Chapter 7
Ivy
“Junie,” I say, laughing at her Christmas tree made of candy canes, “no more candy canes. We have to go home and eat our yummy dinner.”
She groans. “I want to stay and help Dad and Captain Tate.”
It’s adorable she calls Tate that. He used to be a commercial fisherman, but now he is fixing up his father’s old boat that the town pitched in and bought for him, and he’s going to do boat tours.
Everything about this kid is great. This nanny job might be my favorite job so far.
At the door, Junie launches herself at Remy, who’s still talking to Tate near the cash register. He catches her, squeezing her tight.
“Ivy has something yummy in the slow cooker,” she announces proudly. “It’s pot roast. We have to go home and eat now.”
Finn strolls in just as Junie says that and grins. “Can I come? I want pot roast.”
“No,” Remy says flatly, without even looking at him.
“Damn, me too.” Tate grins at Junie. “That sounds good.”
Finn raises his brows at me like, ‘Did you hear that?’ I did. And maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe… it’s interesting. Remy sounded almost jealous.
I smile cheerfully. “Plenty for everyone. I even made two loaves of homemade bread.”
Back at the house, everything is warm and glowing. The garland, the dried oranges, the wreaths, all the decorations in place—the only thing missing is a tree.
“When can we get a tree?” Junie asks, shrugging off her coat, also noticing what’s missing.
“We can ask your dad,” I say, giving her a little nudge toward the sink to wash her hands.
The pot roast has been simmering all day, and the thick slices of homemade bread I’m going to warm in the oven and slather with yummy butter are making my mouth water just thinking about it.
Junie eats like she’s been starving, chattering about school and how she wants to add “build a snow fort” to the tradition map.
“We can add anything you want,” I promise, and she smiles.
After her bath and bedtime story, she’s tucked in and snoring before I’ve even turned off the light.
When I come back downstairs, Finn’s coming through the front door.
“I hope it’s not too late to stop by,” he says, stepping inside and stamping snow off his boots. “I’ll take you up on that dinner.”
“Perfect, because I have a favor to ask you,” I tell him as I get our bowls and food ready.
I tell him about the little charms I’ve been making Junie.
Tiny stars, snowflakes, and hearts she can collect each day on a charm necklace until Christmas.
“I need a box with twenty-four little compartments to make an advent calendar for Junie.”
I ladle pot roast into a bowl and set bread between us. The kitchen smells like thyme and warmth. Outside the window, the porch light throws a halo on the drift by the steps.
He grins. “Done. I love making stuff like that. I’ll work on it this weekend.”
“Thanks so much. And for all your help with the shop. How are you and Rowan? I know you’ve been helping her at Salt and Root.”
Finn has been helping my sister get her new apothecary shop up and going next to Willa’s bookstore.
Finn picks up his spoon. “She came by the lot at lunch,” he says, like we were already in the middle of the story. “Came over to tell me she had a list of repairs she needed me to help with. Also brought me a thermos of hot tea that is supposed to help with my virility. Should I be concerned?”
I laugh and smile into my glass. “That sounds like her. But also, her teas are really good.”
“She and I spend nearly every day together. But she only sees me as her friend. I’m friend zoned for life with your sister.”
He finally takes a bite, chews, and keeps talking. “I don’t get it, Ivy. What is wrong with me? I’m right here. I’m available. But she’s on a dating app, looking for the love of her life, she tells me.”
I set my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. He does not seem to notice that he hasn’t touched his bread. “I don’t know why. Maybe she’s afraid getting involved will ruin your friendship.”
“I wish she would ruin the friendship,” he says, then thinks. “I want to be more than her friend.”
He looks at the bowl like he is trying to gather his thoughts. “She is going on all these dates, and then we go to lunch the next day and talk about the dates. And honestly, while I love our lunches, I hate her dates.”
“I heard you’ve been going on dates, too,” I say softly.
He nods like that’s the only answer. “Yeah, because I thought if I went on dates, I’d forget about her like that. It turns out, it makes me crazier about her.”
Something loosens low in my chest. He is not asking me questions. He is telling me who she is to him, one small scene at a time. The room feels warmer for it.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “I know she will say she is fine, but she is worried about those permits. She pretends she isn’t, but when she is thinking too hard, she taps her thumb against her bottom lip.
She did it twice today.” He looks up. “Do you think I should go with her to City Hall? Or would that feel like I am crowding her?”
“Go if she asks,” I say. “Offer if she doesn’t. Let her choose. Bring coffee with the splash of cream and a cinnamon bun she never admits she wants.”
He nods, stores it away. The heater ticks on. He finally reaches for the bread and tears it in half, then passes me a piece.
He keeps going like he can’t help it. “She makes everything feel like it matters.”
My mouth curves before I can stop it. I tap my finger against the rim of my glass. “Wow,” I say, and let it land, light but true. “You really like my sister.”
He goes still, then his mouth tips in the smallest smile. He looks down at his bowl and pretends to chase a potato. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, as if the word is a secret he has been carrying around for a long time. “I do.”
“Aww. Well, for the record, I’m rooting for you two to get together.”
“Don’t tell Remy.” He groans. "I'll never hear the end of it."
I smile. “I won’t. And you don’t have to worry about that. Remy doesn’t even want to talk to me.”
Finn tilts his head, genuinely confused. “That’s funny. He seems very different when you’re around.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, “He’s probably not going to say it, but you’re practically his favorite person right now, helping out like this. You’re a miracle worker.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. He seems more annoyed with my being here than anything.”
He looks at me and says, “You’ve done so much around here. I know he’s grateful that you’re here. He’s just a grumpy asshole sometimes," he says, then laughs and adds, “Okay, most of the time.”
The front door opens, and the cold rushes in with Remy. He shakes snow from his shoulders, hangs his coat, and steps into the kitchen. He sees me sitting here holding my mug and Finn eating, and glares at him for a second.
The second he sees the slow cooker, his brows lift. “That smells good.”
“It is,” I say, looking anywhere but at him. Because, fine—if he wants to ice me out, I can, as well. Two can play this game. That’s what I should be doing anyway, keeping everything professional and distant. I can’t afford to lose this job, too.
He cuts a piece of bread from the loaf and slathers it in butter, then takes a bite like he hasn’t eaten in days. His eyes close, and he lets out an inaudible sound, half sigh, half groan that makes my stomach do an odd little flip. I don’t need to add to the fantasies.
Damn it, Remy.
“Good?” I ask, taking a sip from my mug.
He nods once, still chewing. “Really good. Thanks.”
Finn smirks at me as he takes a bite. I ignore him.
“Must be nice having someone make these homemade dinners and make your house look like a winter wonderland even if you don't even like Christmas,” Finn teases.
Remy ignores us and takes a bite of his pot roast, and his eyes close in euphoria.
After a few minutes, I ask, “Why don’t you like Christmas? How can you own a Christmas tree farm and not like Christmas?”
I am genuinely confused.
Remy looks up, frowning. “I like Christmas.”
“It doesn’t seem like it. You’re like the Grinch who works at the North Pole.”
Finn practically chokes on his bread as he laughs. Remy just shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and goes back to eating like he’s done with the conversation.
The room quiets again, and I suddenly feel the weight of the day settling in my limbs. And maybe a little something else. A flutter I’m not ready to name, not after the way Remy looked at me just now, like I’d poked at something he didn’t want touched.
I rinse out my mug and place it gently in the dishwasher.
“I think I’m going to head to bed,” I say, softer now.
Finn gives a wave, still smiling. Remy doesn’t look up.
That’s fine. I’m too tired to decode whatever’s going on behind that unreadable expression of his.
I plan to retreat to the quiet of my room, grateful for the excuse to be alone. To breathe. To think. And if my thoughts were to wander to Remy, to the way his voice rumbles when he’s annoyed, or how his jaw clenches when he’s trying not to react, well…at least I can do that with the door closed.
As I turn to leave, Finn grins, “Have fun tomorrow. Do you have big plans? Rewire the barn lights, label Remy's moods, and rezone the tree lot?”
“Ha ha, Finn. Good night,” I call as I head down the hall.
I can still hear the low rumble of Remy and Finn’s voices. I don’t linger to listen.
Remy’s a grump. And if he’s miserable, it’s no one’s fault but his own.
Still…that little sound he made over dinner? I’m not forgetting that anytime soon, especially when I have to use my vibrator to keep me warm tonight and think about him.
I’m bundled up because it’s still cold, the heater humming weakly. I should have asked Finn to look at my heater. Not even bothering with grumpy Remy. I feel that if I ask him for help, it'll set him off. I learned with my ex, Derek, that asking for help always makes things worse.