The Friend Zone (Game On 2)

I hold him, my lips pressed against his sweaty brow. He thinks he’s distracted me from learning what he secretly yearns for. But I know what it is now, and I’m going to give it to him. As much as I can.

Twenty-Three

Ivy

Gray and I spend every moment we can together. Which isn’t really any different than our normal routine, only now our moments involve bouts of hot, sweaty sex. And it isn’t nearly enough for either of us. Gray’s classes are done for the semester, but intense workouts and training regimens to prepare for the playoffs take up most of his time.

“I swear to God, my quads and hamstrings feel like they’ve been torn from my bones,” Gray tells me over the phone as I make chicken salad. I stare down at the chicken breast I’ve been pulling meat from and, with a grimace, toss it aside.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be partaking in any shenanigans until you can catch a break,” I say. Reluctantly, because I pretty much want Gray all the time.

He makes a rude noise that nearly vibrates my phone. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Mac,” he drawls. “Otherwise my fragile feelings might get hurt.”

I scoff at that. “Don’t worry, Cupcake, I’m basically thinking about your cock in my mouth right now.”

Gray makes a strangled sound. “Jesus, Ivy. You can’t be saying that when you know I’m stuck watching footage and studying plays for the rest of the day. Are you trying to kill me? You’re lucky I’m soaking in an ice bath right now.”

“Gray! You shouldn’t be on the phone while in a bath. I’m hanging up right now.”

He laughs. “Okay, okay. Geesh. I’ll hang up, but tell me one thing first.”

“I’m not having phone sex with you. Again.”

“You loved it. But not the question. Have you talked to your parents about not wanting to return to London?”

I frown down at the counter. Gray is right to bug me. I’ve been avoiding telling them. Mainly because I’m a total coward, but the guilt is getting to me. Hell, I need to tell them about Gray, as well. One thing at a time, though, and letting them know about Gray isn’t the news I dread.

“Fuck it,” I tell Gray. “I’ll tell them today. After I hang up with you.”

“Honey,” Gray murmurs. “It will be all right.”

A breath gusts out of me. “I just don’t want to disappoint them.”

The sound of water sloshing fills my ear, then Gray’s voice, low and soothing. “Ivy Mac, you couldn’t be a disappointment if you tried.”

“Gray…” My hand slides along the cool counter, and I’m wishing it was his skin I stroked. “You’re really sweet sometimes, you know?”

“That’s just my thick and creamy frosting. Tell them. And call me afterward, okay?”

* * *

Fi is home, an increasingly rare occurrence. But I take advantage, tracking her down in her room. Where mine is an oasis of whites, hers is a dark nest of plums and pinks. It’s disturbingly womblike and features an excess of satin fabric hanging from windows, her wrought-iron canopy—because we both have a thing for canopies—and even skirting her chairs.

Curled up like a little Thumbelina on one pink satin chair, Fi is reading a text book and making notes on her iPad.

“What’s up?” she asks, not taking her eyes from her work.

“I invited Dad over. He’ll be here in five.”

Her brow quirks as she finally looks at me. “Yeah. So?”

I set my hand against my fluttering stomach. “I’m going to Skype Mom. You know…tell them about not wanting to work with her.”

Fi sets aside her things. “You need a little moral support?”

“Yes.” It’s a burst of breath.

From the living room Dad’s voice booms out. “Anybody here?”

“We’re coming,” I shout back as Fi glares at the door.

“We need to get that key back from him,” she says.

“He never comes when he isn’t invited.” Well, almost never. I think about Gray pressed on top of me, his gaze on my lips, and Dad finding us. “Yeah,” I say a little raggedly. “I guess we should ask for it back.”

“Well,” says Fi, standing, “he’s here now. No use stalling.”

Right. Only I drag my feet as I follow her out.

I don’t tell Dad why he’s here before Mom is on the computer screen. I set the laptop up on the counter, facing it out toward us, which makes it seem as though her head is a hovering specter in the room.

Although my mother is blonde and blue-eyed, I look the most like her. Fi has Mom’s coloring, but Dad’s features.

“Hello, my darlings,” she says to Fi and me as we sit on the couch. “While I’m happy to see you both, is everything all right?”

“You’ve got me, Helena,” Dad tells her. His attitude with her is, as always, slightly stiff but cordial.

I take a deep breath. “It’s me. I’m just going to say it. Mom, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to manage the store.”

“What?” Dad snaps.

“Darling, why?” Mom says in a shocked voice.

It’s hard to explain to them my reasons, but I do, with Fi holding my hand the entire time. It’s funny, usually I’m the one holding her hand while she disappoints our parents.

And disappoint them I have.

“Oh, Ivy,” Mom says with a sigh. “I don’t understand this. You’ve spent so much time learning the business. And you love baking. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”