16. Ivy
Chapter 16
Ivy
I tap my phone screen, refreshing the rental listings once more. Nothing new pops up—just the same old digital "no vacancy" signs staring back at me. The reality sinks in. I'm stranded in this mountain town with no place of my own.
I’m in a mood. I know they know it, but they don’t pry. I glance around the cozy interior of the guys’ cabin—dim lighting, a fire crackling in the wood-burning stove, the scent of pine and smoke clinging to the air.
It’s cozy. It’s lived in. It’s nothing like the sleek, modern spaces I’m used to, where every angle is curated for the perfect Instagram shot, where warmth is artificial and everything has a price.
"No luck, darlin’?" Holt’s voice is laced with a playful edge as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching me, that knowing smirk tracing his lips.
"Nope," I respond, trying to keep my tone light.
Wyatt chimes in from the couch, where he's sprawled with a magazine in hand. "No sweat, Ivy. I already told you that you can bunk here for now."
Hank grumbles from the kitchen, something about "a damn circus" under his breath—a bear-like sound that could be annoyance or simply resignation. Which means I’m staying, whether I planned to or not.
And, the truth is, I don’t mind. I like it here.
No cameras waiting to catch me at my worst. No whispers behind manicured hands, dissecting my every move. I once tripped on a curb in L.A., and within hours, #IvyDown was trending. My face—mid-fall, arms flailing like a cartoon character—was slapped on everything from T-shirts to coffee mugs. Another time, I spilled an entire smoothie down my front, and for weeks, people sent me blender sponsorships like I was some kind of walking PR disaster.
Here? If I trip, if I drop something, if I make a fool of myself—no one cares. It’s not viral content. It’s just life.
I feel at peace for the first time in…maybe ever. And I’m not feeling ready to leave it just yet. It’s why I came out here in the first place. Sure, I’d expected to spend a few weeks alone trying to move on from what Caleb did and figure out my next move, but this is honestly better.
It can’t last, though. It’s only temporary. I can’t keep relying on their hospitality. I need my own space. No strings, no owing anyone anything.
I pull up a real estate website since the spotty internet is actually working some today. It cuts out every five minutes, and each page takes an eternity to load, but it’s better than nothing. I scroll through listings of cabins for sale. Each click is a hope, each dismissal a growing frustration. Too much work. Too far. Under contract. The list of not-quite-rights grows longer, and my optimism thins.
"Anything catch your eye?" Wyatt asks, peeking over my shoulder at the screen.
"Nothing yet." My voice is flat, disappointment seeping into it despite my attempts to stay upbeat. A sigh escapes me, betraying my internal struggle.
"Keep looking," Wyatt encourages, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. As he heads out the door, he adds, "Something'll turn up."
"Or you can keep enjoying the five-star accommodations here at Chez Mountain Man," Holt adds with a chuckle. His humor doesn't quite mask the sincerity behind the offer.
"Thanks," I mumble, warmth blooming in my chest at their words, even if I can't let myself settle into the comfort they offer. Not yet. Not until I find a place that's unquestionably, undeniably mine.
But I’m not having any luck. No rentals. Nothing to purchase. It’s stay here or go home. And I don’t really want to go home.
With a sigh, I close out of the browser and drift to where I know Holt is in the kitchen. Hank is actually relaxing in the living room. I didn’t know the big broody grump had an off button. It’s fascinating.
"Need a hand with anything?" I ask, glancing up at Holt who's cleaning his rifle at the other end of the table.
Holt looks up, eyes crinkling with that familiar amusement. "Unless you've suddenly developed a knack for gun maintenance, I think we're good."
"Maybe not guns," I concede, a smile tugging at my lips despite the unease knotting in my stomach. "But I must be useful for something around here."
"Your company's enough," Hank grumbles from his armchair by the fire without looking up from the book he's pretending to read. His voice is rough like gravel, but it lacks the bite I'm used to.
It’s also a far cry from his previous demand that I pull my weight. The implication stings more than it should. Am I really that useless?
I mean I know I haven’t been exactly perfect, but I'm trying. I thought that was enough. Sure, I nearly burned down the kitchen trying to make toast. I tripped over my own feet in the snow and face-planted so hard Holt had to haul me up like a sack of potatoes. I still cannot figure out the damn coffee machine. And let’s not forget the time I mistook a coyote for a stray dog and tried to lure it inside with leftover bacon. That one nearly gave Hank an aneurysm.
But is it really any different from my old life? Back in the city, my disasters just had better lighting and a bigger audience. I once knocked over an entire champagne tower at a charity gala, sending a flood of Dom Pérignon straight into the mayor’s lap. Another time, I “accidentally” started a trend when I wore two different shoes to a red carpet event. The joke was on me, because for months, high-end designers were selling mismatched heels like it was fashion genius instead of me being a mess. And the pièce de résistance? I got locked out of my own penthouse in a silk robe and had to be rescued by firefighters—right in front of the paparazzi. That one made the front page.
The clumsiness was real. But the over-the-top dumb blonde act was what they scripted to go along with it.
Here, I’m just as clumsy, just as prone to disaster. But I thought it didn’t matter here.
I thought they didn’t judge me the way everyone else always has, that they saw me as more than a walking headline, more than the punchline to whatever viral moment I stumbled into next. I thought I was just Ivy here—not a spectacle, not a brand, not a mess to be gawked at.
But now? Now, I’m not so sure.
Maybe I was stupid to think I could just slot myself into their world, that they didn’t see me the same way everyone else does. A pretty disaster, good for entertainment, but not much else.
I stare down at my hands, fingers curling around nothing. Maybe being a reality TV star really is all I’m good at.
"Thanks, Hank, but I don't want to feel like a freeloader." The need to contribute prickles at me, persistent and urgent. I've never been one to sit idle while others work hard.
Ivy Blake didn’t become an international brand because I sat on my ass.
Wyatt walks in then, snow dusting his jacket and a cold flush on his cheeks. "Storm's gonna hit sooner than expected," he says, shaking off the chill. "We'll need more supplies if we're gonna hunker down properly."
"Let me do it." The words tumble out before doubt can hold them back. "The shopping, I mean. It's the least I can do."
Wyatt pauses, a skeptical arch to his brow. "You sure? It's no small list."
I nod, firmer this time. "I'm sure. Give me the list, and I'll handle it."
"All right." He fishes a paper from his pocket and hands it to me.
“No,” Hank declares.
“No?” I glance up, taken aback by the sharp finality in Hank’s tone. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Hank crosses his arms, leveling me with that no-nonsense look that somehow makes me feel like I’m five years old again. “I mean no. There’s stuff on that list you wouldn’t know how to pick out.”
I frown, glancing down at the paper like it might suddenly reveal some ancient, cryptic knowledge. “It’s a grocery list, Hank. Not a classified government document.”
Holt snorts from the corner, but Hank doesn’t budge. “Yeah? Tell me, princess, you know how to tell if a cut of venison’s been properly butchered? Or what kind of feed we need for the stock? How about the right type of firewood for curing in this weather?”
My mouth opens, then promptly shuts. Okay, so maybe he has a point.
Wyatt, ever the peacemaker, steps in. “We’ll handle the shopping. You can tag along if you want.”
That stings more than it should. Like I’m a kid playing house, not someone capable of pulling her own weight. Before I can second-guess myself, I straighten my spine. “Fine. Then I’ll pay for it.”
Hank’s expression tightens, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” I insist, pushing past the lump in my throat. “I want to contribute. You guys have been generous—letting me stay here, feeding me, looking out for me. Let me do this, okay?”
"Hey, darlin'," Holt chimes in, that easy grin spreading across his handsome face. He leans against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. "The only payment we want from you is some more of that sweet pus?—"
The rest of his sentence gets cut off by Hank's large hand smacking against the back of his head. The sound echoes through the room. "Have some damn respect," Hank growls, fixing Holt with a look that could curdle milk.
"Ow, man!" Holt rubs the spot, still smirking like it's all one big joke. Wyatt just shakes his head, a chuckle escaping despite the scowl directed at the youngest occupant of this cabin. He’s older than me, but I don’t actually live here, do I?
“Let me pay.”
Hank exhales sharply, clearly not thrilled, but after a moment, he gives a gruff nod. “Fine.”
It’s not exactly a win, but I’ll take it.
"Anyway," I continue, eager to steer away from Holt's teasing, "since the roads are clear for now and ya’ll need to go into town anyway, I'd love to take you guys to dinner in town tonight as my treat…as a thank-you."
There's a moment of silence where I can almost hear their thoughts. Then, one by one, something shifts.
"Sure thing, Ivy," Wyatt says with a casual shrug, the corners of his mouth tipping up slightly.
"Could do with a night off from my own cooking," Hank admits, his tone grudging but not unfriendly.
"Look at us, getting spoiled," Holt adds, winking. "Don't suppose we can say no to an offer like that."
"Great." Relief floods through me. It's nice to feel useful, to give back somehow. "It's settled then. Dinner, on me."