6. Ivy
Chapter 6
Ivy
T he floorboards creak beneath my feet as I step out of the guest room, now dressed in warmer clothes—form-fitting leggings, a soft oversized sweater, and thick socks. I barely make it two steps before a deep voice rumbles from the other side of the room.
“Well, well. Looks like the ski bunny finally shed her fur.”
I stop short, eyes snapping to the speaker. It’s the lumberjack from earlier—the one I saw splitting wood with an axe like he’s straight out of a survivalist fantasy. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like he’s thoroughly amused.
I bristle. He’s making fun of me.
My cheeks flush warm, and I tug at the sweater.
Even without the ridiculous boots—which I’d decided were a bit much—I must still look out of place in this cabin. It’s not just the clothes—it’s me. I don’t belong in a place like this, with its rugged wooden beams, its dim lighting, its complete and total lack of modern convenience.
I fold my arms. “You always greet guests with insults, or am I just special?”
His grin widens. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re definitely special.”
I narrow my eyes, but before I can fire back, Holt—at least, I think that’s his name—steps in from the kitchen.
“She giving you a hard time already, Wyatt?” he asks, slapping the lumberjack on the shoulder as he passes.
Wyatt. So that’s his name.
“City girl’s adjusting,” Wyatt replies, his tone dripping with amusement.
I scowl. Adjusting is putting it mildly.
I glance down at my phone, praying for a miracle. Nothing. No bars, no signal—just the cruel emptiness of digital isolation. With a sigh, I lift my head.
“Is there at least Wi-Fi?”
Wyatt lets out a deep chuckle from where he's stoking the wood-burning stove, the flames casting dancing shadows across his forearms. He doesn’t even look up as he answers.
“Oh, we’ve got it,” he says, shoving another log into the fire. “But it’s spottier than the Dalmatian down at Hotshot’s firehouse.” He gestures to Holt, who I assume is Hotshot. Huh, firefighter suits him.
Then his words sink in: the Wi-Fi’s spotty. Of course it is.
I resist the urge to groan, tucking my phone into my pocket like that’ll somehow make it hurt less. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. No escape.
"Feels like stepping back a hundred years," I say, more to myself than anyone else. But they hear, and Holt's smirk widens.
Wyatt pushes to his feet, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Don’t worry, city girl. You’ll get used to it.”
I highly doubt that.
Holt hands me an old-school cordless phone, the kind I haven’t seen since childhood. “Landline still works,” he says. “For now, anyway.”
For now? Great. I clutch the phone and retreat to the guest room, dialing number after number, trying to untangle this mess. The rental company? A dead end—the number is disconnected. My bank? They’ll open a fraud case, but it could take weeks to resolve. Hotels nearby—and by nearby, I mean two hours away. All booked, thanks to ski season.
I pour out my story to anyone who'll listen on the other end, but each call ends the same—with apologies and no solutions. The scam rental has me trapped, a bird in a cage with bars made of fine print and non-existent Wi-Fi.
By the time I hang up, my throat is tight, my eyes burning with frustration. I blink hard, willing myself not to cry. I am not going to fall apart over this. It’s just—everything. The exhaustion, the cold, the absolute absurdity of my current situation.
Not to mention everything I’ve been running from. That’s the only good thing about this nightmare I’ve found myself in. My phone is blissfully silent.
I wander back into the living area, where Wyatt is lounging near the fire, one boot propped against the hearth. He glances up as I slump onto the couch. “Any luck?”
I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
He shrugs, like none of this is even a little surprising. “I’ll take you into town once the snow clears.”
That shouldn’t be comforting, but somehow, it is.
"Thanks," I say. There's a tremble in my words, but I hope he doesn't notice. He just nods back, his brown eyes steady on mine.
I'm stranded, but not alone. Not yet.
Wyatt moves from the fire to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he grabs a cutting board and a handful of vegetables. Holt follows. Wyatt starts slicing into an onion with practiced ease while Holt pulls a pack of meat from the fridge, inspecting the handwritten label before tossing it onto the counter. They move around the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, trading utensils and ingredients without so much as a glance.
It’s clear they’ve done this a hundred times before.
I’m still sitting on the stool, feeling more and more like an outsider when Wyatt finally looks over. “You good with stew?”
I blink. “Stew?”
Holt smirks as he grabs a potato from the pile. “Yeah, you know—warm, hearty, made in a pot. Usually has meat and vegetables in it.”
I roll my eyes. “I know what stew is.”
“Good,” Wyatt says, lips twitching. “Because that’s what you’re getting.”
I shift on the stool, watching them. The mouth-watering scent of stew already fills the kitchen, and my stomach clenches in response. I might not have a plan yet, but at least I won’t go hungry.
Still, sitting here while they do all the work feels…wrong. Like I’m just mooching off their hospitality.
“I can help,” I offer, standing up.
Wyatt glances at me over his shoulder, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You cook?”
“Sure,” I say automatically. How hard can it be?
Holt smirks. “All right, city girl. You can chop the potatoes.”
I grab a knife and a potato, but as soon as I press the blade to the skinless hunk, doubt creeps in. I’ve never actually done this before. There were always people for that—chefs, caterers, housekeepers. My mother would’ve rather set herself on fire than let me be seen doing something as “common” as cooking. Not only was it beneath us, it would ruin the dumb, helpless, party girl image the network so carefully curated.
I try to ignore the unfamiliar weight of the knife in my hand, but it’s obvious within seconds that I have no idea what I’m doing. The blade scrapes awkwardly over the potato, taking off random chunks, and after a minute of struggling, Holt bursts out laughing.
“All right, move over,” he says, plucking both the knife and potato from my hands. “Before you take off a finger.”
“I’m not completely helpless,” I argue, crossing my arms. But I feel like I am. Maybe I am just a dumb, helpless party girl.
“Never said you were,” he replies, expertly chopping the potato in a few smooth strokes. “But we’ve got this. You just sit there and keep us entertained.”
I huff but sink back onto the stool, my cheeks warm. I’m not used to feeling out of my depth like this. But the truth is, I don’t belong here. Not in this cabin, not in this storm, and certainly not in a kitchen where two men who barely know me are making me dinner like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I'm out of my element, an actor without a script on an unfamiliar stage.
The sound of a door creaking open draws my attention. Hank steps out of his room, freshly showered, his dark hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing a plain, fitted T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, and damn it all, the man looks like he just walked off a rugged-outdoorsman calendar.
Not that it matters.
Because the second his gaze lands on me, his expression hardens like granite.
He barely acknowledges me as he heads straight for the kitchen, pausing only to grab a mug from the cabinet. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look in my direction, just pours himself a cup of coffee like I don’t exist.
Right. Okay, then.
I shift in my seat, oddly irritated by the blatant brush-off.
Maybe this is my type. Hot assholes who treat me like crap. That would explain a lot, honestly.
When dinner’s done, I sit stiffly at the table, pushing a piece of whatever-the-hell-this-is around my plate while the guys eat like they’re starring in some kind of eating competition. They talk, laugh, settle into an easy rhythm that only comes from years of familiarity. Well, Wyatt and Holt do. Hank contributes in grunts, shrugs, and the occasional one-word response.
I, on the other hand, feel like an outsider crashing a dinner party I wasn’t invited to.
Then, something warm and fuzzy plops into my lap.
I jolt, glancing down to find a pair of mismatched eyes staring up at me. Up close, it’s somehow even uglier. Its wiry fur sticks out in random directions, looking like it lost a battle with a weed whacker. Its face looks perpetually disgruntled. It’s like the cat was put together out of spare parts and has been holding a grudge about it ever since.
And yet…she purrs. Loudly. Like a tiny, broken chainsaw.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Gremlin—because what else could this thing be named—rubs her face against my hand, demanding attention. Hesitantly, I scratch behind her one fully intact ear, and the purring deepens into a full-body vibration.
“I’ll be damned,” Holt says, leaning back in his chair. “Gremlin likes her.”
“Well, that’s new,” Wyatt muses.
I glance up just in time to catch Hank’s expression shift—just a fraction, but enough. The gruff, broody look softens, just a little, before he schools his features into something unreadable.
Holt, of course, doesn’t let it slide. He grins, looking between me and Hank like he’s just found his new favorite form of entertainment.
“Guess that means we’re stuck with you now,” he says, smirking.
Gremlin lets out a deep, satisfied sigh and settles more comfortably in my lap, like she’s already made up her mind.
Looks like I don’t get a say in the matter.