Chapter 7 #2
I’m staring at a picture of Lola on my phone—big brown eyes and floppy ears and her speckled fur.
She's a blue heeler mix Derek got for me when she was a puppy. He didn't know what breed she was and didn’t like her when she grew into the rowdy little cattle dog she is. After I trained her and worked with her, he decided she was ‘okay.’ But he always made comments that he’d rather have a doodle or some other type of dog.
I’ve always loved dogs, and one of my favorite part-time jobs was dog walking.
I miss her so much, it physically hurts. Before I can talk myself out of it, I text him.
Ivy: Hey. Can I please have Lola? I miss her.
It takes two minutes for the little dots to appear.
Derek: Not happening.
I stare at the screen. Okay, jerk.
Ivy: At least let me pick up some of my furniture and things. I couldn’t take everything with me.
Derek: Also, no. And if you don’t call your psycho sisters and mother off, I will sue your entire family.
I blink.
Ivy: What are you talking about?
Derek: Ask them.
The dots vanish. He’s gone.
I drop my phone onto the blanket, and my heart feels sick, and I whisper. “Great. I’m never getting my dog back.”
I jab Rowan’s contact and put her on speaker.
She picks up on the third ring. “What?”
“Hi to you, too. Did you guys do something to Derek?”
“Not yet,” Rowan says in her usual calm, vaguely menacing tone.
“What do you mean, not yet?”
“I mean exactly what I just said.”
I flop back against the pillows. “Rowan. He just accused you of being a psycho and threatened to sue our whole family.”
She hums, unimpressed. “I’m honored.”
“I’m serious. Did you do anything? Did you show up at his apartment? Hex him?”
“Again, no,” she says, then adds, “But I’d love to do lots of things to Derek.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid to ask. “Such as?”
“Take him on a little field trip to a graveyard.”
“That’s it?”
“Alive,” she clarifies. “Bury him up to his neck. Give the crows something to chew on.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Rowan, gross.”
“Or,” she continues thoughtfully, “super glue all his dresser drawers shut. Put a single sardine in his car’s air vent. Replace the cream in his Oreos with toothpaste.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I like to be prepared,” she says, her voice all Wednesday Addams-satisfaction.
I sigh, smiling despite myself. “You’re terrifying.”
“You called me,” she reminds me.
“I did. And since I have you…what’s up with you and Finn?”
There’s a beat of silence. “…What are you talking about?”
“That pause was guilty,” I singsong. “You’re not telling me something.”
“Your phone’s cutting out,” she says immediately. “I can’t—hello?—can you hear—”
“You’re in your yoga studio; I can hear the clicking of the heater,” I point out.
Another pause. “You’re imagining things.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“I have to go,” she says, her voice low and deliberate, like she’s ending a business deal.
“You like him,” I say before she can hang up. “And you’re terrible at pretending you don’t.”
Click.
I stare at the phone, then laugh, shaking my head. My sisters are absolute chaos in three different flavors.
And apparently, still haunting my ex.
When I wake up, I take a minute to remember where I am. The room is beyond cold, the radiator clicking like it’s trying but failing to do its job, and for a second, I think maybe I’ve dreamed all of this—Junie, the farm, Remy’s permanent scowl.
Then the smell of pancakes hits me. I’m confused because I’ve been doing all of the cooking.
I shiver as I pull on slippers over my thick socks and head toward the kitchen, hair still a mess from sleep, and stop in the doorway.
Remy’s at the stove in a faded red flannel, sleeves shoved up his forearms, spatula in one hand.
Junie’s sitting cross-legged at the counter across from him in flannel pajamas with little candy canes all over them, her hair pulled into a braid so neat it could win an award.
“You made pancakes?” I ask, like it’s the most shocking thing I’ve ever seen Remy do.
Remy doesn’t look at me, just flips a pancake onto a plate and slides it across the table toward the empty chair. He doesn’t even use words, just the tiniest chin tilt toward it, like that’s for you.
“Thanks,” I say softly, but he’s already turning back to the stove.
Junie takes a giant sip of orange juice and grins at me over the glass. “He made a mess.”
I follow her gaze and try not to laugh. The counter looks like a bag of flour exploded. There’s a trail of batter drips across the stove top, and eggshells in the sink.
“It’s okay,” I say, hiding a smile. “I bet they’re super yummy.”
Remy flicks her a look, more amused than annoyed. “You made the mess.”
“You cracked the eggs everywhere,” she says matter-of-factly.
It’s so cute watching them together. He’s been working a lot this week, and it looks like he might actually have a day off.
I sit, take a bite of the pancakes that are fluffy and perfectly cooked, and hum my approval. “These are so good.”
“Junie is the best helper,” he says, like that explains everything.
“What are your plans today?” I ask Junie, still not trying to focus on Remy.
“Nana needs me to help her with her decorating,” Junie says as she wipes her mouth on her napkin.
“How about you?” Remy asks, bringing his coffee mug to his lips.
He needs a shave, and probably a haircut, but he looks damn good. Rugged and hot. I’m distracted and shake myself back into the moment.
“I overslept and missed my ride into town with Willa. But I can see if my mom can come get me,” I shrug.
“What do you need to do in town?” he asks as he leans back against the counter and watches me. He does that, and it’s not in a creepy way, but it makes me feel like I should have tried harder this morning instead of throwing my wild hair up in a messy bun and throwing on a hoodie.
“I need to run a bunch of errands,” I say as I take another bite and close my eyes. These are delicious pancakes.
He slides over a small plate of bacon, and I smile and help myself to a piece.
I realize there’s a lot I don’t know about Remy.
I know his mom very well, and we grew up in the same town, but he’s older than I am, so we weren't close growing up.
When I was nine, he was eighteen and already away at college.
Finn is younger, so I got to know him better.
Remy moved back here when Junie was a baby about four years ago.
Donna sweeps in with the cold and the smell of coffee, kisses Junie’s cheek, and starts gasping like the house is a museum. “Look at this garland. Who staged this, elves?”
“Me and Ivy,” Junie says, tugging her along. “Come on, Nana, I'll show you.” She points at every decoration. “Isn’t Ivy great?”
“She's wonderful.” Donna winks at me, then she turns to Remy. “Can you take Ivy to town? I am going to take Junie. We have a lot to do. You two share a truck. Save gas. Fall in love.”
“Mom,” Remy warns, and the way he says it tells me he's used to her meddling and giving him crap.
Donna looks at me and back at Remy with a grin. “Fifteen minutes, Junie. Wear something that says festive. We're going shopping first.”
I head to my room and hurry and get ready.
I curl my hair, dab on a little shimmer, and pick the green sweater with the soft sleeves that make me feel like a present.
I add jeans, boots that feel comfortable but look good, and tie on my favorite red scarf.
I love this time of year and the romantic rituals of dressing cozily.
The small decisions that feel like a celebration.
By the time I tie the scarf, my cheeks are warm, and my nerves are frazzled, and I can hear Junie below telling Donna again how great I am. I feel the same about that kid.
I grab my coat and my lip balm, check the mirror one last time, and breathe. Festive. Capable. Maybe a little brave. Then I head down to gauge Remy and what kind of mood he's going to be in.
He is out there in the cold, breath white in the frosty air, scraping the windshield in steady strokes.
When he sees me, he doesn’t say a word. He stomps over, ice scraper still in his hand, and opens the passenger door.
The cab is warm. He does not look at me, his face as unreadable as ever, but his hand stays on the door until I climb in.
For a second, I just sit there, baffled and soft all at once, because he left the glass half-frosted to make sure I did not have to touch the handle.
I rub my gloved hands together and bite back a smile that blooms anyway.
Actions, not words. With Remy, it is always that.
He shuts the door carefully, goes back to the scraper, and I watch him through the fogging window with my heart doing its own small, traitorous thing.
The heater hums loudly as we pull out of the driveway, snowflakes drifting lazily through the air.
It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of the tires crunching over snow and ice, until a familiar guitar riff comes through the speakers.
My head snaps up. “You listen to Taylor Swift?”
His jaw twitches like he’s trying not to react. “It’s Junie’s playlist.”
“Sure, it is,” I tease, grinning. “Can I pick the music?”
“No,” he clips.
“What are you gonna do? Fire me?” I tease. “You need me here, and you know it. I’m a big help, and I keep things interesting.”
“That you do,” he mutters and turns onto the highway, glancing over at me and down my body, but not in a creepy way. It almost looked like Remy was maybe…possibly…checking me out.
I connect my phone to his aux cord and play eighties hits and serenade him. He glares at me and says, “fired.”
“I’d love to see you try, Remington Bennett,” I challenge.
And that actually adds a spark to his eyes as he purses his lips and focuses on the road.
Before I can say anything else, he actually sings the next line, low, quiet, and better than I’d expect from a grump like Remy Bennett.
For a second, I just…stare. My fingers are warm inside my gloves, but my cheeks feel hotter than they should in the truck with hot Remy.
We fall into easy conversation after that, and there’s a tiny spark of something you can’t name yet.
He tells me Junie’s been begging for a dog. “Keeps drawing little pictures and leaving them on my pillow. Yesterday was a doodle of a dog with a giant red bow around its neck.”
“Subtle of her.” I laugh, but it fades too fast. “I didn’t get to bring my dog with me when I moved here.”
His eyes flick toward me, quick but sharp, before going back to the road. "Why not?"
“My ex would not let me take her.”
He does not say anything at first. His hand shifts on the wheel, knuckles tightening a shade against the worn leather like he is tucking that away.
The ride goes quiet. Peaceful, the kind of quiet that happens with Remy sometimes, even when I am not sure what to do with all the space between us. Trees blur past in dark rows. The heater hums low. Some old song plays soft on the radio, all warm guitar and memory.
“You said your ex would not let you take your dog,” he says finally. His voice is low, like he is not sure he should ask.
I nod, eyes on the window. “Yeah.” A beat passes. “He kept my dog. Took my furniture. Kept the house. Slept with my best friend for the sweet little bonus round.”
The words land heavy. Too raw. I wish I could grab them back. I almost say forget it. Sorry. Never mind. I glance over instead.
His face is unreadable, but his hands are not. One grips the wheel until the tendons stand out. He pulls a breath through his nose, sharp and controlled.
“That guy is a piece of shit,” he says quietly.
I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. It leaves me soft around the edges. “Yeah,” I say, voice smaller now. “He really is.”
We don’t talk much after that. The silence shifts, though.
It is not awkward. It feels like he took a corner of the weight and set it on his side of the truck without asking me for permission.
The road hums under the tires. The song changes.
I look out at the trees, and for the first time in a while my chest does not feel like it is holding its breath.
When we hit Main Street, garland wraps the lampposts, each with a big red bow. Wreaths hang on shop doors, and the bakery window fogs over with steam from the ovens.
As we pass the coffee shop, I point out every Christmas decoration in sight, rating them out loud.
“That one?” I say, pointing at a custom wooden Santa on someone’s roof. “Nine out of ten. Loses a point for the saggy sleigh.”
He huffs. “What gets a ten out of ten? Who makes these standards?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
We turn the corner and there it is, a twenty-foot inflatable snowman holding a candy cane the size of a telephone pole. I tilt my head and judge.
I yell, “TEN!” so loudly he actually flinches.
“Your energy is exhausting,” he mutters, but I swear I see the edge of a smile before he turns his head.
“You have no idea. My stamina is out of control. You gotta get in shape to keep up with my enthusiasm,” I tell him and watch his eyes darken a little with something that looks like desire and challenge.
I don’t want to flirt with Remy, but flirting with Remy comes easy, and I can’t seem to stop.
We run our errands in record time. He’s efficient, tossing bags and boxes into the cart without hesitation.
I pick up all of my supplies for Junie’s advent calendar project.
Remy says nothing, just tags along and towers over me as we walk.
Once, I almost slide my gloved hand into his excitedly, but then I remember that he doesn’t like me.
But damn, I wish he did.
When we load the supplies into the truck, a Christmas song comes on. Without thinking, I start singing.
He pretends to look exasperated, but I don’t miss the smirk.
“Fired,” he tells me again.
“Again, would love to see you try to fire me, Remington Bennett. I’m the best thing that has ever happened to you. You neeeeeeeeeeeeeed me,” I sing to him and dance in my seat.
“Ridiculous,” Remy throws the truck into reverse, resting one hand on the back of my seat as he twists to look behind us.
It’s such a simple move—practical, even—but there’s something sexy about the way his arm stretches behind me, muscles flexing under the fabric of his flannel, his jaw set in concentration. I try not to notice and fail.
Instead of replying, I reward him with my own lip-syncing rendition of I Think We’re Alone Now by Tiffany. An eighties classic.
By the time we pull into the bookstore to park I’ve decided two things.
He might secretly be more fun than he lets on.
I wouldn’t mind spending more time with him again. In a non-professional setting.
And I wouldn’t mind seeing what else is hiding under all that flannel and gruffness.