7. Ivy
Chapter 7
Ivy
I wake up to unfamiliar surroundings, the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I forget where I am. The thick quilt over me is heavier than my usual blankets, the air sharper, colder than it should be. It takes me a moment to orient myself. The cabin. The storm. The fact that I’m stranded here.
With a groan, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone out of habit. The screen lights up, the same useless "No Service" message staring back at me. Right. I have no signal, no Wi-Fi, and no way to check if the outside world still exists.
I toss the phone back onto the nightstand with a sigh and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The chill in the room has me pulling the quilt tighter around my shoulders. I should’ve known that the designer pajamas I packed wouldn’t be enough for a place like this.
Shivering, I grab the nearest sweater—a thick, oversized knit that at least looks warm—and wrap it around myself before slipping out of bed. My ridiculously fuzzy slippers wait beside the bed, the only thing I brought that seems remotely appropriate for cabin life. I slide them on and shuffle toward the door, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell this morning will bring.
The wooden floors creak under my steps as I move into the living area. The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the faint smokiness of the dying fire.
Holt and Wyatt are standing by the window, staring out at the storm like it personally offended them. Something tells me I’m not going to like what they have to say.
I don’t. We’re snowed in, and it’s still coming down.
I clear my throat. “So, how long before the roads clear?”
Neither of them immediately answers. Not a great sign.
“If we’re lucky,” Wyatt mutters, still staring out at the storm, “it’ll only take five or six?—”
I barely let him finish. “Hours?” That’s not so bad. I can manage that.
Holt snorts, finally turning to face me. “Days.”
The word slams into me like a punch to the gut. “ Days? ” My voice shoots up an octave. “Five or six days ?”
“Maybe more, depending on how bad it gets.” Wyatt shrugs like it’s no big deal, already moving toward the kitchen.
My stomach twists. This can’t be happening. Nearly a week? Stuck here?
The walls suddenly feel too close, the heat from the fire too warm. I force in a breath, my fingers tightening around the hem of my sweater.
“There has to be a way down,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I need to check on my car, find another place to stay.”
Wyatt laughs—actually laughs—like I just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Sweetheart, even if you could dig your car out, you wouldn’t make it a mile before getting stuck again. And that’s if you don’t go sliding off the road first.”
Panic turns to frustration, and frustration finds a target. I spin on my heel, eyes locking onto the biggest, grumpiest presence in the room—Hank, who’s leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.
“This is your fault,” I snap. “Why the hell did you bring me up the mountain instead of down?”
His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, arms flailing, my composure unraveling by the second. “If you had just taken me down, I wouldn’t be trapped up here in a cabin with three strangers for a week!”
Hank pushes off the wall, posture radiating irritation. “You think I planned this, princess?” His voice is rough, biting. “I stopped to help you. If I’d tried to drive you down that mountain, I wouldn’t’ve made it back up before the storm made the roads impassable.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Wyatt, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. “We’ve got enough food to last the whole winter. You’ll be fine.”
Fine. Right. Sure. Because being stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow and mountains and men who make me feel equal parts flustered and infuriated is totally fine.
I storm off to my room, slamming the door behind me. But no matter how much I huff and stew, the snow keeps falling, and the situation doesn’t magically change.
The days crawl by. Snow. So much snow. Every time I look out the window, it’s just endless white, stretching in every direction. I never thought I’d miss the honking horns and flashing billboards of the city, but I’d give anything for a traffic jam right now.
To make matters worse, I am wildly unprepared for any of this. I packed for a luxury ski lodge, not a survivalist’s dreamscape. The sweaters I have are cashmere—warm, but delicate. My leggings do nothing against the chill. My coat is more for fashion than function. And my boots—fluffy and ridiculous—are already proving useless against the sheer amount of snow outside.
This isn’t the escape I had planned for.
I wanted solitude. A quiet, cozy retreat where I could disappear from the headlines, sip overpriced lattes, and maybe—just maybe—figure out who I am without a camera in my face. What I got instead was a snowstorm, a cabin full of strangers, and no way back down the mountain.
Typical. Even when I try to leave the chaos behind, it finds me.
With a sigh, I lean against the doorframe, taking in the rustic warmth of the cabin. The fire crackles softly, its glow casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of fresh coffee drifts through the air, tempting me toward the kitchen, but I hesitate. I can hear them talking—Holt and Wyatt, their low voices carrying from the window.
For a second, I consider turning around and retreating back to my room. I don’t belong here. And as nice as they’re being to me, they don’t want me here. But hiding won’t change anything, and besides, I’m already freezing.
Tugging my sweater tighter around me, I step forward. The floor creaks under my slippers, and both men glance up as I approach.
Wyatt gives me an easy, lopsided grin. “Morning, sunshine.”
Holt, on the other hand, just looks me up and down—his expression unreadable, as usual—before turning back to the window.
I cross my arms, trying to ignore the nerves curling in my stomach. “What’s the verdict? Roads clear yet?”
Wyatt’s grin fades, and Holt lets out a scoff that tells me everything I need to know.
I sigh. “Of course not.”
I should be panicking. Back home, the media will be in a frenzy trying to track me down. My parents will be furious that I disappeared without a press release. My ex will probably spin this into another self-serving headline.
But standing here, staring out at the endless white, I realize something else.
For the first time in my life…no one knows where I am.
And for the first time in my life…I might actually be free.
I turn toward the kitchen, determined to do something normal. Coffee. That should be easy enough.
Except, when I reach the counter, I’m met with a machine that looks like it belongs in a laboratory rather than a cabin. Knobs, buttons, a little screen that blinks at me like it’s judging my every move. I frown at it, searching for anything remotely familiar, but there’s no simple "brew" button like I’d hoped.
I press buttons at random. The machine beeps. Then hisses. Then, ominously, does nothing.
“Need some help, CG?”
I turn to find Holt leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with barely concealed amusement.
I square my shoulders, ignoring the fact that he’s now shortened City Girl to a simple CG. “I can figure it out.”
Holt doesn’t move, just quirks a brow. “Sure you can.”
I press another button. The machine lets out a violent gurgle, sputters, and promptly shuts off.
I scowl. “This thing is broken.”
Holt exhales through his nose in an attempt not to laugh at me again before stepping forward and nudging me aside with a casual hand on my waist. The brief contact sends a jolt through me, but before I can dwell on it, because he’s already working the machine like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“You know,” I grumble, crossing my arms, “for a machine that’s just supposed to make coffee, this thing is stupidly complicated.”
Holt shrugs. “It’s not complicated. You just don’t know what you’re doing.”
I glare at him, but he simply sets a steaming mug in front of me without another word. I hesitate, then take a sip.
It’s perfect.
I mumble a begrudging “thanks” before carrying my prize over to the table, where Wyatt is already digging into a plate of eggs and toast. He gestures to the seat across from him with his fork. “Come on, eat before Hank goes full dad mode and starts lecturing you about keeping your strength up.”
I sit, reluctantly grabbing a piece of toast. Holt joins us, his expression unreadable as he tears into his food like he’s preparing for battle.
After a few minutes of quiet eating, Wyatt wipes his mouth and grins at me. “So, you up for a ride?”
I blink. “A ride?”
“On the four wheeler.” He leans back, throwing an arm over his chair. “Figured you might wanna get out for a bit, see the mountain. Better than being cooped up in here all day.”
I snort. “Yeah, that’d be great—if I had the clothes for it.” I gesture to my sweater, my thin leggings, my completely impractical fuzzy slippers. “I packed everything except what I actually needed.”
Hank makes a low sound that might be agreement—or disapproval. “Noticed.”
My eyes narrow. “Oh, did you?”
He takes another bite of his food, completely unbothered. “What kind of person books a winter trip to the mountains and doesn’t pack for the cold?”
“My trip wasn’t supposed to include getting stranded in a remote cabin.”
“That’s life,” he says, his voice as dry as the firewood stacked by the hearth. “Doesn’t give a damn about your plans. Besides, if that cabin you rented had been legit, you’d still be stranded—just without food. Maybe you should be thanking your lucky stars I happened upon you”
I bristle, irritation flaring. But before I can come up with a scathing retort, Holt swoops in. “Come on, Hank. Cut the poor girl some slack. She’s adjusting.”
Hank grunts.
That’s the thing about him—he’s gruff, impatient, and makes it very clear that he does not want me here. But the cracks are starting to show.
Like the extra blanket I found folded neatly at the foot of my bed.
Or the quiet way he explained how to add more logs to the wood-burning stove when I woke up shivering one morning.
Or the cup of coffee he set in front of me without a word, exactly how I like it, before stomping off to start his day.
I watch him now, the way his jaw tics, the way his broad shoulders tense like he’s holding something back. Maybe he’s not all bad.
Maybe he’s the kind of guy who pretends not to care, even when he does.
Or maybe he’s just an asshole. I don’t know.