Happy Saturday, people!

The usual stuff:
1. People, you propelled Ivories PAST 1,9k reviews! Thank you so, so much. EditorWard would thank you personally, but he's busy with Ladybug.
2. HUGE thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them says "Not today, Satan. Not today." It's my favorite.
4. Today, Saturday, and tomorrow are the last days to vote for the Golden Onion Awards, and yours truly was lucky enough to be nominated in a bunch of categories:
- Author of the Year
- Best A-Lister (Edward/Correct the Narrative)
- Best Farce Fic (Business Class Girl)
- Best Je t'aime Fic (Correct the Narrative)
- Best Nail-Biting Fic (Correct the Narrative)
- Masterpiece of the Year (Correct the Narrative)
- WIP of the Year (Behind the Ivories)
- Mina Rivera was also nominated for Best Banner of the Year for the wonderful cover she designed for Behind the Ivories.
Congrats to all fellow nominees and thank you to the organizers for their hard work putting this together year after year. You can vote daily until August 21.
Because ffnet doesn't like links, I put a link to the voting site in LaMomo's Lair, my fanfic group on FB. Enter the name in the search bar on FB and you'll find it.

We left EditorWard and Ladybug to very satisfying shenanigans in Cape Cod. Now it's time to go back to Boston ...
Next up, EditorWard goes shopping, and the gang goes to the Big Apple.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 32

Our one-week retreat to Cape Cod becomes a huge turning point in my relationship with Bella. With one of her cheeky smiles, she says it's because of the five days of almost uninterrupted sex. In my estimation, while the wild sex marathon we had was the most satisfying, voracious, arousing five-day stint in my entire life, the honest, soul-searching conversations we had during our strolls on the beach or while we cooked simple meals together in the cabin's mix-and-match kitchen, eased my lingering fears and anxieties more than anything else.

We've laid out our hopes for the future, and in their broad strokes, they line up perfectly. We're more deliberate in making short and medium-term plans and involving each other in the decision-making process. We've set up shared calendars to keep track of our mutual comings and goings. We still play musical beds through the week and end up staying the night at either Wisteria House or the loft, based on what the next day's commitments look like. Part of our belongings has mixed together, migrating from one end of Cambridge to the other and vice-versa. We haven't settled on when or how to move in together. Or where, for that matter. It'll happen, but for now, we're going with the flow.

Wanting Bella was never the problem. The less clueless, less oblivious part of me already knew that. Once my damned brain caught up, all those visions of the future my heart conjured up started making sense, but I can't make them happen alone. I can't hijack her life plans either, which is another topic of discussion that has been keeping us plenty busy of late.

Bella has a whole year off from touring, but once that's over, she wants to sit down with Ross, Jake, and the label to restructure the way they've been touring so far. She no longer needs to do fourteen-month long expeditions around the globe. Jake agrees, and he wants her back at Sharps & Flats yearly for a "residency" of sorts. Bella loves the idea because she prefers more intimate shows than filling stadiums. Jake loves the idea because it would pad the club's bottom line; Ross loves the idea because it's less of a logistical nightmare. For my part, anything that keeps her in Boston longer is a welcome change. In short, everyone fucking loves this idea.

Even though Bella and I have been clear on this, too. If—when—she is back on the road, I can't drop everything and follow, and I wouldn't. I have a life and a job here, but we'd find a way to make the separation work. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Meanwhile, summer in the city has barreled along at breakneck speed. Life has barreled along as well, with our friends' lives changing at an equal pace.

Jake has moved out of his loft in Kendall Square and into Seth's brownstone in Somerville. He also hired and trained a permanent manager for Sharps & Flats in New York, making his move to Boston official for the foreseeable future.

Mac has finished remodeling Ross's converted church, and at the end of a whirlwind courtship—granted, with a few false starts—he also moved in with her over the July 4th weekend.

Bella has enlisted Ross's help to find appropriate attire for the CPJ Gala. Because Ross declares it a girls' day of shopping, it gives me a perfect opening to go get my own tux sorted out without Bella's prying eyes. I'm also not ashamed to say, I recruited Esme. At least, she'll have zero compunction telling me if I look like crap.

Our appointment is this afternoon, which is the reason why I'm trying to get stuff done in the office before I cut out early and pick up Mom from her own newsroom at the Globe.

I just came back from lunch, and I'm planning to leave by three, which gives me another hour to get my shit together. Said frantic activity is interrupted when Mac appears in my office unannounced.

"Bro, where is it that you and Momma C are going to get your monkey suit?"

"I have no idea. She knows someone, she said. Why?"

"Is it one of those glitzy, stiff-upper-lip places where you need an appointment to breathe in the mere direction of a salesperson?"

"Again, I wouldn't know. Esme made all the arrangements. Do you need me to find out? Most of all, why the interrogation?"

He sighs, leaning his massive frame against the doorjamb. "Ross should be calling you about it right about now," he says. On cue, my cell phone starts blaring the open bars of "Alive."

I put up one finger to tell Mac he should wait; he catches on and takes a seat while I accept Ross's call. On speaker because methinks it's going to be more efficient in this case.

"Hi, Ross."

"Did you really think I'd let you kidnap Choc for her birthday week without repercussions?"

I snort. I hoped. "My plan was to take Bella to Garrett and Charlotte's for a small birthday celebration so she could see Beatrice. I know she's not keen on making a big to-do out of it." In this regard, Bella and I are similar. One more way in which our lives and dispositions are meshing together seamlessly.

At the other end of the line, crickets. Mac is looking at me as if I've grown an extra head.

"Ross, you there?"

She clears her throat before replying. "Yes, yes. I'm kinda stunned honestly."

"Why?"

"You did good, Cake Fairy. I like your plan. Which brings me to the reason I'm calling. Your friend there—"

"Hi, Rosie," Mac interjects.

"Yeah, yeah, butter me up all you want. If you hadn't waited until the last damn minute for this, I swear …"

Now I'm confused. "Can someone explain to me what the hell is going on? Mac? Ross? Anyone?"

Mac and Ross both chuckle, but then sober up quickly.

Ross takes the floor and delves into explanations—at long last. "Mac also got an invite to the gala you're attending with Choc. But somehow, he forgot he'd replied way back when, so the first headache was telling the event people that he'd be bringing a plus one—me. Then, he didn't have a tux that fit him. He didn't have a tux, period."

"Babe, you know it's not my style," he whines.

I do have some sympathy for the poor lug, but he's playing a losing hand this time.

"Shut up, Em. Before I blow a gasket."

Mac's expression turns serious immediately. "Yeah, sorry, babe. I forgot. My bad."

I'm starting to connect the dots here, and I may know where this is going, but because this is fun to watch, I'll let it play out. Front row seat and all that.

"So, the reason I'm calling is this. Mac and I are coming along, both for the gala and for the New York trip. I've arranged our RSVPs for the gala, our room at the Grand Hyatt, and our travel plans, and I coordinated those with yours and Bella's. I found a dress when I went shopping with Choc last month. Now your style-challenged sidekick needs a tux. Do you think he could come with you while you get yours? Would Esme mind?"

I crack up laughing at Mac's agonized expression. The last thing he wants to do is go shopping for formalwear with Esme and me. But since Ross commands it, he'll do it. What did he say to me months ago? "Stick a fork in him, he's done." Yeah, that.

"Let me call Esme and double check, but I'm pretty sure she won't mind spending the afternoon with us. Do you want to join us?"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. This puts my mind at ease. I'd love to come along, but I can't. Last-minute pre-term shit for Harvard that I have to take care of. But if Esme is with you, you can't go wrong."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

This time, she snorts into the phone. "Ed, I love you, but no offense, I wouldn't peg you for a guy who buys suits week in and week out."

I take the jibe with good humor. After all, she's correct. "Yeah, I leave that to my dad. Let me call Esme. And we'll send you photos, okay?"

She giggles. "Yeah, but tell my monkey man not to dazzle the salesladies."

When the line clicks shut, I know the afternoon just turned from a boring chore into a fun interlude. At least, Mac's presence guarantees that trying on tuxedos for a formal event will be anything but a snoozefest.

&&&IVORIES&&&

Needless to say, Esme was ecstatic to hear that Mac would be joining us.

Two hours later, we're crossing the threshold of the bespoke menswear shop on Newbury Street where Esme secured an appointment—now an appointment for two. To Ross's delight, there are no salesladies here. Only salesdudes, as Mac dubbed them the minute we arrived. The shop assistant, Alec, a terse and professional guy in his late twenties to early thirties, is helping both Mac and me. This establishment seems to cater to people with zero patience for clothes shopping. Mac and I could be their poster boys, I swear.

They have an uber-technological body scanner that takes your measurements down to the millimeter. Based on the scan, their system selects the cut and style that fits you best, and after you pick a fabric, color, and weight, they start tailoring it to your frame. They've taken the pain and guesswork out of shopping for suits.

I walk out of the dressing room and onto a platform wearing a black tux in lightweight wool, which, for once, doesn't itch and doesn't constrict me. As Alec warned me, it needs some pinching and hemming here and there; I also still need to select a shirt that'll go with it and dress shoes.

From his perch on the platform next to mine, Mac lets out a loud wolf whistle. "You clean up nice, Ed."

"You don't look half-bad yourself."

Esme's sitting on one of the couches in the room, sporting a megawatt smile. "Both my boys look amazing. Now, let's see what you both picked," she says, walking closer to us.

She gets to me first. She checks that the lapels and neck of my jacket aren't crooked or folded and brushes away invisible pieces of lint from my shoulders because that's as high as she can reach. "Black, again, Edward? Really?"

I shrug. "Aren't all tuxedoes black?" I ask her, a bit flummoxed.

"No, sweetie. Mac didn't choose black. Look at him," she coaxes me.

I throw him a sidelong glance. "Okay, he picked navy. Fine."

She turns to him, giving him a once-over. "Oh, you look so handsome, Mac. It brings out your eyes," she coos.

Mac's ears tinge pink at my mom's praise. "You think so, Momma C? Good enough to have Rosie on my arm?"

Esme moves over to him and cradles his face in her hands, standing on her tiptoes. "You both have nothing to be ashamed of, got it?"

He nods solemnly.

Then she turns toward me, extending her hand, which I grasp in mine. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie."

Alec reemerges, interrupting the heart-to-heart moment. "Don't we both look dashing," he comments. Then he starts walking around Mac, getting a good look at him. "This looks almost perfect. Wasn't the purple velvet to your liking, sir?"

Purple velvet. Mac in a purple velvet tux jacket. I try to picture it for a second and suppress my chuckle at the same time. Esme would incinerate me with a look if I did that.

Mac throws me a withering glance, then trips over his words while addressing Alec. "I don't feel it's quite my style."

After an appraising look, Alec nods and starts pinning the hem on his trousers. He makes quick work of it, then calls over another shop assistant who helps Mac with shirts and ties.

When Alec moves over to my platform. "Ah, yes. The classy simplicity of a black tux. You can't beat that. How does this one feel on you, sir?"

"Surprisingly comfortable."

Alec turns to Esme. "You did tell me your son wasn't a suit guy, and now I see exactly what you meant, Mrs. Cullen."

Ah. This must be where Dad gets his suits.

Mom smiles at Alec. "Told you, Alec. But he looks so elegant, doesn't he?"

"Absolutely. If you ever fancied modeling our suits, we wouldn't complain. You cut quite the figure in this style. Dress shoes—we need to select those before we pin the hem. How do those feel?" he asks. He points a finger at the black patent leather Oxfords I'm wearing, which also feel soft and comfortable, unlike most of the dress shoes I've worn over the years.

"These feel perfect, in fact."

"Now, shirt and tie. You're wearing your own at the moment—sans tie, but we can remedy that. What's the dress code for the event again?"

Mom answers before I can. "It's black tie, Alec. At the Grand Hyatt in New York."

"Very well." Meanwhile, he's circling me, pinning the garment around me here and there, first at my shoulders, then down the main seam in the back of the jacket. "How does this look?" he asks when he's done.

It didn't seem like a lot of tailoring, but even my untrained eye detects the difference. This tux has a wonderful cut to begin with; Alec just modified it to fit my shoulders and waist snugly, nailing the ratio of one to the other. He instructs me to move my arms and shoulders around to get a feel for it, then declares himself satisfied.

"Since it's a black tie event, how would you feel about a total black look?"

The assistant in charge of shirts and ties sidles up to him almost on cue, holding a selection of shirts and ties—skinny, classic, with bling. I immediately veto the bling tie, but a shirt with some subtle black-on-black rhinestone detail on the placket catches my eye. Unfortunately, when I try it on, it completely falls flat.

"Uhm, no. The crystals on this one clash with the simplicity of the jacket. They don't really shine through, and they clash with the satin lapels. But, if it's an accent you're looking for, we can do something along these lines. Jane, bring me the accented tux jacket, will you?"

Jane is back in less than a minute with another jacket in my size. Alec unwraps the garment bag that protects it and points at its lapels. "See? It's identical to the one you're wearing but has a cascading detail of black-on-black rhinestones on the lapel. Only on one side. And the same detail is carried over to the waistband on the trousers, but you'd hardly see it while you're wearing the jacket. What do we think?"

Time to call in reinforcements. "Mom? It's not too much, is it? Mac's not going to call me Liberace, is he?"

Esme steps up to the platform to take a closer look at the jacket. "I don't think so, Edward. It's a subtle detail, and it blends in with the rest of the suit. It adds a little pizzazz to the whole thing without overdoing it. Why don't you try it on?"

Mom wouldn't encourage me to wear some ridiculous crystal-encrusted thing worthy of an Elvis impersonator. I nod at Alec, and he follows me to the dressing room to assist me in swapping jackets, which I'm thankful for because all the pins could turn me into a voodoo doll with a wrong turn of my shoulder.

A few minutes later, I walk out of the dressing room, and Esme all but squeals at me. "This is the one."

"I haven't even seen myself. What if I look ridiculous?"

She rises and approaches me, megawatt smile still in place. "Not a chance. Turn," she orders.

The image in the mirror hardly resembles me. Rationally, I know it's me. But I no longer have dark shadows under my eyes or a frown marring my forehead. I'm relaxed, almost clean-shaven, and smiling. There's a twinkle in my eyes. All of that while trying on a tux because I'm imagining having Bella on my arm among my peers, and for once, I won't feel alone, or awkward, or guilty for attending a celebration of my chosen profession.

Esme pulls on the lapels to straighten them while Alec negotiates around her to do his own checks.

"This is the one," I announce.

"Very well, sir." Alec starts to replicate the earlier alterations on this jacket, armed with a pincushion in the shape of a hedgehog, of all things. "I asked Jane to pull trousers for this model so we can pin the hem on them, too."

"Thank you. I'll have a black dress shirt with this, Alec."

He nods and adjusts a few pins before answering. "I'd suggest the skinny tie for this one, sir. What do you think?"

"That'll do. I'll take the lot."

As terse and professional as ever, Alec finishes pinning my jacket right when Jane appears with the corresponding trousers. In a matter of minutes, I try those on, too, and let Alec work his magic with the hems.

At long last, I'm back in my own clothes and ready for a shower. Trying on clothes is a sweaty business; it must be the spotlights all around this dressing room. Mac and I reconvene at the front of the shop, settle our accounts, and collect the order slip to pick up our garments after alterations are done, which will be in a week. Just in time to double check that we'll be ready and stylish to jet into New York with our girls.

&&&IVORIES&&&

"You're truly not going to tell me squat about what you're wearing, Ladybug?"

She shakes her head, then leans into my shoulder as far as the airplane seat will allow. "Nope. Surprise," she whispers in my ear. Her breath on my skin sends shivers down my spine.

In the row ahead of us, Ross and Mac are bickering in low voices. God knows what they're arguing about now. They've been at it since this morning when we pulled up to Boston Logan Airport. Something or another about Ross's luggage.

"What is she going on about now?" Bella asks in a whisper.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to butt in?"

"Hell, no. But at least I'm not on the receiving end of it. Ross doesn't travel well. She needs a voodoo doll to vent her frustrations. This time, Mac is her voodoo doll. I've cheerfully passed the baton. She's his problem now," she adds with a wink.

That explains it. "What would help her? Booze? Chamomile?"

"None of that," Bella replies. "Landing helps. Being on stable ground."

"I bet she's happy the two of you won't be traveling for a while."

Bella looks up from her book to snitch a few of my pretzels. "Oh, I'm glad of that as well. What was that Indiana Jones line? 'It's not the years, it's the mileage?'"

I nod. "Yep, that's the one. Raiders of the Lost Ark."

"Should I be concerned with how fast you remembered it?"

"Not at all. It just proves my stellar taste in movies," I reply. I've been reading the CPJ's annual report to pass the time during our flight. I've been out of the loop on their activity for a while now.

Another thing from my past I've kept at arm's length because dealing with the CPJ's current activities means hearing about more of my colleagues who've been jailed, kidnapped, persecuted, or worse, killed, trying to report from situations of conflict around the world. But no more hiding from this because of survivor's guilt. No more pretending I don't deserve to participate or support them because I came back and someone didn't.

Some of the things Bella said on Cape Cod stayed with me. She writes and performs to spread beauty in the world. Maybe my mission, while it can't be in the field anymore—I have no illusions about the limits of my PTSD—is to keep bearing witness, shine a light on my colleagues who are still in the field. People read reports in the papers and keep cable news going in the background of their life, but how often do they think about the persons behind those reports? The ones wearing bulletproof jackets, reporting from the frontlines, under the hissing sounds of missiles and fighter jets flying above them? Sometimes, they become household names. Sometimes, their names are just words on the lower third of the screen and disappear as fast as they're displayed.

Our discussion about pop culture icons stops short when the captain announces our final descent into LaGuardia. He warns that the local temperature is around sixty degrees and intermittent light rain is expected for the next few hours. On the heels of the PSA, flight attendants walk through the cabin for in-flight checks.

And that's when the bickering stops. As soon as the flight attendant utters the words "in the upright position," Ross takes a deep breath—so deep we hear her in the row behind them—and sits back, silent and relaxed. Mac mumbles unintelligible words under his breath.

Bella turns to me and winks before gathering her stuff into her backpack. One thing I've learned with this trip is that Bella travels light, which, again, gels with her no frills personality. Garment bag for whatever contraption she'll wear tomorrow at the gala, a roller bag for all the rest, and her backpack.

Ross, on the other hand, checked a full-sized suitcase and gate-checked a roller bag stuffed to the gills. No way that thing would have fit into the overhead bins.

When we land twenty minutes later, the weather in LaGuardia is hazy and gray. Kind of like my own memories of the last time I was in this city.

I haven't thought a lot about what it would feel to be back here. I guess I was too caught up with getting work done before Mac and I left the newsroom for nearly a week—once again, leaving Jasper at the helm—and with going behind Bella's back to organize her birthday get-together at Garrett's place.

We're going to have a pretty full schedule this week. The gala is tomorrow, on Tuesday; Ross had a stellar idea to fly in one day ahead to prevent any last-minute snafus. Bella's birthday is on Thursday, and the four of us will spend it with Garrett, Charlotte, and Miss Bea. We padded a day of nothing-doing into our plans on Friday, then we'll fly back to Boston on Saturday.

From the minute we deplane and collect Ross's luggage, to our arrival in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt, everything is quick and painless. The car Ross organized is perfectly on time; traffic is, well, New York traffic, so we make do with it. When we check in, there's a slight glitch, but even then, nothing is wrong, per se. Only, Ross seems baffled both of our rooms were upgraded to two corner suites without her being any the wiser.

"I don't know who pulled this neat trick, but I'm not going to complain," she says when the hotel receptionist can't or won't tell her who paid for the upgrade.

"Good. When someone does you a good turn, you should just enjoy it and shut up," Bella declares. Her knowing smile and her look, though, lead me to think she has more than something to do with this.

"Choc, you didn't?"

"I did. I had a ton of points. Shut up and enjoy it."

Ross remains slack-jawed for a second before reacting. "Thank you, Choc."

"Thank you, piano girl," Mac chimes in.

We're standing by the elevators. A porter has already kidnapped all of our bags to haul them upstairs to our rooms, which, with heartfelt thanks to the reservation gods, aren't even on the same floor.

When the doors close and the car starts climbing the twenty or so floors that separate us from our suites, the girls start talking among themselves in low voices.

No doubt to occupy the time, and because he hates being left out, Mac turns to me. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" His tone has none of his usual humor. Levelheaded, considerate Mac is in the building.

"As I'll ever be. We go in, mingle, eat overpriced steak, mingle some more, then leave. I'm in a better place than last year. I'm not going to have an emotional breakdown halfway through the presentation on journalism in conflict and on how many of us have been kidnapped or thrown behind bars this past year."

"Do you think the Wicked Witch of the East Coast will be there?"

I shrug. I haven't given a single thought to Kate Caulfield in months. "It's possible. It's her turf, after all."

"Shouldn't she be campaigning for Daddy Dearest back in our home state?"

I shudder and groan at the mere thought. "That would be a walking, talking conflict of interest. I doubt the head honchos at MSNBC would let her do it. It's one thing staging her engagement for public consumption and showing up in her finery at her parents' country club. Campaign event? Whole different ball game."

"She's not famous for following rules," he counters.

"True, but if she wants to keep the flashy job, there's a clear tightrope she has to walk. Here's to hoping she won't catapult into the void."

"Yeah, we wish."

"No, we don't. We don't give a shit. And that's as much breath as I'm going to waste on that woman. Now, this is our floor. See you guys later for dinner?"

He nods. "Yeah, I think the girls wanted to go somewhere specific."

After promises of reconvening in the lobby around six, Mac and Ross disappear behind the closing doors of the elevator.

Once alone, Bella and I walk in silence toward our corner suite. She hovers her phone toward the keypad on the lock, and the door clicks open.

"This is so much better than keycards," she notes. "I can't tell you how many of those I've lost over the years." Then she walks inside, smiling at me over her shoulder. "Come in, Mr. Editor. Let's see what my points got us."

"That was a really nice thing for you to do," I reply. Wrapping my arms around her from behind, I look over her shoulder to survey the room. It's a nicely appointed, spacious suite. "We didn't need this much room, but I'll follow Ross's example and refrain from complaining."

"Good boy. Want to try out the gigantic shower they promised with this suite?"

I kiss her collarbone, then turn and lead her to the bathroom.

"Oh, baby. I'm not going to shut up, but I sure as hell will enjoy it."

&&&IVORIES&&&

On Tuesday morning, Bella and I decide to be lazy and treat ourselves to room service for breakfast. Our schedule is clear until the gala tonight, which is held in one of the ballrooms downstairs, so we don't even have to worry about being late. It's an elevator ride away.

Bella's sprawled crosswise on the bed, lying on her stomach with her feet up in the air, wearing my boxers and discarded shirt from last night. She's leafing through the morning papers they brought with our breakfast spread.

I'm looking through messages on my iPad to check if there are any work-related fires to put out when Bella's exclamation jars me out of it. Just as well, because it looks like Jasper is on top of things.

"Uhhhh, that's going to hurt. Meet your karma, you bastard."

"Aren't we vehement this morning? What's up?"

She looks up, shaking a copy of The New York Times at me. Two thirds of the paper is folded over onto the front page; she must be reading the entertainment pages. "James. There were rumors of a residency in Vegas. It fell through."

"Residency in Vegas? For a classical performer?"

She snorts. "Yeah, that'd be a first. The idiot must have thought that parading his father-in-law's name around would be enough over here."

"Looks like he has to think again."

"He has to pack it up and fly back to Milan, tail between his legs. This report is stingy on details, but lackluster reviews and his monetary demands appear to have killed the deal," she explains, citing the article.

"Because his charming personality wasn't a problem, I reckon."

She rolls over, laughing at my comment. Since the view just turned a thousand times more enticing, I ditch my tablet and jump on the bed beside her.

"Do we really need to talk about that guy?" I'm leaning over her, brushing wayward tendrils of hair off her face. For a minute, I get lost looking into her eyes.

She shakes her head, and I'm about to kiss her senseless, hoping for a repeat of our shower acrobatics last night, when the room phone rings. Now that's an unwelcome interruption. Bella pouts with a sidelong glance at the phone that keeps ringing, undeterred.

"Insistent, imperious, and kind of shrill. It's gotta be Ross. Let me see what she wants."

I nod and roll off of her while she answers.

"Hey, Ross. What's up? No. I don't have a spa appointment or a mani-pedi appointment."

No, that wouldn't be like Bella. However, that would be a very Ross-like thing to do, especially ahead of a formal event. Bella listens patiently, nodding every now and then even if Ross can't see her.

"So, you made the appointments. For both of us. And you didn't think about telling me?"

Evidently not. Ross organizes—she doesn't ask for opinions; if Bella is involved, come to think of it, she probably does it all on autopilot by now.

"And they'll do our hair and makeup, too?"

Ah, it's all for tonight. Makes sense.

"And what are they both supposed to do while the two of us get beautified? Knit? Do crossword puzzles? Okay, fine. I'll see you downstairs in an hour."

She sets down the phone and walks back to me, huffing and pouting.

"Let me guess. Ross is kidnapping you for the day?"

"Yes. I'm sorry; she didn't tell me about any of this. I wanted to spend the day with you," she complains.

"Well, that gives the two of you time to get ready for tonight. Mac and I will find something to entertain ourselves. We don't have to go get facials, after all."

She grunts. "Don't remind me. I don't enjoy any of that—the primping and buffing and scrubbing. Ross adores it. I just hope she's not gone overboard."

"Hey," I interject, pulling her between my legs after I sit up. "You don't have to do any of it if you don't want to. You know that, right?"

"I do, but I think she just wants some time with me. I'm okay with that. What are you and Mac going to do?"

I shrug. "There's a gym and a swimming pool in this joint. Worst case scenario, we'll run on treadmills or swim laps until we have to get into the monkey suits."

"You guys have it so much easier. Which is why I perform in jeans and T-shirts. No fuss, no worry."

"Will you be wearing that tonight?"

"Fishing for information again. I'm not telling."

"Sparkly Chucks?"

"Not telling."

My turn to pout at her. "Put that away and go swimming with your sidekick."

We both erupt into laughs and chase each other around the room for a minute until we fall back onto the bed, still laughing, with our legs tangled together.

"I just want one more kiss before I have to let you go for the day," I whisper.

&&&IVORIES&&&

Later in the day, Mac and I emerge from the hotel's gym, sweaty and chuckling after a good run and a good deal of idle chitchat we exchanged while pounding miles away on the treadmills.

Mac stops at the elevator bank to call Ross, only to catch her voicemail. "They must still be at the spa," he comments. "Did you get any messages from Bella?"

"Let me look." A quick glance at my screen confirms that, indeed, Bella texted me less than half an hour ago. "She did. She says Ross put your stuff in our suite so you and I can change and shower there. Sounds like they commandeered your suite as the girls' dressing room."

"Right, there's that hair and makeup person coming for them."

"If you put it like that, it sounds like a threat," I muse.

We step into the elevator, and thankfully, no one's in there.

"Feels like a lot of fuss for one night. I mean, we had to get new suits, but we can wear those again … if anyone gets married," he adds with a wink.

"It's also one of Bella's first public appearances after she moved to Boston, Mac. Ross is her manager; I understand that she feels they have to put their best foot forward."

Mac's eyes widen comically, which confirms my hunch that he hasn't considered things from that angle until now. "Shit, you and piano girl are going public!"

I shrug. "We're not announcing jack squat. There'll be pics of the event. So what? Every single person we care about knows we're together. We don't give a shit about the others."

When we step off the elevator on my floor, a commotion at the end of the hallway attracts our attention as we make our way to my suite.

Two female voices arguing sotto voce but failing. These cavernous hallways carry sound like it's nobody's business.

With narrowed eyes and a raised eyebrow, Mac turns to me. "Could that be?"

"It definitely could."

"Well, crap."


Next week we'll have the Gala, and we'll be meeting some old acquaintances.
Also, keep an eye on the Lair (LaMomo's Lair on FB, type in the search bar and you'll find it), because I'll have pics to go with the chapter.
Have an awesome week, and let me know what you think.