Wrong Flirt, Right Trouble: His Uncle Pulls Me Close

Chapter 117: Chapter 117: This Man Is Easy to Coax

"Why can’t I turn on the lights? Are you afraid I’ll see how guilty you look?"

"I’m not guilty! It’s just... I’m not dressed. You can’t turn on the lights!" Ivy Sherwood scrambled for an excuse.

Her claim of being undressed was a lie; the truth was that she couldn’t let Quentin Blackwood see her face.

In the darkness, Ivy Sherwood heard Quentin Blackwood let out a cold, mocking sneer.

"Not dressed? Is there any part of you I haven’t seen?"

He hadn’t just seen every part of her; he had touched and kissed it, too.

He even knew all her measurements by heart.

Quentin Blackwood was furious, so his words were naturally laced with venom.

Ivy Sherwood was speechless.

Ivy Sherwood pulled his hand back, finding another excuse. "You said I asked you out, didn’t you? Where’s the proof?"

"So you won’t give up until you’re faced with the hard evidence?" Quentin Blackwood pulled out his phone and opened the message she had supposedly sent him.

"Look for yourself. Isn’t this your number?"

Ivy Sherwood took the phone. Looking at the text message inviting Quentin Blackwood out, she saw it had indeed been sent from her number.

Actually, Ivy Sherwood had a good idea of what was happening the moment Quentin mentioned the invitation. Now, seeing the timestamp—a little after ten—she knew it was sent while she was at the restaurant.

Ivy was focused on the screen, unaware that its glow was illuminating her face. The man before her could now see her stunning features with perfect clarity.

It was a rare sight to see Ivy’s true face. And even for a man like Quentin, who had little interest in women, he had to admit every time he saw it: she was gorgeous.

Her skin was like porcelain, her features as if painted, a beauty that could topple kingdoms.

’So that’s why she didn’t want the lights on. She hadn’t had time to put on her makeup.’

Meanwhile, Ivy was holding the phone in one hand, her other hand still clutching his arm.

"It’s not what you think. I didn’t send that message," Ivy explained. "I met with Cheryl Yates this morning, and she must have done something to my phone."

She looked up at Quentin, her eyes clear and earnest. Her face was still flushed red from when he’d had his hand around her throat, leaving her breathless.

"And you think I’ll believe that?" he retorted. "Cheryl Yates told me you were the one who offered to help her ask me out."

Ivy knew he wouldn’t believe her. Luckily, she had proof. "Wait here a second."

"What for?"

"To get you your proof. My phone’s over here."

"You think you can find your phone in the pitch dark?" Quentin deliberately provoked her, moving toward the switch. "I’ll turn on the lights to make it easier for you."

Sure enough, his words made Ivy tense up.

"What do you mean, ’pitch dark’? I have you here, don’t I? In my eyes, you shine brighter than the sun. With you here, I can see everything!"

As she spoke, Ivy took his hand and pulled him away from the switch. She had to stop him from turning on the light at any moment—that would be a disaster!

It was shameless flattery, and though Quentin knew she was talking utter nonsense, his anger still subsided by more than half.

Ivy’s palm was warm, and as she held his hand, he could feel her heat.

Her hand was small and soft. Quentin felt his own large hand could completely envelop it.

Just then, Ivy found her phone, which had been sitting nearby all along.

She picked it up. "Found it!"

Then she let go of his hand. Quentin felt a sudden emptiness in his palm, and in his heart as well.

He frowned, his gaze fixed on the woman before him.

Ivy had already pulled up the video from that morning. "Here, look."

"She handled my phone this morning. It looks like this is when she sent the text to you. I confronted her after I got this security footage, and she admitted she just wanted to get your number from me."

Quentin’s gaze shifted from the screen to Ivy’s face. She bit her lower lip, and when she released it, it was an even deeper shade of red.

"I had no idea she used my phone to contact you. The message isn’t on my phone; she must have deleted it after sending it."

Ivy held her own phone out for Quentin to see. ’Surely that clears up this misunderstanding, right?’

"But still," she said, "if you got a message from me, why didn’t you call or text back to confirm?"

Quentin was silent.

"Don’t tell me you actually went, did you?" Ivy blinked.

"Of course not!" Quentin denied it instantly. ’If he let her know he’d actually gone, he’d look like a total fool.’

"Really?" Ivy asked, not quite convinced.

’If Quentin had really just ignored the message, why would he come looking for her to cause trouble? He could have just pretended it never happened.’

’And yet, here he was, dressed impeccably and apparently wearing cologne. He’d clearly gone.’

’But... a sly old fox like Quentin, always so composed—why would he fall for a simple text message?’

Ivy couldn’t figure it out. She certainly didn’t think she had enough charm to get a man like Quentin Blackwood to show up on a whim.

"Are you questioning me?"

"I wouldn’t dare." Ivy’s eyes curved into a smile. "But since everything is cleared up, you’re not angry anymore, are you?"

The phone screen was still lit, illuminating not only her face, but also her long, elegant neck and delicate collarbones.

She was wearing nothing but a bath towel, and the sight left Quentin feeling a little parched.

’Even if she didn’t send it, she was still to blame. He ought to punish this woman!’

Quentin’s face remained stern. He said nothing, but his expression made it clear to Ivy that he was not, in fact, over it.

"How about I get you a glass of water to help you cool off?" With that, Ivy turned, picking up an overturned glass to pour him a drink.

Quentin watched her from behind. She wasn’t short, but she was slender.

But it was a well-proportioned slimness; she was still full in all the right places.

The single bath towel she wore was just long enough to cover her hips, leaving her long, straight legs exposed.

As she bent over to grab the glass, the curve of her hips lifted perfectly into view. Quentin’s gaze darkened.

Ivy picked up the nearby pitcher and was pouring water into the glass when, suddenly, a hand slid around her waist.

Ivy’s waist was already a sensitive spot, and the sudden touch made her jump, spilling water all over the towel wrapped around her.

"The water..." Ivy started, moving to wipe it away.

But in the next instant, the hand on her waist grabbed the edge of the towel and, with a sharp tug, pulled it completely away.

"Quentin!" she cried out his name, though she kept her voice low, as if holding back.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

Quentin let go, the towel dropping from his fingers. Without the fabric barrier, his hand made direct contact with Ivy’s skin. It was impossibly smooth, impossibly soft.

He could encircle her slender waist with one hand. He tightened his long arm, pulling Ivy flush against his chest.

He was dressed in a tailored suit; she was wearing nothing at all, her body pressed tightly against his.

"Quentin..." Her voice was laced with tension, and her skin instantly flushed pink with embarrassment.

She was like a delicate rose, drenched in sweet liqueur.