Chapter 8
Remy
Iam smiling at a receipt when I realize I have been smiling for five minutes straight at basically nothing.
And I know why. It is the woman in my passenger seat who keeps treating errands like a holiday parade, as if we're having the best day of our lives instead of just running basic errands.
Somehow Ivy has the gift of making everyone feel magic in the mundane.
With everything she does, she’s sunshine.
The way she sings to the radio and waves at everyone we pass on Main. When I mutter the need to get going, she pats my arm and then waits by the truck for me to open the door for her.
"Thanks, Remington," she calls, cheerfully.
I give her a look. "Why do you call me that?"
"Why not?" she asks, giving me a smile that makes my lip twitch. “It’s a sexy name.” She says it in a teasing sexy voice that makes me feel things.
"No one calls me that," I mutter.
“Well, then I’ll just need to find a suitable name for you, then,” she says as she turns on her heels.
Wisteria Books & Brews smells like butter and cinnamon and the best part of my childhood, books. Willa sees us as she’s putting up a tray of fresh muffins and lights up.
“What are you two doing here?” she asks, looking back and forth at us, surprised to see us together.
Ivy says. “Hey, Willa. We need two cinnamon rolls."
"I'm her chauffeur," I say quietly as I look through her new books, hoping that sounds believable.
Willa laughs and shakes her head at us, as if we're both full of it, and packs up two containers of cinnamon rolls, sliding them across the counter. Ivy takes one, hands me the other one, and says, “For you, beast.”
“I am not a beast.” I give her a ridiculous look.
"You're grumpy like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast."
"I am not grumpy," I argue.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Your face says otherwise. Eat.”
Willa watches us in fascination and gives Ivy a look with raised eyebrows. "Want one to go for Junie?"
"She's with my mom, but thanks. I'm sure she's getting plenty sugared up as it is," I say as I take a bite of the cinnamon roll and nod. "This is good."
"Thanks, fresh from the oven." Willa wipes down the counter in front of her.
Ivy makes a soft sound as she takes a bite and reaches without thinking and grips my bicep as she takes a bite. "These are still warm, Willa."
My gaze drifts to her mouth, and everything else blurs. Her touch still hums on my skin. I want her to touch me on purpose. She finds my stare and grins like she knows what I'm thinking. I look away, trying to focus on anything but her.
Willa breaks our moment with an excited clap. “Come see how Rowan’s shop is coming along.” She leads us to the tarp draped across the opening on the far side of the bookstore. She lifts the edge and jerks her chin. We duck through. “Your brother has been a godsend in helping her out.”
My eyes adjust and then go wide with surprise.
Brick wraps the room in warm red and clay, old and honest, warm and inviting.
On the street-facing wall, a tall window has purple and green stained glass, and the sun shining through it throws amethyst across the floor and up the shelving like spilled ink.
The color makes the whole place look lit from inside.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, thick oak with black iron brackets.
A rolling ladder sits on a rail, waiting for someone to kick off and glide.
The shelves are empty but ready. I can see the rows of glass apothecary jars in my head.
Roots. Leaves. Dried citrus. Amber bottles for tinctures.
Little drawers with brass label frames wait beneath, all in a neat grid, each with an iron pull waiting to be explored by customers.
Overhead, a line of hooks crosses the ceiling on a beam.
Bundles of lavender and rosemary will dry there, neat and green against the brick.
There is a copper rail under the window for hanging tools.
Mortars and pestles sit out already, stone and olive wood, their bowls scored with use.
A brass scale rests near a slate slab, the pans clean and bright, the weights lined up like soldiers.
On the right, a massive table sits against the wall.
Walnut, if I am guessing right. One live edge remains, while the rest has been planed smoothly.
The joinery is clean, the tenons proud. It looks like Finn's work.
A farmhouse sink of dark stone anchors the back corner, with a tall gooseneck faucet and a drainboard on both sides.
Rowan waves and joins us from the back room. She talks about paint and signage proudly to Ivy, who takes it all in and is excited for Rowan—so much so that it’s contagious. I try not to stare, but I can’t keep my eyes off of her.
Ivy steps into the purple light and turns in a slow circle. It paints her sweater and the curve of her cheek. She presses her palms to the walnut table and smiles like she just recognized a future. “This is magic,” she says, and her voice is soft like she knows the room can hear her.
“It's a good space,” I say, but that is an understatement.
I touch the edge of the table and feel the weight. I can already see Rowan measuring herbs, and labeling jars in that neat hand that makes everything look like it belongs. The picture settles into my chest and sits there, warm. My brother’s hand is all over this place, too.
Rowan smiles proudly and confirms my thoughts. “Thank you. I couldn't have made any of this happen without Finn.”
Willa drops the tarp back against the jamb and claps playfully. “All right. Keep it up and I will put you both to work.”
I look at the table again. “Tell me what you need,” I say.
Ivy bumps her shoulder to mine, a quick spark of contact. “See,” she says to Willa. “He's a good beast. Underneath it all, he's a big softy. Like a cinnamon roll. Hard on the outside, but soft on the inside.”
I roll my eyes playfully and tease, "It's time to go."
But I like her touching me. Normally I’m not a big touchy-feely guy besides hugging my daughter, but I love Ivy’s touch. I want more of it.
The hardware store is next. The bell over the door gives out a sad little ring as we step in. She heads straight for the lumber aisle and inhales like she paid for the experience.
“You are sniffing wood,” I say.
“It is aromatherapy,” she says. “Cedar. Pine. Amazingness.”
“I own a tree farm. You can sniff wood there anytime you like.”
She turns, eyes bright, smile slow. “Say that again, Beast.”
“No,” I clip and mutter, “fired.”
She laughs, and the sound slides under my ribs like heat. An older guy two aisles over pretends not to hear us and fails.
We collect wire, hooks, felt pads for the chair legs, a tape measure that I don't need, and a key ring shaped like a tiny saw that she definitely doesn't need but looks thrilled to own.
Ivy hums in a low, cheerful way that makes the bland store lights feel kinder.
She bumps my shoulder in time with the beat. I tolerate it. I like it.
The mercantile creaks like a ship. Ivy tries on a hat that features a small pom at the crown, studies herself, then studies me as if testing whether I will admit I like it.
I don’t. She swaps the hat for a plaid scarf, crosses the floor, and lifts it toward me.
“No,” I say.
When she loops the scarf around my neck, the fabric is warm and soft against my skin, but it’s her closeness that hits me first like a quiet spark right at my throat.
Her scent drifts up with it, a bright rush of oranges and something subtle, and it wraps around me just as much as the scarf does.
It’s distracting in the best way, making my breath catch without me meaning it to.
Her knuckles graze lightly over my beard, brushing the rough stubble, and it’s a jolt, not painful, but electric. The contrast between her soft skin and my scratchy beard pulls my attention sharp into the moment. I feel a pulse in my chest, a little too aware of the space between us.
Then she tilts her head, eyes narrowing as if she’s sizing me up, judging my ‘craftsmanship.’ It’s playful, but it gets under my skin, too.
Like she’s seeing something I’m trying not to show.
I don’t say anything, but I’m caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to close the distance just a bit more.
“Rugged Christmas lumberjack dream,” she announces. She drops it into our basket. “Done.”’
“I am not buying this.” I add, even though I’m still lost in this moment with her.
“Good,” she says. “Because I am buying it for you.”
“That is unnecessary.”
I haven’t been given a gift like this—a ‘just because’ kind of gift—in so long, I’m not sure what to say. Warmth trickles through me at the thought of Ivy doing this for me.
“It is happiness. Don’t fight me on happiness, Remy. It's all I have left."
She pays in cash, pops up on her toes as if she is celebrating a minor victory, then holds the brown paper bag to her chest as if it is evidence of a life well lived. I am absurdly jealous of a scarf.
On the sidewalk a gust of wind lifts and she tucks her chin into her collar.
Someone tests the string of lights on the library fir, and the bulbs come up one by one like a slow inhale.
A kid chases his hat, catches it, and holds it over his head like a trophy.
Ivy claps for him, quiet and proud, like she has been waiting all day for that win.
I feel it hit low in my chest, that soft pull she has.
She claps for strangers, and it makes me want to protect the part of her that believes people are worth cheering for.