The Ivy House - By Drea Stein Page 0,30

of sailing and sporting goods. Maybe we need to start over? These designers are great with raincoats, but,” she gestured at the portfolio in front of them, “I don’t think they’re getting it.”

Even Sam Wasterstone, the PR director, the one who always had an idea on how to make something look fun or sexy or useful or all three, was shaking his head.

“Not getting it?” Chase repeated, looking at the images. Nope, they were certainly not getting it. Everything was blah, boring, and definitely not hip. They needed something fresher, lighter, younger.

Suddenly, Chase felt instinct take over. “I have an idea.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling victory within grasp. He knew just the person who could help them.

Chapter 14

The note came the next morning with a large bunch of flowers, creamy white lilies. Looked like Chase had written the note himself, she thought. Thick black marker, simple printed letters.

I think we got off on the wrong foot. Do over? The Osprey Arms, seven o’clock, tonight.

Phoebe held the note, remembering the last time she had seen Chase, his blue eyes flashing, his legs spread apart, hands on his hip, looking for all the world like he was the captain of a ship about to face the maelstrom. Did she want to see him again? Phoebe placed the flowers on the edge of her desk, looking at them.

Of course, she wanted to see him. Her whole body was practically itching with desire at the thought of seeing him, the thought of looking into his eyes, watching his lopsided grin staring down at her, the thought of running her hands through his too-long black hair. She could pretty well imagine the silky feel of it.

Phoebe sighed deeply, inhaling the light, fresh smell of the lilies. Yes, she was going to go. There was no way she could stay away; both her interest and her curiosity were aroused. Chase Sanders, Leland Harper’s grandson. A link, however tenuous, to Savannah.

<<>>

Phoebe awoke with a start. She checked her watch. She had worked all day at the house, both on her website and on cleaning the kitchen. It was dirty, hot, and exhausting work. Another day or so and she would be ready to move in, but for now she was happy with the clean bathroom and soft bed at the Osprey Arms. It had been so inviting that when she had come back, she had intended only to close her eyes for a moment, but she’d fallen fast asleep, and now she realized with a rush of panic that she had only a half hour to get ready.

A quick shower and only a few minutes to figure out what to wear. It certainly wasn’t a date, so anything with too suggestive a neckline or too low a back was out. But would looking too casual send the wrong message?

Finally, she had decided to keep it simple, a pair of dark wash blue jeans that stretched nicely over all the right places and a purple v-neck sweater. No heels, since she was tall enough already, but a pair of ballet flats and scarf tied at her neck pulled it all together. It was her go-to outfit, she supposed, simple, with the sweater highlighting her eyes.

She felt flushed and slightly embarrassed when she entered the darkened room. It was closer to seven thirty than seven, and as a rule, she didn’t like to keep people waiting. The bar at the Osprey Arms was mildly crowded for a Thursday night. There was a couple leaning in towards one another, heads close, hands intertwined. There was also a group of older men, in khakis and sweaters, white-haired with red cheeks, so Phoebe figured they had probably come in from a round of golf.

And there he was, in the far corner, with an empty stool next to him. He saw her and one hand went up. She swallowed. She worked her way down the bar, nodding at the bartender.

Chase stood up when she turned the corner, his hand held out.

She stopped and looked at it.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled, but this time it was genuine, an almost friendly grin. “Like I said, starting over. See, I’m Chase Sanders. Nice to meet you.”

Her eyebrows arched up, but she decided to play along, “How nice to meet you, Mr. Sanders. I’m Phoebe Ryan.”

“Please call me Chase.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe let herself be guided into the high chair at the bar, the wide palm of his hand splayed across her back, creating an