Chapter Seventeen – Ivy
The sunlight spilling through the bedroom window is warm and soft, but it doesn’t wake me.
Rowan’s arms do.
They’re wrapped around me like a fortress, one banded under my ribs, the other draped over my hip.
His chest presses against my back, slow breaths fanning over the curve of my neck.
It’s… still. Quiet. Like the storm never happened.
Like last night wasn’t a complete unraveling of everything I thought I could hold back.
I don’t move.
I don’t want to.
His thumb shifts against my stomach, like a reflex, and I feel the softest press of his nose against my hair. My heart lurches.
God, I could get used to this.
To him.
To waking up in his bed, tangled in his sheets, with the scent of cedar and cotton and Rowan wrapped around my skin.
I close my eyes and try to memorize the weight of this moment. His heat. His heartbeat.
And then I remember—I wasn’t supposed to stay.
I’d crept over from the cottage after midnight, barefoot and breathless, still aching from the way he’d touched me in the shed. Still reeling from the feel of his body pressed to mine, the low gravel in his voice when he whispered how badly he wanted me.
I’d knocked once. Quiet.
He hadn’t said a word. Just opened the door and pulled me in like he’d been waiting all night.
There hadn’t been another storm. Not outside, at least. But in his bed, we’d found a different kind of thunder.
This time, it had been slower. Softer. Like he needed to prove something but whether to himself or to me, I didn’t know. That I wasn’t a regret. That he wasn’t a mistake.
That this—whatever this is—could be more.
A groan stirs behind me. Rowan shifts, arm tightening once before his voice comes rough with sleep. “You’re still here.”
The words hit sideways. Heat crawls up my neck. I start to push the sheet back, mumbling, “Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll just get out of your hair.”
His arm bands around my waist and hauls me straight back against him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he rumbles into the curve of my shoulder, nose nuzzling the spot that makes my breath stutter. “I’m so fucking happy you’re still here. Right where I want you.”
The panic drains out like a pulled plug. He tucks me in closer, one big palm splayed over my stomach, thumb sweeping slowly. He presses a lazy kiss behind my ear, then another, softer. “Stay,” he says, sleepy and certain.
“I’m staying,” I whisper, letting my weight melt into him as the morning settles around us, warm and sure.
“I didn’t dream it,” he whispers, lips grazing my skin. “You were here.”
I twist toward him slowly, facing him now, our noses inches apart on the pillow. “I’m still here.”
His hand lifts to cup my cheek, thumb stroking once before it drops again.
For a minute, we just lie there. With a reluctant groan, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
“I have to get the horses fed,” he mutters. “And the north pasture needs checking.”
I prop myself up on my elbow, watching the way his chest rises and falls, his jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold something in.
“I can help,” I offer quietly.
Rowan turns his head to look at me, eyes narrowing slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. With me.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He studies me for another long second.
Then he nods once. “Okay.”
I slide out of bed, feeling the soreness bloom across my thighs and lower back—a delicious reminder of the night before—and pad to the bathroom.
Behind me, I hear Rowan sigh. And I don’t know what that sigh means yet, but I want to.
And that’s the most terrifying part of all.
We walk in silence toward the barn, our boots pounding over the gravel. The late morning sun climbs higher, warming the world around us, heating the tops of my shoulders through the thin cotton of my shirt. The scent of hay and horses fills the air—familiar, grounding.
Rowan walks a few steps ahead of me, his cowboy hat pulled low, shoulders tense beneath a gray T-shirt that clings to his back with every shift of muscle. He hasn’t said much since we left the house.
But as we crossed the yard, his hand brushed against mine. It wasn’t much, but it counts for something.
Inside the barn, the horses nicker softly, their hooves shifting on straw as they poke their heads over stall doors. Rowan whistles low under his breath, the sound soothing. He grabs a pitchfork from the wall and starts tossing hay into the feeders with practiced ease.
I lean my elbows on the wooden rail, watching him. The man is made of muscle and grit and quiet competence, and for a long second, I just let myself look at him.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine. “You’re doing that thing where you take care of everything except what’s going on in your own head.”
His mouth tips. “Guilty.” He threads his fingers through mine on the tailgate, thumb skating over my knuckles. “It’s not nothing. I’m just… pacing myself.”
“How’s the pacing going?” I tease, softly.
He exhales, eyes finding mine. “Little worried about the weather, little worried about the fence on the north line.” He inhales. “Mostly thinking about you.”
My chest loosens. “I’m here,” I say, squeezing once.
“I know.” His shoulders drop like he believes it. “That’s why I’m okay.”
“Have you thought more about the camp?”
He pauses mid-movement for a second, then continues working.
“Some.”
I smile. “Is that Rowan-speak for ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about it’?”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “It’s Rowan-speak for ‘it’s a good idea… and it scares the shit out of me.’”
I step off the rail and cross to where he’s working. I pick up a stray lead rope from the floor and slowly coil it between my hands.
“You could do it,” I say softly.
He glances over at me, brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I step closer. “I saw it yesterday. You care. You’re patient. You’re stubborn—in a good way. Kids trust you. Their parents trust you.”
His throat works as he swallows, and I see it—for a moment—that flicker of hope he’s too afraid to admit to.
“Maybe,” he murmurs.
I reach for his free hand, wrapping my fingers around it.
“Maybe it's a good start.”
And then, from outside, a sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Rowan turns toward the barn door just as someone steps into the sunlight.
Crew.
Baseball cap turned backward, duffel slung over one shoulder, and a familiar grin spreading across his face like he’s just landed a punchline.
“Well damn,” he says, his voice lazy and amused. “Am I interrupting something?”
Rowan stiffens beside me. “You’re early.”
“Training got canceled this morning,” Crew says, grinning easily. “Figured I’d surprise Mom. Maybe liberate some of her peach cobbler.”
Rowan doesn’t bristle at first. He tips his chin. “You’re late. Lila already requested blackberry for tonight.”
Crew laughs, then looks at me. “Hey, superstar.”
“Hey.” I give him a small smile—automatic, familiar, maybe too familiar—and feel the air shift. Rowan’s hay fork pauses mid-lift. Not a slam, not a sulk—just the briefest hitch before he sets the next bale like it weighs more than it did a second ago.
Crew edges closer to the big doors, hands in his pockets, sunlight on his back. “You look good, Ivy.”
“Thanks.” I feel Rowan move in my periphery, not away but closer, grabbing the water bucket like it needs him right here in earshot. His jaw works once. The muscle eases.
“I saw the press thing,” Crew adds, voice softer. “You handled it.”
“Working on it,” I say, honestly.
Rowan steps between us and the dust motes, passes me a bottled water without looking like it’s a gesture. Our fingers graze. A quick static pop that settles the restlessness in my chest.
Crew clocks the exchange, lifts his palms in a peaceable shrug. “Didn’t mean to interrupt chores.”
“You didn’t,” Rowan says, finally meeting his eyes. “You here, you help.” It’s brotherly, not biting. He jerks his head toward the feed room. “Grab the square shovel.”
Crew grins and goes, boots thudding. Regaling me with a few of our PR dates and all the ways he consistently screwed them up. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it for a beat, caught on the way Rowan’s gaze skims my face and then centers, like he’s reminding himself what’s real.
“You okay?” he asks, low.
I nod. “Yeah.” A breath. “You?”
His mouth tips. “Pacing myself.” Another quick flick of his eyes toward the doorway where his brother disappeared, then back to me. “Stay for lunch?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
Before he can say anything else, my phone buzzes in my pocket again, relentlessly.
I glance down.
Celeste.
Of course, it’s her.
I silence the call without hesitation, but Crew notices.
“You gonna answer that?”
“Nope.”
He nods slowly. “Good.”
Before I can ask what he means by that, Rowan’s voice echoes from behind us.
“Ivy, can you hand me the hose?”
Relieved for the excuse, I move toward him without another word, feeling the weight of both men’s gazes follow me.
Something tells me this day is only going to get more complicated.
I slip around the back of the barn, fingers trembling just a little as I pull my phone out of my pocket.
Missed call: Celeste. And a text.
Celeste:
Call me back. I don’t care where you are.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a long second. I should ignore it. I should toss the phone into the nearest trough and go back to pretending I don’t care.
But I do. Not about what she thinks. But about cutting this off before she finds another way to meddle.
I press Call and lift the phone to my ear, my pulse already spiking. She answers on the first ring.
“Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns my call.”
Her voice is crisp, coated in sugar and daggers.
“I didn’t return your call,” I say evenly. “I’m calling to tell you to stop.”
A pause. Then a scoff.
“Oh, Evangeline. You’ve always been dramatic.”
The sound of my full name makes something in me snap.
“No. You’ve always been manipulative.”