Chapter 1 - The Right Swipe
Ivy was going to murder Francesca Vega. Not immediately, of course. Murder required planning, and Ivy had neither the time nor the inclination to spend the evening researching prison sentencing guidelines. But eventually. Probably with something blunt.
Her phone buzzed for the third time in as many minutes.
Frankie: Are you there yet?
Frankie: Do NOT turn around.
Frankie: I swear to God, Ivy, if you waste those shoulders...
Ivy rolled her eyes and shoved the phone into her purse. It was thirty-four degrees in Chicago, the wind was trying to peel the skin off her face, and she was standing outside an upscale restaurant waiting to meet a man she hadn’t actually chosen to go on a date with. Technically, that last part was Frankie’s fault.
Three weeks earlier, her best friend had commandeered her phone during lunch, downloaded a dating app, constructed an alarmingly flattering profile, and begun swiping through eligible bachelors with the enthusiasm of a woman shopping for discounted designer handbags.
Ivy had objected. Loudly. Frankie had ignored her. Then she’d discovered Cole. Six feet and several inches of broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, an easy smile, and forearms covered in tattoos. Frankie had made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a religious experience. Ivy, sweetheart. This man looks like he could carry you and your entire condo out of a burning building.
I don’t need anyone to carry my condo.
That’s not the point.
And so, after several weeks of surprisingly enjoyable messages, Ivy found herself standing outside Lark & Rye in a dark green velvet dress, patterned tights, and oxblood ankle boots. Her dark hair was pinned into loose vintage-inspired waves, a tiny gold crescent moon nestled among the piercings in her left ear. The small hoop in her nose caught the light whenever she turned her head.
She’d spent forty minutes deciding which lipstick to wear. Forty. She considered that a personal failure. Her phone buzzed again.
Frankie: If he’s secretly a serial killer, send me a pineapple emoji.
Ivy snorted. Ivy: If he’s a serial killer, I’m telling him you made me come.
She hit send and reached for the restaurant door. Someone opened it first. “Please tell me you’re Ivy.”
She looked up. And up. Oh. Oh, for fuck’s sake. The photographs hadn’t done him justice. Not remotely. He was tall enough that she suspected he had a complicated relationship with standard doorframes. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a crisp white button-down, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. Dark ink covered both forearms, disappearing beneath the cuffs. Well-fitting jeans hugged muscular thighs, and a pair of polished brown boots completed an outfit that had absolutely no business looking that good. His hair was sandy brown, slightly longer on top, and just messy enough to suggest he’d run a hand through it on his way inside. A hint of stubble shadowed his jaw. And his eyes— Well. Ivy was going to need a moment.
“I’m Ivy,” she managed.
His smile widened. “Cole.” He held the door open. She stepped inside, immediately grateful for the warmth. “Sorry,” he said. “I saw you through the window and figured I’d come rescue you from the weather.”
“Very heroic.”
“I try.”
“Does this happen often?”
“What?”
“You rescuing women from mildly inconvenient temperatures?”
He laughed. And there it was. A real laugh, deep and warm, one that transformed his face completely. “Only on Fridays.”
Ivy grinned. “Good to know.”
He gestured toward the hostess stand. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
As they walked, Ivy discreetly pulled out her phone.
Ivy: Frankie.
Frankie: ????
Ivy: The shoulders are worse in person.
Frankie: PRAISE JESUS.
Ivy put her phone away before her best friend could say anything else embarrassing. Twenty minutes later, Ivy had discovered three things. First, Cole had an excellent sense of humor. Second, he listened when she talked. And third, he possessed the deeply unfair ability to make a white button-down shirt seem like an instrument of seduction. She was trying very hard not to stare at his forearms. It was becoming a problem.
“So,” Cole said, setting down his glass. “Art restoration.”
“Conservation, technically.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
He leaned back, looking genuinely interested. “Educate me.” Ivy blinked.
Most people lost interest approximately thirty seconds after she started discussing her profession. They liked the idea of old paintings, but explaining the painstaking work required to stabilize a damaged canvas usually made their eyes glaze over. Cole didn’t look bored. He looked curious.
“Okay,” she said, warming to the subject. “Restoration is generally about improving the appearance of an artwork. Conservation is broader. We’re trying to preserve the original material, understand how it’s deteriorating, and prevent further damage.”
“So you’re not just repainting things.”
She pressed a hand dramatically against her chest. “Sir. That sentence just saved you from a thirty-minute lecture.”
He grinned. “Close call.”
“Very.”
“And what’s your favorite part?”
Ivy considered the question. “The discovery, I think.”
“Discovery?”
“Sometimes you spend days examining a painting and find something nobody noticed before. An earlier composition beneath the surface, an artist’s correction, an old repair. It’s like finding a piece of someone’s story.”
Cole studied her across the table. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Just like watching you talk about something you love.”
Well. That was... Unfair. Ivy reached for her wine. “Smooth.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
His smile turned crooked. She was in serious trouble. “Where’d you study?” he asked.
“School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Then more specialized conservation training after that.”
“Impressive.”
“Expensive,” she corrected. “My student loans and I have a very intimate relationship.”
Cole laughed. “Where are you from originally?”
“Tiny town in Wisconsin. Population approximately twelve people and forty-seven cows.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No?”
“I have seven older brothers.”
Cole stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Seven?”
“Yep.”
“All older?”
“Every single one.”
He slowly lowered his glass. “Jesus.”
“That’s generally the reaction.”
“Only girl?”
“Only girl. Youngest child. The universe was clearly testing my mother’s patience.”
Cole shook his head, smiling. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Oh, it was chaos. Somebody was always fighting, somebody was always hungry, and somebody was always getting stitches.”
“Usually you?”
“Excuse you. I was an angel.” He raised an eyebrow. Ivy held his gaze for approximately three seconds before dissolving into laughter. “Okay, fine. I was a menace.”
“That I believe.”
“Rude.”
“Observant.”
She pointed her fork at him. “Careful, soldier boy.”
His expression shifted with amusement. “Soldier boy?”
“Didn’t your profile say military?”
“Former Army.”
“How long?”
“Seventeen years.”
Ivy paused. “Seventeen?”
“Enlisted at seventeen. Got out last year.”
She looked at him more carefully. “That’s practically your entire adult life.”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you like it?”
He considered that for a moment. “Most of it.”
Something in his voice suggested there was more to the answer. Ivy didn’t push. “What do you do now?”
“Own a security company. Consulting, mostly. Physical security, risk assessments, facility protection. That sort of thing.”
“Ah. So you get paid to tell people their locks suck.”
He laughed. “Sometimes.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“Almost as glamorous as cleaning two hundred years of grime off a painting.”
She gasped. “We do considerably more than that.”
“I’m learning.”
“Clearly.”
He smiled into his drink. “And what made you leave Wisconsin?”
“Art. Opportunity. The burning desire to live somewhere people didn’t know what I did when I was fourteen.”
“That bad?”
“One time I accidentally backed my brother’s truck into the feed-store sign. People still bring it up.”
“How long ago?”
“Sixteen years.”
Cole winced. “Persistent bunch.”
“You have no idea.”
By dessert, Ivy had forgotten that she’d been nervous. By coffee, she’d forgotten that this was supposed to be a casual first date. And by the time Cole admitted that his business partner had also forced him onto the dating app, she was laughing so hard she nearly spilled her cappuccino.
“Wait,” she wheezed. “You didn’t make your profile either?”
“Nope.”
“Who did?”
“My best friend. Eli.”
“Is Eli married?”
“No.”
“Does Eli have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“And yet he’s managing your romantic life?”
Cole leaned forward. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”
Ivy laughed. “He wrote the whole thing?”
“Every word.”
“Oh, God.”
“Even picked the pictures.”
“Well, he did a fantastic job.” Cole’s eyebrows rose. Ivy realized what she’d said. She considered retracting it. Then decided she was thirty-two years old and perfectly capable of appreciating a beautiful man. “What?” she asked innocently.
His smile deepened. “Nothing.”
“You’re doing that again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking smug.” The look on his face deepened.
“I’ve been told I have a smug face.”
“Tragic condition.”
“Terminal, I’m afraid.” She laughed. He watched her for a moment, then asked, “So who signed you up?”
“Frankie. My best friend and coworker. Absolute menace. Stole my phone while I was eating lunch.”
“And here I thought I was special.”
“Oh, you were. She got very excited about your shoulders.”
Cole looked down at himself. “My shoulders?”
Ivy took a long sip of coffee. “Apparently.”
“And what did you think?”
She met his eyes. There it was again. That easy flirtation, threaded with something a little more deliberate. Something that had been building steadily between them all evening. “I thought,” she said slowly, “that you looked suspiciously like the kind of man who knows he’s attractive.”
Cole leaned closer. “And?”
“And I was prepared to find you insufferable.”
He laughed softly. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, you’ve disappointed me terribly.”
His eyes dipped briefly to her mouth. Ivy felt it all the way to her toes. Then he looked back up. “For the record, I thought you were beautiful.”
Her cheeks warmed. “But?”
“No but.”
“Come on. There’s always a but.”
Cole shook his head. “Not this time.” Oh. Oh, she liked him. That was becoming increasingly inconvenient.
---
Two hours later, they were standing outside the restaurant. Snow had started falling, tiny flakes drifting through the amber glow of the streetlights. Cole stood close enough that Ivy could smell his cologne. Something warm and faintly woodsy. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to bury her face in his chest and take a more thorough inventory. Probably.
It was their first date. She had standards. Admittedly flexible standards, but standards nonetheless.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
“I took a rideshare.”
“Smart. Roads are getting slick.”
“Are you always this responsible?”
“Usually.”
“How unfortunate.”
He chuckled. “And you?”
“Almost never.”
“I gathered.”
They stood facing each other. Neither moved. Ivy tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well.”
“Well,” Cole echoed.
“I had a really nice time.”
“Me too.”
“You seem surprisingly normal.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
He smiled. Then, more quietly, “Can I kiss you?”
Ivy looked up at him. The question shouldn’t have been particularly remarkable. Men had asked to kiss her before. But something about the way Cole asked—direct, confident, without assuming—made her stomach flutter. She stepped closer. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”
He laughed softly. Then his hand settled against her cheek. And he kissed her. Not a tentative little peck. Not a hurried, awkward first-date kiss. A proper kiss. Warm and unhurried, his other hand settling lightly at her waist while she curled her fingers around the front of his shirt. Ivy rose onto her toes. Cole bent to meet her. And when they finally separated, she was pleased to discover that the enormous, impossibly composed former soldier looked a little dazed.
“Well,” she whispered.
He rested his forehead briefly against hers. “Yeah.”
She smiled. “That was nice.”
“Nice?”
“Very nice.”
He gave a low laugh. “Glad I met your standards.”
She caught his shirt before he could straighten. “Would you like to do it again?”
His answer came in the form of another kiss. And another. By the third, Ivy had decided that standing outside in the snow was becoming an increasingly unreasonable way to spend her evening. “Cole?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you live far from here?”
He went still for half a second. Then drew back just enough to look at her. “About fifteen minutes.”
“Good.”
His brows rose. “Good?”
She smiled sweetly. “Because I’m freezing.”
He laughed. “Right.”
“And I think we should continue this conversation somewhere warmer.”
His thumb brushed her cheek. “Are you sure?”
“Very.”
He held her gaze for another moment. Then smiled. “Come on, sweetheart.”
And Lord help her, she loved the way he said that.
----
Cole’s apartment was exactly what Ivy should have expected. Immaculate. Modern. Masculine. And almost aggressively devoid of personality. There was an expensive charcoal sofa, a large television, a dining table that looked like it had never hosted a meal, and sleek furniture in varying shades of black, gray, and dark wood.
No clutter. No piles of books. No strange little decorative objects. Not even a houseplant. Ivy slowly turned in a circle.
Cole watched her from beside the door. “What?”
She gestured around the room. “Do you actually live here?”
He laughed. “Last I checked.”
“Where’s all your stuff?”
“My stuff?”
“Yes. Your things. Your personality. Evidence of human occupation.”
He glanced toward the television. “There’s a TV.”
“Oh, honey.”
He laughed harder. “What’s wrong with my apartment?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all. It’s lovely.”
“You hate it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did.”
She grinned. “It’s just very...”
“Very?”
“Organized.”
“I like organized.”
“I noticed.” She wandered toward the windows, examining the city lights below. “Do you have hobbies?”
“A few.”
“Do any of them involve decorative pillows?”
“No.”
“Tragic.”
Cole shook his head. “You’re trouble.”
“You invited me.”
“Beginning to question that decision.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “Liar.”
His answering grin made her stomach do something absolutely ridiculous. He disappeared into the kitchen. “Water? Coffee? Something else?”
Ivy perked up. “Coffee?”
He stopped. “It’s almost midnight.”
“And?”
“You want coffee?”
“Cole, I’m approximately seventy-five percent coffee by volume.”
He stared at her. Then shook his head. “Decaf?”
She looked scandalized. “Absolutely not.”
“Water it is.”
“You’re a cruel man.”
“I’ve been called worse.” While he occupied himself in the kitchen, Ivy wandered toward a narrow bookshelf. There were several books about military history, a few on leadership and business, and a framed photograph. She picked it up carefully. A group of soldiers stood together beneath a blazing desert sun.
Dusty uniforms. Tired faces. Broad smiles. Cole was easy to recognize, even younger and clean-shaven. Eli, whom she recognized from one of Cole’s pictures, stood beside him with an arm slung over his shoulder. There were several other men. Some grinning. One making a rude gesture toward the camera. Another leaning forward, laughing at something outside the frame. They looked happy. Comfortable. Like men who had been through hell together and somehow found something worth laughing about. Cole returned carrying two glasses of water.
He stopped when he saw what she was holding. Ivy glanced up. “Your friends?”
He looked at the photograph. For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face. “My brothers.”
She smiled. “You all look happy.”
He studied the picture. His expression softened, though there was a sadness beneath it she couldn’t quite understand. “We were.”
The words were quiet. Past tense. Ivy noticed. But she also noticed the way his hand tightened slightly around the glass. She put the photograph back exactly where she’d found it. “You look younger without the stubble.”
That earned her a faint smile. “That’s generally how aging works.”
“Smartass.”
“Frequently.”
She stepped toward him. “Thank you for tonight.”
His attention returned fully to her. “You’re welcome.”
“I had fun.”
“Good.”
“More fun than I expected, actually.”
“High praise again.”
“I’m full of compliments.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Ivy glanced toward the austere living room. “Although I may have to bring you a houseplant.”
Cole laughed. “Please don’t.”
“A tiny one.”
“Ivy.”
“A succulent. Very low maintenance.”
“You’re not decorating my apartment.”
She smiled. “Not yet.”
Something changed in his expression. Not surprise, exactly. More like amusement touched by curiosity. “Not yet?”
She reached for his free hand. “Well, we’ve only been on one date.”
Cole set the glasses on the side table. “That’s true.”
“So I suppose I should wait until the second before I start reorganizing your life.”
His hands settled at her waist. “Very considerate.”
“I’m an incredibly considerate woman.”
He bent his head. “Are you?”
“Occasionally.” Then he kissed her. And the entire conversation about houseplants became spectacularly irrelevant.
---
Later, when the lights had been switched off and the city glowed beyond the windows, Ivy lay tucked against Cole’s side. His arm rested around her shoulders. The room was quiet. Comfortable. She traced one of the tattoos on his forearm, following the dark lines with a fingertip. “You know,” she murmured, “Frankie is going to be absolutely insufferable about this.”
Cole gave a sleepy chuckle. “Eli too.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t tell them.”
“Excellent plan.”
“They’ll never know.”
“Not a chance.”
She laughed softly. His hand moved along her shoulder in an absent, gentle caress. For a while, neither spoke. Then Cole pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Glad you came tonight.”
Ivy smiled against his chest. “Me too.” She listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. There was something unexpectedly reassuring about the enormous man beside her. Not because he was strong. Not because he’d been a soldier. But because he’d spent the entire evening making her feel like the most interesting person in the room. And because, underneath the intimidating physique and ridiculously handsome face, Cole was funny. Kind. A little sarcastic. And surprisingly easy to be with.
She tipped her head back. “Cole?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you like to see me again?”
He opened his eyes. Looked at her. Then smiled. “Sweetheart, I was planning on asking you that over breakfast.”
Her heart gave an embarrassing little flutter. “Breakfast?”
“Unless you’re planning to escape before sunrise.”
Ivy pretended to consider it. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you make good coffee.”
Cole laughed. Then pulled her a little closer.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Excellent.”
She settled against him again. And as she drifted toward sleep, Ivy decided that Frankie Vega might be allowed to live after all.
For now.
