CHAPTER TWO
Ivy couldn’t believe it.
Her application for the Ladies with Passion charity had been rejected, the email typed in big, bold, red letters.
THANK YOU FOR APPLYING TO BE A LADIES WITH PASSION VOLUNTEER. AT THIS TIME, WE ARE CONSIDERING OTHER OPTIONS, BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO APPLY AGAIN NEXT YEAR.
WITH LOVE AND GRACE,
LOLA AND TEAM
What a bitch. And here she’d worked so hard on the application to make it sound believable. Lola opened volunteer applications every year, though, so it was fine. She could wait. She needed time to plan anyway, and perhaps Lola would forget about Ivy completely after another year.
As badly as she wanted to see this woman face-to-face as soon as possible, it had to be at the right time and the right moment.
Ladies with Passion was an organization for pregnant teen girls and women who needed financial support for prenatal and postnatal care. It was thoughtful, but a load of shit. She should have put all that energy into owning up to what she’d done instead.
It was obvious to Ivy that the charity was created so Lola could avoid the truth . . . which still left the question: Who gave Marriott Lola’s name? Was Lola waiting for Ivy to show up and planning on paying her off to keep her quiet while clearing her conscience? Because, hell, she would have loved that. Perhaps she should have emailed her and gotten it over with, or even met her for lunch somewhere to discuss money . . . but that was too easy for her. Money alone wasn’t going to cut it. Ivy needed more.
Opening her laptop with a weak cup of coffee beside it, Ivy typed in the name of Lola’s charity organization in the Search bar. She then went to the website and absorbed as much knowledge as she could about it. Just because her application wasn’t approved didn’t mean she couldn’t show up for the events.
She clicked through the photos of all the pregnant women who’d been helped or given large checks, and then clicked through the volunteer images, all of them in their sky-blue shirts with “Ladies with Passion” in swirly pink font. Lola was in several photos, smiling like an angel . . . which she was not.
Ivy abandoned the website and picked up her phone, going to Instagram and finding Lola again. She’d done this many times since discovering Lola had an account.
Her Instagram account was where she posted the most. She wouldn’t follow her just in case Lola noticed her name. Not yet at least. She only needed to see Lola, and because Lola’s profile was public, it made things a lot easier.
She scrolled until she found an image of Lola slathered in sweat, with a pair of pink boxing gloves on her hands. She was flexing her toned arms, her honey hair hanging down in a low ponytail, wisps clinging to her wet face.
“Kickboxing? Seriously?” Ivy muttered, then rolled her eyes. Lola had tagged her location with the photo. Best Rounds Kickboxing was the place, and the address was even attached. How foolish could Lola be? Ivy wondered. She made her life so . . . accessible.
Did she really think the world cared about her latest workout or charity sponsor? Then again, according to the twenty-to-fifty-thousand likes and hundreds of comments, many people did care what Lola was up to.
Ivy chewed the flesh on the inside of her cheek, tapping on the next photo. It was an image of Lola and her husband. Ivy lingered on that photo—on the husband.
He wore a black tuxedo, and Lola was in a platinum dress, her hair pulled up into a tight bun. Her skin was glowing and flawless. They were attending a fundraising dance.
Ivy’s eyes shifted back over to Lola’s husband. She tapped the photo, and a username popped up where he was tagged. That took her to a profile for a man named Corey Maxwell.
So that was his name. Corey Maxwell. Corey was divine, really, and that said a lot coming from Ivy, seeing that she didn’t care much for men in general after her ex. She never felt normal with that fucker, and she hadn’t trusted many people afterward, especially men.
There was something about Corey Maxwell that drew Ivy in, though. He had deep brown eyes and a beautiful, boyish smile. He even had dimples that sank into his brown skin when he revealed his teeth. She could tell, despite only seeing him in photos, that he was tall—she guessed six feet or taller.
Corey Maxwell had broad shoulders and his face was cleanshaven in most photos, but when he rocked a five-o’ clock shadow, it made him appear more rugged and handsome. He was eye candy for sure, and something about him made her want to talk to him. Touch him. Hear his voice for the first time.