ll have lunch,” Neil offered. “I’ll tell you all about the latest cattle call my manager sent me on. Little Shop of Horrorsville.”

She laughed.

The moment they were gone, a thick hush descended on the apartment. She’d never lived alone before. It was scary. . . . No, it was exciting. She would make it an adventure, she decided.

Forcing herself not to mope, she marched into the kitchen and keyed open a music app on her tablet. Humming along to a tune, she dug into a box and got to work.

*   *   *

“Good evening, sir.” The doorman held open the front door, looking resplendent in his black uniform. His steel gray hair and crisp British accent lent him even greater distinction.

“Good evening, Barton,” James said. “I hope you had a pleasant day.”

“Yes, very pleasant. Thank you for asking, sir.”

“Did Miss Grayson get moved in?”

Barton smiled. “Indeed, yes, she did. Some friends of hers helped with her belongings. She seems a delightful young woman, a very welcome addition to the building.”

James nodded. “Ivy’s a special girl.”

Once inside the elevator, James punched the button for the fifteenth floor instead of inserting his passkey and going directly to his penthouse. Since he owned the building and had made the arrangements for Ivy’s move, he knew exactly which apartment was hers.

It will be nice to see her again,
he mused.

Two years ago Christmas, that’s how long it had been since he’d stood in the same room with Ivy. He’d accepted her parents’ long-standing invitation that year because her sister Madelyn, and Zack Douglas—the man she’d jilted him for and then married—had been absent from the family festivities. They’d been visiting Douglas’s sister for the holidays or some such.

Ivy had been there with a date, a thoroughly smitten college boy whose brown eyes had followed her every move, who’d wanted only to please her. Just as James had predicted, she’d outgrown her childish adoration of him, her anguished lovesick proposal to him all those years ago nothing but a faint memory.

The elevator came to a halt with a soft
ding,
and he stepped out. He walked briskly down the well-lit hallway. The walls were a crisp, light blue, the carpet a tidy gray. Her apartment was all the way down on the left—a cozy end unit.

Reggae music throbbed like an aching tooth, reaching his ears long before he neared her door, which was propped wide with a packing box. More boxes were stacked inside, piles of them ranged in every direction.

He peered inside, rapped his knuckles on the door. “Ivy?”

No answer.

He moved inside, called again. “Ivy, are you here?”

He stopped and set his briefcase on the floor beside the living room sofa.

But there was no sign of her, only the beating rhythm that grew louder the farther into the apartment he went. He followed the noise, walking down a hallway and past a guest bath to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight that greeted him.

Snugged into a pair of tight plaid cotton shorts, a woman stood bent over a huge cardboard clothing wardrobe. The entire top half of her body was concealed beneath masses of hanger-hung clothes as she quite obviously searched for something on the bottom of the box.

Friend of Ivy’s?

A grin of pure male appreciation spread across his lips.

What a pair of legs.
He whistled silently.

They were smooth and golden with a supple length that went up—all the way up. And her rear end, it was trim but softly curved, lush.

He tucked his suddenly itchy palms into his pockets and reminded himself to act like a gentleman. Still, gentleman or not, it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the show.

He watched as her backside did a provocative dance, wiggling up and down, side to side, as she strained to reach whatever it was that eluded her.

He was trying to decide on the politest way to announce himself when she overbalanced, her legs and feet splaying wide.

A small screech echoed from inside the cardboard depths.

He rushed forward and grabbed her hips to keep her from toppling all the way in.

She screeched again, louder this time, then jerked and stiffened. Her bottom arched backward, pressing for a long, electrified moment smack-dab against his fly. He sucked in his breath as if he’d been seared by a live brand.

Fighting the urge to press even closer, he hauled her up and out of the wardrobe.

Dresses, shirts, and skirts exploded across the floor as her head popped free.

He let her go and stepped back.

“Who’s there?” She spun around, shoving aside the long blond hair covering her face.

“It’s okay,” he shouted over the music. “I’m just here to see—” And then he noticed her eyes, familiar and blue.
“Ivy?”

She froze.
“James?”

He didn’t respond.

“Where’d you come from?” she asked. “You scared the living bejesus out of me.”

He could say the same, but for different reasons, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the mystery woman—whose spectacular ass had just been pressed against his crotch—was Ivy.

Little Ivy, whom he’d known since she was a baby.

He scowled. “Yeah, well, you shaved a good year off my life too. What in the hell did you think you were doing, standing on your head in that box?”

“Unpacking,” she said simply.

Suddenly her expression changed, delight illuminating her face. “James! You’re here.” She raced forward and threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.

Hesitantly, he put his arms around her and squeezed back.

After a moment, he gently pulled away.

He moved across the room. “You suppose you could turn that noise down?”

“What?” she called, giving her head a little shake.

“The music.” He motioned with a hand. “Turn. It. Down.”

She nodded in sudden understanding and moved to click off her sound system.

A refreshing wave of silence swept through the room.

“Don’t you like reggae music?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not this far north of the Caribbean. Sounds a lot better on a beach with a tall rum punch in hand. Helps numb the misery.”

She grinned and met his eyes, blue against blue. “Your loss. Bob Marley and me—” She crossed a pair of fingers. “We’re tight, if ya know what I mean,
mahn
,” she said in a bad Jamaican accent.

He laughed.

“But hey,” she said, reverting to her normal voice, “what are you doing here? I thought you were out of town on business.”

“My meetings wrapped up early, so I flew back a day ahead,” he said. “And what do I find when I stop by to welcome you to your new place? Your door
standing wide open, inviting anyone to stroll right on in. You ought to know better. What if I’d been a thief or a lunatic?”

This time she was the one who laughed. “Please. This is the last place I’d be in danger. The security here is as good as Fort Knox.”

“Actually, it’s better. It ought to be since my company is the one who financed the design of the army’s latest security-system upgrade. But you aren’t supposed to know anything about that, and I never mentioned it.”

She stared for a moment. “Of course not. I have no memory of anything you just said.”

He grinned.

“As for my leaving the door open,” she went on, “I needed to air things out. I painted the spare room, the one I’m going to use for my studio. It still smells of latex, even though I used the low-VOC kind.” She wrinkled her nose. “I opened a couple windows and the front door to get a cross breeze.”

“Airing paint fumes out of an artist’s studio? I’d think an artist would love the smell of paint.”

“The smell of oil paint for canvas, definitely, but not wall paint,” she defended. “Linseed oil’s like a fine wine; you never get tired of the bouquet. Latex is just stinky plastic. Plus, it’s healthier to air things out.”

James crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, whatever the reason, I want you to promise me that you won’t leave your door open again when you’re alone. Safe building or no safe building.”

She planted her fists on her hips. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll tell your mother, of course,” he replied in a serious tone.

She made a face and stuck her tongue out at him.

For the first time since he’d walked into the room, he relaxed, recognizing his old Ivy.

Only she wasn’t, not anymore.

Looking at her now, it was impossible to ignore the physical differences from the last time he’d seen her. There was a newfound maturity in her heart-shaped face with its high cheekbones and angular chin, all her familiar youthful softness winnowed away into clean, refined lines. Her mouth was a full, womanly pink that beckoned with sweetness and something more, something mysterious. And in her deep-set blue eyes, a wisdom and determination he’d never glimpsed before.

Then there was her body.

A woman’s body, curved in all the right places despite the reedy length that lingered from childhood.

Six feet two himself, he liked tall women. They didn’t intimidate him the way he knew they could other men. Still, he wasn’t used to standing next to a woman who could turn her head and nearly look him in the eye. Particularly not when the female in question was his little friend Ivy Grayson.

Disturbing, that’s what it was. Not just her height but the whole dynamic package.

Disturbing and sobering and unwanted.

I bounced her on my knee, for God’s sake.

He’d played peekaboo and got-your-nose with her when she was a gurgling toddler. The thought of her sitting on his knee now . . .

He cleared his throat and glanced around at the stack of packing boxes. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

“You got that right.” She shot him a hopeful look. “Wanna help?”

Her question caught him off guard. Professionals always did his packing and unpacking; he’d never had the need or inclination to bother with such mundane domestic chores. A quick phone call and he could have someone over here to help Ivy, but somehow he didn’t think she would care for the idea.