“Exactly!” Ivy nodded, looking at him with wide, earnest eyes. “Don’t you think so too?”

“Come on, stop playing matchmaker. Your best friend isn’t Naylor’s type,” Jamison shot back, not missing a beat.

Ivy’s curiosity was piqued. “So, what kind of women does Mr. Wilson like?”

Jamison thought for a moment, then grabbed his phone. He pulled up a photo of some minor celebrity—a girl with doll-like features, pouting and posing with a sugary smile. “He goes for this type. Do you honestly think Katrina has anything in common with her?”

The girl in the photo oozed the helpless, cutesy vibe of a naive sweetheart, the kind that looked like she’d never had a single complicated thought.

Ivy’s disbelief was written all over her face; she wrinkled her nose and frowned. “Naylor… seriously? He actually likes that?”

In an instant, her vision of Mr. Wilson—always so confident and charismatic—shattered.

“Is it because they’re easy to handle?” Ivy muttered, struggling to make sense of it. “He can just dump them whenever, and they won’t cause any trouble.”

Jamison set his phone aside and turned to face her, gently pinching her cheek. “It’s not about control. He just likes being admired, soaking up the attention. Katrina, on the other hand—she’s a law grad, ambitious, wants to be a top attorney someday. A woman like her would never play second fiddle to a man. That’s why she’s not his type. Tonight was just a fluke.”

Ouch.

Ivy was genuinely deflated. She never would have guessed that Naylor preferred arm-candy types and basked in women’s adoration.

“I can’t believe I misjudged him so badly,” she grumbled, feeling ridiculous.

Jamison couldn’t help but laugh. He cupped her face and kissed her. “Still think Naylor’s perfect? Still better than me?”

Ivy stared at him, speechless.

“Come on, let’s get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

With a weary sigh, Ivy let go of her disappointment and closed her eyes, surrendering to the night.

The next morning.

Neither of them had woken yet when a shrill ringtone pierced the quiet. Jamison fumbled for the phone, silenced it, and answered groggily. “Hello…?”

There was a brief pause, then a bright, eager voice: “Mr. Ludwig, is Ivy awake?”

Jamison blinked, momentarily confused; he glanced at the phone and realized it was Ivy’s. The caller was Rosetta.

He glanced over at Ivy, still sound asleep, then got out of bed and quietly closed the door behind him before answering properly. “What do you want with her? She told you all not to call anymore.”

So they’d gotten crafty and dialed from an unfamiliar number.

Rosetta’s tone stayed cheerful. “I just wanted to ask—what’s going on with Emma? We got a call from the police saying she was arrested, and when we pushed for details, it sounded like Ivy was involved…”

Jamison’s face went cold, and his voice followed suit. “You all know what Emma’s like, and you’ve already washed your hands of her. Why are you getting involved now?”

“It’s not that we want to,” Rosetta insisted, “but the police came to us-”

“If you have questions, talk to the police. Don’t bother her again.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

When he turned around, he found Ivy standing in the bedroom doorway, yawning.

“Who was that?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

Jamison walked over, pulled her into his arms, and said, “Rosetta. The Windsors heard about Emma’s arrest and wanted to know what happened.”

Ivy leaned against his chest, unmoved. By now, the Windsor family meant nothing to her—total strangers. She didn’t even bother to respond, just mumbled sleepily, “Didn’t sleep well… still tired…”

Jamison was charmed by her rare display of dependence, like a kitten curling up in his arms. His heart softened; he scooped her up without hesitation.

“Let’s catch a bit more sleep.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be at the hospital…?”

“I’m off today. I’ll stay with you.”

Ivy lifted her head from his shoulder, a teasing smile on her lips. “You know, I’m starting to feel like some kind of femme fatale…”

“Not at all.” Jamison’s voice was gentle. “When you were in school, I worked late nearly every night, swapped shifts just to free up my weekends for you.”

“Oh…”

“I can’t work seven days a week, can I? I’d drop dead from exhaustion.”

“Of course not.” Ivy smiled softly, wrapping her arms around his neck as they settled back into bed.

But the early morning quiet, her in his arms, the softness of her body—Jamison’s self-control was hanging by a thread. Within seconds, his hand slipped beneath Ivy’s nightshirt.

“Stop, I thought we were sleeping…” she protested, giggling.

“Then you sleep, and I’ll do my thing, how’s that?”

He’d let her off the hook last night because she wasn’t in the mood. But right now, he just couldn’t resist.

Ivy didn’t say a word. Jamison nuzzled her neck, his breath warm against her skin, until suddenly he got up and left the bed.

Ivy opened her eyes, a little confused, and watched as he disappeared into the bathroom. She thought maybe he was upset that she wasn’t responding, and now he’d lost interest.

Guilt pricked her conscience. She wondered if she should go after him, maybe apologize—just as he returned.

“Not sleeping anymore?” he asked with a smile, seeing her eyes wide open.

She was even more confused now; he didn’t look the least bit annoyed.

Jamison slid under the covers again, this time pulling a pack of soft wipes from the nightstand.

“I just went to wash up a bit. If you’re too tired to move, I can help clean you up right here. Sound good?”