8. Ivy
Chapter 8
Ivy
I ’ve spent the past few days doing absolutely nothing for once in my life, and apparently, that’s a crime.
“That’s it.” Hank’s gruff voice snaps through the cabin, cutting off any hope of another lazy morning. “You’re not just gonna sit around and eat up our hospitality.”
I blink at him from my spot on the couch, blanket wrapped around me like a burrito. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He crosses his arms, every inch the brooding mountain man. “There’s too much to be done for you to lounge around like a princess, princess.”
Before I can argue that I never asked to be here in the first place, Wyatt slides onto the armrest beside me, grinning. “C’mon, sweetheart. It won’t kill you to pitch in.”
Holt smirks from across the room, eyes glinting with mischief. “Would be a shame if you broke a nail, though.”
I scowl. “I’m not that helpless.”
“Great.” Holt claps his hands together. “Then you won’t mind helping me split some wood.”
I lift my chin. “I would mind, actually. Very much.”
Holt chuckles. “We’ll work you up to that.”
Before I can argue, Wyatt takes pity on me and slides onto the armrest beside me, grinning. “C’mon, City Girl. I’ll start you off easy.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the kitchen. His touch is warm, fingers rough with callouses, and I hate the way my pulse flutters at the simple contact. The man flirts like it’s his job, and yet, my body still reacts like I’m some na?ve, lovesick girl.
Wyatt shoves a cutting board in front of me. “All right, sweetheart. Think you can handle peeling potatoes?”
I level him with a dry look. “I am a functional human being, you know?”
Wyatt leans in, voice dropping to a murmur as his lips quirk into a smirk. “Then prove it.”
Damn him.
I tuck a stray lock behind my ear and glance back at Hank. He's watching, eyes shadowed but intense.
With an exaggerated sigh, I pick up the peeler and get to work. It’s simple enough, and Wyatt stays close, his presence too warm, too distracting. Every so often, his arm brushes against mine as he moves around the kitchen, and each time, a little shiver works its way down my spine. By the time I’m finished, my hands are stiff from gripping the peeler, and I’m trying very hard to ignore the way Wyatt’s been watching me with open amusement.
“Not bad, sweetheart,” he says, tossing me a wink. “Didn’t even cut yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Your faith in me is overwhelming.”
Before he can say anything else, Holt steps into the kitchen, tossing a bundle of clothes onto the counter. “C’mon, CG. Time to put some muscle into it.”
I stare at the clothes, then at him. “What is this?”
“Layers,” Holt says. “You’ll freeze if you go out like that.”
He’s not wrong. I’m still in leggings and a thin sweater, hardly equipped for the below-freezing temperatures outside. I sigh and pick up the bundle—a thermal, an oversized flannel, thick socks, and a jacket that smells faintly like Wyatt.
“You’re lucky I don’t look terrible in plaid,” I mutter, pulling on the layers. The clothes drown me, but at least I’ll be warm.
Wyatt smirks. “You look adorable.”
“Come on, CG!” Holt calls out from the front of the cabin.
Curious—and a little wary—I follow the deep, rumbling voice outside. The cold air bites at my face the second I step onto the porch, and I immediately regret not layering up more. Holt must notice because he sighs and shrugs off his thick jacket, draping it over my shoulders without a word.
The scent of him—woodsmoke, cedar, and pure masculinity—wraps around me, and I swallow hard. He’s so close, his fingers lingering at the edges of the fabric, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Then he steps back, arms crossed as he nods toward the freshly chopped logs stacked nearby. “Think you can handle splitting some wood?”
I arch a brow. “Do I look like I’ve ever chopped wood before?”
Holt smirks. “Nope. But I’d sure like to see you try.”
Wyatt, the bastard, chuckles behind me. “Go on, sweetheart. Show us what you got.”
He hands me an axe, his expression already dubious.
The axe feels foreign in my hands, its weight unbalanced and threatening. Holt stands a few paces away, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Just like chopping vegetables," he says with that easy smile. It's nothing like chopping vegetables.
I glare at them both before gripping the axe handle and positioning myself in front of the log. Holt mutters under his breath, probably already predicting disaster, but I ignore him. I raise the axe, swing down?—
And barely make a dent.
Hell, it’s a miracle I even managed to hit the damn thing.
Wyatt outright laughs, and Holt shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his beard like he’s debating whether to step in. I scowl. “That was a practice swing.”
“Uh-huh,” Wyatt says, still grinning. “Try again, City Girl.”
I do. And fail. Repeatedly.
Finally, Holt takes pity on me. He steps behind me, wrapping his much larger hands over mine on the handle. “Here,” he murmurs against my ear, sending a shiver straight down my spine. “Grip it like this. Loosen up your stance. Let the weight of the axe do the work.”
He guides me through the motion, and on the next swing, the log actually splits. Not completely, but I did it!
“Look at that,” Wyatt drawls. “Our girl’s a natural.”
My heart melts at the casual “our girl”, but I quickly shove the feeling away. This is just flirting. Meaningless, effortless flirting. They probably don’t even realize they’re doing it.
I refuse to be the fool who reads into it.
By the time I’m done embarrassing myself with the axe, Hank grumbles something about me needing to learn useful skills and hauls me inside to teach me how to start a proper fire.
“Damn city folk,” he mutters, handing me kindling and striking a match. “Can’t even light a fire without nearly burning the place down.”
I huff but follow his instructions, ignoring Wyatt and Holt as they hover in the background, clearly enjoying the show.
Hank’s hands are sure and steady as he arranges kindling, a contrast to my fumbling. "Always start small," he instructs, voice a low grumble. I watch his fingers work, nimble despite their size. There's an art to it, the way he builds a foundation for the flames.
"Strike the match, hold it here," Hank directs, and I mimic his movements, almost holding my breath. The match flares to life, and under his guidance, the kindling catches. A tiny victory blooms warm in my chest.
"Good," he mutters, almost begrudgingly. "Keep feeding it, slow and steady."
My gaze flickers to his face, catching the edges of approval before he turns away. It stirs an unfamiliar warmth inside me. I shove it down, refusing to let his approval mean anything.
By the end of the day, I’m sore, exhausted, and completely over manual labor. Muscles I didn’t even know I had, scream in protest as I flop onto the couch. But…I have to admit, there’s something satisfying about actually doing something real. Not for the cameras. Not for a headline.
Night wraps around the mountain in a blanket of quiet darkness, as snowflakes start their dance outside the window. Wyatt uncaps a bottle of whiskey with an ease that speaks of many such nights. He pours four glasses, handing one to me with a nod. "You earned this."
I take a tentative sip, welcoming the liquid warmth as it slides down my throat. The amber glow of the fire casts shadows on our faces, turning the room into a soft-edged world away from everything else.
The warmth of the fire combined with the slow burn of the alcohol leaves me feeling loose, relaxed in a way I haven’t been in years.
And, apparently, a little too comfortable.
Because at some point, the flirting escalates.
Wyatt leans in, his knee brushing against mine beneath the table. “So, City Girl,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “You gonna admit you had fun today?”
I lift my chin. “Fun is such a strong word.”
Holt smirks over the rim of his glass. “You smiled a few times.”
“Did not.”
Wyatt nudges my knee again. “Did too.”
Hank sighs, already halfway through his drink. “If you two are done acting like children?—”
Wyatt grins. “Jealous, old man?”
Hank grunts, taking another sip. “Just tired of listening to you flirt like a damn fool.”
I snort but don’t argue. Because as much as I want to pretend otherwise, the whiskey is making me warm in ways that have nothing to do with the fire, and both Wyatt and Holt are pushing boundaries with touches that linger and comments that make my stomach flip.
I’m not stupid. I know exactly what’s happening.
Hank, having had enough of us, shuffles off to bed without so much as a word. Clearly this is regular behavior, because Holt and Wyatt don’t even flinch.
"Cards?" Holt suggests, shuffling a deck with quick fingers. His smile is easy, inviting.
"Sure," I agree, figuring it's less strenuous than anything else I've done today.
We sit around the wooden table, cards dealt, the whiskey loosening us enough for laughter and smoothing the edges of the day's labor.
As the game goes on, the bottle grows lighter and the snow builds up against the windows. There's something about this—about them—that feels like what I've been missing without knowing it.
Cards slap against the table as Holt lays down a winning hand, his grin spreading like wildfire. "Looks like you're at my mercy again, CG," he teases, and there's a glint in his eye that says he's not just talking about the game.
"Keep dreaming, Walker," I shoot back, but my words are drowned out by Wyatt's chuckle from across the table. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for the deck, his touch deliberate and lingering. Heat creeps up my neck, and I pull away, folding my arms over my chest.
"Easy, tiger," Holt says to Wyatt, though his own hand finds its way to the small of my back as he leans in to whisper some strategy or other. It's meant to be conspiratorial, but the press of his fingers against my spine sends an entirely different message.
My heart does a traitorous little jump, but I'm quick to slide out from under his touch. "I think I can handle myself," I say, voice steady despite the fluttering inside me.
"Of course you can," Wyatt agrees, eyes twinkling with mischief. He winks, and I tell myself it's the whiskey making my stomach do flips, not his easy charm.
I’ve learned a few things about the boys since they got stuck with me. Holt and Hank are cousins. And they’ve been best friends with Wyatt since they were kids, despite the age difference. Holt is only twenty-six to Wyatt’s thirty and Hank’s thirty-two.
But, most importantly, Holt and Wyatt are shameless flirts. And, if I’m not mistaken, complete manwhores (and proud of it).
We play another round, laughter spilling over the cards, but my mind is elsewhere. This isn't a vacation. It's a pit stop on a road I can't see the end of. And while their flirtations are flattering, they're just a distraction from the real question: what am I doing with my life?
So, for now, I hold my ground. Let them tease, let them touch—just a little.
But I don’t let myself give in. I don’t let myself fall. I can’t.