4. Ivy
Chapter 4
Ivy
T he door of the truck slams shut, cutting off the howl of the wind. I slide into the passenger seat, warmth from the heater brushing my cheeks. I glance over at him. "I'm Ivy," I say, a little louder than necessary.
He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine grumbles to life. "Hank," is all he offers, his voice a low rumble.
We sit in silence as the truck lurches forward. Snowflakes pelt the windshield, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the relentless storm. The cabin feels tight with unsaid words, the space between us charged with a quiet energy.
"Thank you," I start again, "for stopping. For…all of this." My voice sounds small against the creak of the tires on the snow-packed roads.
"You needed help." It's like pulling teeth, getting words out of him. But they're enough.
Outside, the world is a blur of white. Trees bend, branches heavy with snow. It’s amazing how fast it’s piling up.
"Bad storm," I murmur, more to myself than to Hank.
"Yep."
The truck rocks gently as we navigate another curve, and I can't help but watch him. He drives with purpose, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. There's a solidness to him, an unspoken assurance that I find myself leaning into, if only for a moment.
I fold my arms, the cold from the window seeping into my skin, and let the silence settle once more. We drive on, the slow grind of wheels on gravel the only sound in a world gone quiet.
A little while later, the truck comes to a halt at the end of a long drive. I peer out the window, breath catching in my throat.
There's a man outside. Chopping wood. He’s humongous. Not as big as Hank, but close, with shoulders stretching the fabric of his canvas jacket, arms swinging an axe with ease.
An honest-to-God fucking lumberjack. Is this real life? The thud of metal biting into timber echoes, rhythmic and primal. His hair is this dirty blonde mess, strands sticking to his forehead under his winter cap. His beard is just long enough to be more than stubble but trimmed enough to show he cares.
His eyes haven't caught mine yet. They're focused on the block before him. Every swing is sure, powerful. He's grace in raw form, all strength and control.
My heart does a somersault, and it's not from the cold. Heat floods my cheeks. It's ridiculous. He's just a man. Some random dude. Shut up, heart.
But as he splits another log, muscles rippling down his back, foreign feelings stir inside me. I feel a rush from watching him work, like my body knows something my mind hasn't figured out yet.
He straightens up, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and turns. Those warm eyes meet mine through the glass. Surprise flickers across his features, replaced quickly by a slow-spreading grin that says he's no stranger to being watched.
"Out," Hank's voice is a low command, snapping me out of whatever this is.
I fumble with the door latch, climbing out into the crisp air. My feet crunch in the snow, and my breath puffs out in clouds. And that grin is still there, sending a jolt right through me that has nothing to do with the chill.
Hank grunts something that might be my name—or a warning—and hoists my suitcases like they're stuffed with feathers instead of my hastily packed life.
"Come on," is all he says, and I'm trailing behind him, shoes slipping in the snow, heart hammering against my ribs. We step past the lumberjack, who leans on his axe, watching us pass without a word.
The door to the cabin opens with a creak that speaks of long winters and the weight of snow. Warmth rushes out to greet me, wrapping around my chilled skin. Inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon fills my nostrils.
"Jesus, it's like walking into a postcard," I mutter to myself.
We step inside, and before I can fully take in my surroundings, movement from the couch catches my eye.
Another man.
He's younger than Hank and the axe-wielding lumberjack outside, less rugged but just as undeniably built. Where Hank is all gruff edges and quiet authority, this one is sharp angles and easy charm.
His hair is a tousled dark mess that begs for fingers to smooth it.
Thick biceps stretch the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his thighs fill out his jeans in a way that makes my stomach flip before I can stop it.
And then he grins.
It’s shit-eating and shameless, like he already knows exactly what effect he has on people.
My pulse jumps. For a split second, panic grips me—does he recognize me? But there's no flash of realization in his gaze, no moment of dawning awareness. Just interest.
He’s a flirt. That, at least, I can handle.
"Well, now," he drawls, eyes flicking over me with blatant interest. "Ain't every day Hank brings home a stray that looks like you."
"Nice to meet you," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Likewise," he replies, his gaze lingering as if he's trying to unravel me piece by piece. “I’m Holt.”
“Ivy.”
Hank clears his throat, an effective end to whatever moment is brewing. "This way," he says, his voice low, tugging my attention back to him.
Hank's heavy tread leads me through a living space cluttered with the comfortable chaos of lived-in spaces—a pair of boots here, a book open face-down there—then down a hallway.
The hallway is dimly lit, the wood-paneled walls closing in just enough to make me feel like I’m walking deeper into a trap I can’t escape. Hank moves ahead of me, his broad frame nearly swallowing the narrow space.
Then, out of nowhere, a small, dark creature darts right under his feet. Holy shit, enough already with the creatures today.
"Shit." Hank stumbles, catching himself against the wall with a heavy thud.
I barely register his near fall because my attention is locked on the thing scuttling across the floor. My heart jumps into my throat as I recoil, smacking into the opposite wall. "What the?—?"
It's…hideous. A scrappy, smoky gray creature with a patchy, uneven coat that looks like it's been through a war—and lost every battle. One of its ears is shredded down to a nub, and where one eye should be, there’s just an empty, battle-worn socket.
It stops in the middle of the hallway, staring me down like I’ve personally offended it.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a yelp. "What is that?"
Hank groans and straightens, shaking his head like this is all perfectly normal. "That’s Gremlin, my cat."
My stomach drops. "That’s a cat?”
At the sound of her name, the abomination lets out a noise that can only be described as an unholy mix of a growl and a smoker’s cough. Then, to my absolute horror, she starts toward me.
“Nope.” I take a step back. Then another. “Absolutely not.”
Hank snorts, stepping past me and nudging Gremlin gently with his boot. "Relax. She won’t bite." He pauses, reconsidering. "Not hard, anyway."
Gremlin flicks her tail, glaring up at me with her one good eye, then lets out a low, guttural mrrp before sauntering off like she owns the place.
I exhale sharply, still eyeing the cat—if it can even be called that—as she disappears around a corner. “That thing is a crime against nature.”
Hank stops short and I barrel into his back, which is way more solid than should be legal.
"Gremlin doesn't take kindly to insults," Hank says, and there's a note in his voice that suggests he's only half-joking. Or maybe not at all.
"Sorry, I didn't mean?—"
"Never mind. Come on." Hank steps over the cat with practiced ease, gesturing for me to follow.
I step around Gremlin carefully, wary of disturbing her further, and trail after Hank. He opens a door to a room that's simple but cozy, with a quilt thrown over the bed and a small window that gives me a view of the storm outside. It's a space that promises warmth and solitude.
"Your room," Hank grunts, setting down my bags. His presence fills the doorway, a solid, reassuring barrier between me and the wildness outside.
"Thanks," I murmur, still glancing back at where Gremlin now sits, daintily cleaning her paws as if she hasn't just given someone the fright of their life.
"Get settled," Hank says. "Kitchen's down the hall when you're ready."
"Got it." I nod, relieved to be alone for a moment. "Thank you," I say, finding warmth in his simple hospitality.
"We’ll get some food in you," he adds, then pauses. "And there's a landline. Call whoever you need to."
"Really appreciate it," I say, hoping my gratitude shows.
He nods once, then leaves, his steps heavy down the hall. Alone, I exhale slowly, letting the stillness settle around me like a blanket. Gremlin jumps up and saunters out, tail high. I can handle this. I have to.