13. Ivy
Chapter 13
Ivy
A knock jolts me from sleep. I blink into the dim light of morning, my heart a beat behind my awareness. I pull the covers tighter around me, the chill of the room seeping through me. Another knock, firm but not urgent.
What the hell time is it?
"Morning, Ivy," Wyatt's voice carries through the wood, deep and steady. "Road's clear. We can check on your car now."
A strange mix of relief and dread coils in my stomach. Relief because being stranded was never the plan. Because now I can get my car, get back to…what, exactly? My old life? The one I ran from?
And dread because the moment those roads opened up, so did the door to everything I’d been avoiding. The cameras. The headlines. The world that chewed me up and spit me out.
I swallow hard, forcing my hands to stay steady as I pull on my clothes. Maybe I’m not ready to leave just yet.
"Give me a minute," I call out, untangling myself from the sheets. My feet hit the cold floor, and I shiver as I stand.
I dig through my bags, shoving aside silk blouses, tailored trousers, designer sweaters that suddenly feel like they belong to someone else. Nothing feels right. Nothing fits the version of me that’s been waking up in this cabin.
I hesitate, fingers brushing over a slinky dress. What the hell was I thinking? The idea of strutting into town in outfits curated for paparazzi shots makes my skin itch. But then I think about the cameras—the ones that always seem to find me, even when I don’t want to be found. About the way people pick apart every outfit, every choice, every perceived misstep.
My chest tightens. It doesn’t matter if I’m in the mountains or the city—eyes are always watching.
So, I do what I always do. I armor up.
The mirror catches my image as I dress. A fitted cream turtleneck sweater hugs my curves, paired with black leggings. I slip into fur-lined boots, laces snug against my ankles. The aviator jacket goes over, taupe and plush. I'm dressed to move, but still…me. Or at least, the version of me the world expects to see.
Stepping into the kitchen, I find Wyatt. He leans against the counter, casual as ever in flannel and worn-in jeans. His eyes flick over me, a pause in his easy charm.
"You look..." He trails off, a half-smile playing on his lips.
"Out of place?" I venture, tugging at the jacket's edge.
"Like you're about to hike a runway, not a mountain." There's a teasing note in his tone, but it’s not unkind.
I laugh, short and a bit too loud. "That bad, huh?"
"Not bad, just..." He tilts his head, considering. "Different."
Different. Not a city skyline, but a mountain range. Not high heels, but boots meant for snow. I'm here, aren't I? Trying.
Holt turns from the counter, his smile wide and bright as the winter sun.
"Thought you might need this," he says, pressing a steaming travel cup into my hands. The scent of strong coffee pulls me closer to wakefulness. Before I can thank him, he leans in, his lips brushing mine with a practiced ease that leaves an echo of warmth lingering on my skin.
"Good luck in town," he murmurs, and then he's gone, leaving me with a caffeinated buzz and a whole lot of confusion.
"Let's go see about that car," Wyatt says, and I nod, following him out into the crisp morning air, where the world is wide and waiting.
Wyatt's truck growls to life as I approach, its engine breaking the mountain’s silence. I climb inside, tucking the coffee between my knees. He glances at me while shifting gears, the truck lurching forward down the winding road.
We're silent as trees blur past us, the world shedding its coat of white as we descend. It feels like leaving another life behind, one where time doesn't press quite so heavily. One where there aren’t eyes following me everywhere I go. One where I don’t have to play a part that’s never fit right.
The mechanic's shop is small, a bell chiming overhead as we enter. Grease stains mark the concrete floor like battle scars. The mechanic's not around, but his daughter is, her ponytail swaying as she looks up from behind the counter. She squints at me, a flicker of recognition in her blue eyes.
My stomach knots. She knows me. Or at least, she thinks she does.
I brace for it—for the widened eyes, the gasp, the frantic grab for a phone. My pulse pounds as I wait for my name to tumble from her lips, for the inevitable shift in the air that always follows.
Instead, she just…squints. Like she’s trying to place me but can’t quite pin it down. Then, with a little shrug, she flashes me a bright, easy smile.
“Cute jacket,” she says, leaning on the counter. “You look like one of those rich ski girls from the magazines—but, like, in a good way.”
I blink, my breath catching. That’s it? No cameras, no whispers, no prying questions? Just a compliment?
Relief floods my body so fast it makes me dizzy. I let out a breathy laugh, pressing a hand to my waist like that’ll keep me steady. “Uh, thanks.”
Her grin widens. “Seriously. You could be in one of those ‘mountain chic’ Pinterest boards. Love the boots.”
The tension in my shoulders eases, the edges of my panic smoothing out.
“Hey, Wyatt.”
“Lily. Making trouble as usual?”
“Excuse me, sir. I am an angel.”
Wyatt snorts at Lily’s comment, shaking his head. “Angel, huh? That why Mason’s always looking stressed?”
Lily grins, entirely unbothered. “He’s stressed because he doesn’t hydrate. I keep telling him, drink more water, Dad. But does he listen?” She tosses her ponytail. “No.”
"Hi, Lily, I'm Ivy. Um, Hank had my car towed down here during the storm.”
"Nice to meet you, Ivy." She turns to the computer, fingers tapping keys with a rhythm that says she's done this a thousand times. "Yup. I see it. Let me just grab my dad."
With that, she spins on her heel and heads toward the back, disappearing through a door marked “Employees Only”.
A moment later, heavy footsteps sound from the hallway, and then the mechanic, Mason apparently, appears. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a strength built from years of working with his hands. He’s handsome too, in a rugged sort of way. Even if Wyatt hadn’t said his name, I’d know it. It’s printed on the patch sewn on his chest.
His sharp brown eyes flick to Wyatt first, then me. “Hey, man.” He clasps Wyatt’s hand in a firm shake. “You finally bringing me a decent customer?”
Wyatt smirks. “Wouldn’t go that far.”
I step forward, offering a small smile. “Ivy. Hank had my car towed here during the storm.”
“Ah, right.” Mason nods, motioning for us to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
He leads us through the garage, weaving between tool carts and half-disassembled engines until we step into the back lot. My car sits there, looking worse for wear under the gray morning light.
Mason folds his arms over his chest. “So, here’s the deal. Running off the road did more than just scrape up your bumper. Alignment’s shot, there’s some undercarriage damage, and one of your axles took a hit. It’s all fixable, but…” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “The parts we need? They’re not exactly in stock. Your car is a little too foreign for these parts. Nearest shop that carries them is halfway across the country, and even then, they’re back-ordered. We’re looking at weeks, not days.”
"Weeks?" The word falls flat as I say it.
I glance at Wyatt, but his expression is unreadable. Mason shifts, giving me an apologetic look. “I know it’s not what you wanna hear, but I’d rather be straight with you. I can patch a couple things up in the meantime, but it’s not gonna be road-ready anytime soon.”
"We'll figure it out," Wyatt chimes in, a solid presence at my side. His hand finds the small of my back, reassuring me. I draw a breath, looking at the mountains through the grimy window.
"Guess I'm not going anywhere fast," I murmur to myself, and maybe to them.
“Let’s head to the coffee shop. They have the best internet connection in town. I know you’re dying to reconnect to the real world.”
I don’t have words; I think I’m still in shock. So, I simply nod and follow Wyatt out of the mechanic’s garage and down the street to a cute little bistro.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter the coffee shop, a cozy haven of warmth filled with the rich scent of roasted beans.
It’s not the high-end coffee shops I’m used to—no sleek marble counters, no baristas in crisp aprons crafting intricate latte art—but it’s cute. The kind of place where the menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the pastries sit under a glass dome that’s just slightly smudged. A few patrons are scattered throughout the small shop, bundled in flannels and knit caps, hunched over steaming mugs, or chatting quietly in the corners.
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate, heading straight to the counter like he’s been here a hundred times before. He orders for both of us without even glancing my way, his voice steady, confident.
I don’t correct him. He already knows my order.
"Here." He hands me a steaming cup, the ceramic warm against my cold fingers. "Stay put, make your calls. I'll be back in an hour or so."
“You’re going?”
“I’ve got my own errands to run, City Girl. They’re not calling for snow the next couple of days, but you never know.”
Before I can respond, he leans down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss so casual, so effortless, it takes me a second to process that it even happened. The same shock zips through me as when Holt kissed me—like my body is one step behind, trying to catch up to this new reality.
Wyatt pulls back like it was nothing, like he hasn’t just flipped my entire morning upside down. “I’ll be back soon,” he says again.
I nod, already peeling off my jacket, finding a seat by the window where the light is good and the Wi-Fi signal is the strongest. Settling down, I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with missed notifications. Time to reconnect, to untangle the web of my life left hanging when I got stranded here.
And, you know, try and figure out where the heck I’m going to stay. Wyatt, Hank, and Holt aren’t going to want to house me long-term. They were quite literally stuck with me. And, now they’re not.
"Any problems, you call me." Wyatt's voice cuts through my focus, his presence commanding even as he stands by the door, keys jangling in his hand.
"Got it. Thanks, Wyatt." My words are brief, but the gratitude is real.
He winks, a flash of mischief that doesn't quite hide his concern, then steps out into the morning chill. The door closes behind him, leaving me surrounded by the soft murmur of conversations and the clatter of cups.
There are eyes on me. I can feel them. But I know they’re not staring because they recognize me. They’re staring because Wyatt just laid claim to me very publicly and none of them have ever seen me before.
I take a deep breath and dive into my digital world, where life has churned on without me.
Fingers swipe, tap. The screen floods with the bizarre and the ludicrous—headlines all about me. I'm missing? I snort. No, I’m just sipping coffee in a town so small it's barely a whisper on the map.
"Changed her name," I mutter under my breath, then scoff. A chuckle bubbles up, tinged with disbelief. Plastic surgery? In Bali? My reflection in the window shows the same pretty face, no hint of a scalpel's touch.
A ping signals another message, another shard of reality intruding. It's from my brother, his words dripping with self-interest, not concern.
I roll my eyes before I even open it.
You could’ve at least given us a heads-up. Do you know how this makes us look?
Of course. Not, are you okay? Or where are you?
Just how my disappearance is inconvenient for them .
Another ping. My mother this time.
This is reckless, Ivy. The press is spinning out of control. Call me back immediately.
I inhale slowly, exhale even slower. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just hoped, for once, that my well-being mattered more than the optics.
I tap out a single message to the group chat.
I’m fine. I’m safe. I’ll be back when I’m ready.
Then I turn my phone face down on the table, wrap my hands around my coffee, and stare out the window at a town that, for the first time in a long time, expects nothing from me at all.