in pools, sampling elegant desserts and enjoying the spa facilities.
As angry as I’d been at the idea of them making a bet over this, two men with too much money and pride for their own good, there’s no denying this video is brilliant.
“It’s amazing.”
There’s a smile in his voice. “I’ll admit, it turned out well.”
My sister turns to me and Rhys with wide eyes when the campaign ends.
“You truly went to all those places? That was beautiful.”
“We did, yeah. This is Rhys Marchand, who traveled with me.”
Penny grins, reaching out a hand. “Oh, I know. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he says. “The similarity is obvious, so I don’t have to ask who you are. Penny, right?”
“That’s right,” she confirms. “And I’d love to stay and chat, but there is a waiter with tiny sliders somewhere around here that I have to chase.”
She disappears through the crowd and I roll my eyes, smiling. “Subtle.”
“Very.” Rhys’s gaze snags with mine, mine with his, and it’s like the other guests fade away, just us and New York around us. There are questions in his eyes, mixed with tentative hope.
The air feels thick with possibility.
“Thank you for the photographs. They were delivered this morning.”
His lips curve. “My pleasure. They’re my favorites, those four.”
“They’re beautiful,” I murmur. “Your portion of the video was, too.”
“Of course it was,” he says quietly. “I had you.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t look away from the strength of his gaze. He had lied, yes. But I’d allowed myself to hang on to that as an excuse, an opportunity to flee from the unknown.
“I’ve been thinking about us.”
He inclines his head, a dark curl falling over his forehead. “So have I, Ives. And before you say anything, I want to give you something.” He pulls something out of his coat pocket, my eyes snagging on his hand, remembering the touch of it on my skin.
“Here you are!” a voice calls out. “My two stars!”
I clear my throat, refocusing on Ben’s grinning face. He has a champagne glass in one hand, smiling at the both of us.
“Oh, don’t look like that,” he says to Rhys, whose face is impassive. Annoyed at being interrupted, I’m guessing. “You won.”
“Co-won,” Rhys corrects.
“Yes, well, yours is the more artistic of the two, even if I hate to admit it.” He gives me a smirk. “It’ll be a pleasure, Ivy, to watch you in all the travel catalogues to come.”
My smile feels brittle, aimed at the man who gave me the campaign of a lifetime as a prank. “I’m glad.”
“She was—”
But Rhys is interrupted by the arrival of a few other people. A photographer, here to immortalize the event, and the dark-haired model I’d seen in the pictures. My opponent, I suppose. “One final picture?” Ben asks. “To celebrate the launch.”
“Sure,” I say, extending my hand to the other model. “I’m Ivy.”
“Sarah.”
“Your pictures look beautiful.”
She gives me a shy smile. “Thank you. I thought yours, though… they were art.”
“I had a great photographer.”
Ben motions for us to join him by the edge of the terrace, where the sprawl of New York beckons thirty-five floors below. Each step is an act of willpower, forcing myself closer and closer to the edge.
Is that railing really high enough?
“Come,” Ben repeats, Sarah to his right. I take my spot on his left side and look straight at the camera. The death drop behind me feels like a monster, creeping up to attack.
I pose, but my hand is clammy around the champagne flute. The seconds feel like years.
Rhys is standing beside the photographer with a scowl on his face. His hands are buried in his pockets, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. I focus on the tan skin there.
“There,” the photographer says, lowering the camera. Ben thanks Sarah and me, but I can’t hear them above the beating of my heart.
And then Rhys is there, his arm closing around my waist as he pulls me away from the edge. I follow him across the roof and into the stairwell, where walls keep the abyss at bay.
“A rooftop,” I mutter. “It had to be another rooftop.”
“Are you okay?” His fingers tip my chin back, my face lifting to his.
“Yes. Just…” I shake my head. “I have to keep away from the edge.”
“I remember.”
My palms land on his chest, hard beneath his shirt. “Nobody has confused me like you have,” I accuse him. “Nobody has made me as angry, or as irritated. Nobody has made me laugh