25. Ivy
Chapter 25
Ivy
M y face burns hot enough to fry an egg on it. Of all the people to catch me sobbing over a stupid dream at stupid o’clock in the morning, it had to be Hank. Tall, quiet Hank with his stormy eyes that see too much and his mouth that says too little.
Waking up next to him? Infinitely worse.
This man doesn’t want me. If he did, he surely would have taken up any of the very obvious offerings over the last couple weeks. Holt and Wyatt can’t keep their damn hands off of me. And, we’ve been doing it on every available surface—without a care of who else is around. Hank doesn’t look or linger or look tempted. He just looks pissed every time he catches us.
I’m an idiot. A greedy, selfish idiot. I already have two hot-as-sin men keeping my mind off everything. Why do I need a third? Why can’t I let him go?
I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. I could deny, deny, deny but it's pointless—the damage is done. He's seen the real me now, not the carefully constructed version I present to the world, and I can't stuff that reality back into its box.
He’d asked why I was upset. When he pushed, I caved and told him it was a bad dream. But bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. It was my life, played back in vivid detail. Every fake smile, every posed photo, every moment I pretended to be someone I'm not for the cameras. For my family. For the brand that is Ivy Blake.
In this dream, I was at a party—one of those Hollywood gatherings where everyone is watching everyone else, calculating their next move like pieces on a chessboard. I wore a dress that cost more than most people's monthly rent, hair and makeup done to perfection.
I was laughing at something someone said, a laugh so practiced I can do it in my sleep. And then, like in all the worst dreams, I looked down and realized I wasn't wearing a designer dress at all—I was completely naked, my skin transparent so everyone could see through to my organs, my heart, my bones. But no one noticed. No one cared. They just kept talking to me, expecting me to be the Ivy they knew, while I slowly disappeared.
It was tame compared to some of the real-life nightmares I’ve had to endure. The most recent being the one Caleb put me through. I can’t believe I’d thought he was going to propose the night I found out he was cheating on me. A New Year’s Eve proposal would have been so romantic—and public enough that it would have made all the talking heads happy. I’d thought….it doesn’t matter what I thought, because it wasn’t real. Nothing about my life was real.
These men feel real.
I'm not used to people wanting nothing from me. Not my image, not my connections, not my money. Just me, whatever that means. Well, and my body. But I don’t mind that so much right now.
It was supposed to be temporary. Just until the media frenzy died down about my ex and the big NYE scandal. But I don't think I want to go back. Ever.
But there’s no rush to decide. No rush . What a concept.
My entire life has been a rush—rushing to the next event, the next photo op, the next crisis. The idea of taking my time and figuring things out slowly, is both terrifying and exhilarating.
I might not stay here. It may be comfortable now, but I know this is just a temporary stopover. But I don't think I can go back to being that person anymore.
For the first time since I arrived at this cabin in the mountains, I feel hope unfurling in my chest. Not the desperate kind that clings to fantasies, but the quiet kind that plants roots in reality. I have the opportunity to reinvent myself here. Maybe I can figure out who Ivy Blake really is, beneath all the layers of pretense.
Or maybe—and this thought is the most terrifying of all—I'll discover there really is nothing there at all.
Whatever tomorrow brings, whatever I decide to do about my life back in the city, I know one thing for certain: I'm not the same woman who arrived here a few weeks ago.
I slip out of Hank’s bed, careful not to wake him, and tiptoe my way into the kitchen. My body is still heavy with exhaustion, but there’s no way I’m crawling back under those covers.
No, what I need is coffee. I pause at the counter, staring down my nemesis. So help me, I am going to learn how to use this coffee machine on my own.
Morning light spills through the kitchen window, making the dust dance like tiny stars. Soft streaks of lavender and rose melt into the first traces of the day. The world outside is quiet, peaceful, stunningly beautiful.
I’m going to start looking for land. If I can’t find a cabin that suits me, maybe I can build one.
The coffee machine wins again. It emits angry sounding hisses and rattles and produces a sludge that can only be confused for coffee by someone without taste buds. But I don’t care. It made something. And I’m going to drink it.
I'm nursing my second cup of “coffee”—this one watered down with extra cream—when Wyatt and Holt shuffle in, both looking sleep-rumpled and too attractive for this early hour.
Wyatt's blonde hair is a mess, and Holt's dark stubble is thicker than usual. They exchange a look—the kind that passes between people who've known each other forever—before their eyes land on me. Something in their gaze makes my stomach flip.
"Morning, CG," Holt says, flashing that easy smile that probably makes women drop their panties on command. It shouldn't work on me, but my heart skips traitorously.
Wyatt heads straight for the coffee pot. "You're up early," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. His eyes linger a beat too long, as they sweep from my head down to my toes and back.
I curl my fingers tighter around my mug. "Couldn't sleep," I mutter.
Another look passes between them. I pretend not to notice, taking a sip of my not-coffee. Maybe if I play it cool, they won’t notice I’m an absolute mess. Wishful thinking.
“All night? Because you disappeared pretty early on and we didn’t find you in the living room.”
Dammit.
Heat crawls up my neck. “I had a bad dream. Hank found me and I finished the night in his bed.”
"Must've been some dream," Holt says, dropping into the chair across from me. He doesn't bother with coffee, instead reaching for an apple from the bowl in the center of the table. He takes a loud, crunching bite, still watching me.
I shift in my seat. "I don't remember much of it," I lie. "Anyway, it's fine. I'm fine."
"You don't have to be fine all the time, you know," Wyatt says quietly.
I look up, startled by the gentleness in his voice. It's the same tone he uses with Hank's fugly cat when he thinks no one's watching—soft and careful. He’s treating me like a skittish animal. Goody. Who wouldn’t want to be treated like a flight risk by the men she’s sleeping with?
"I—" I start, but the words stick in my throat. What am I supposed to say? That I'm falling apart? That I don't know who I am anymore? That I'm terrified of going back to my life but equally terrified of staying here, where these three men make me feel things I can't afford to feel?
Or that the dream wasn’t any worse than the nightmare I’d been living. That I don’t know why it affected me so strongly that I woke up practically sobbing. I’ve been an unstable, emotional mess the past couple of days.
"We want to talk to you about something," Holt says, saving me from having to respond. He exchanges another look with Wyatt, who nods slightly.
My stomach tightens. This is it. They're going to tell me it's time for me to leave. The roads will be clear soon, and I've already stayed longer than I should have. I brace myself, plastering on the smile I use for cameras and people I don't want to disappoint.
"We were thinking," Wyatt continues, setting his mug down and crossing his arms over his chest, "when the roads are completely clear, we'd like to take you out."
I blink. "Take me out?" I repeat, not comprehending.
Holt grins, a flash of white teeth against his dark stubble. "Yeah, CG. On a date."
"A date," I echo stupidly, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.
"Or dates, plural," Wyatt clarifies. "We figured we'd give you options. This whole thing isn’t exactly conventional. So, it's whatever you want, really. They could be one-on-one, or all three of us together, or both, whatever you're comfortable with."
My brain short-circuits. They want to take me on a date? All three of us? Is that even a thing people do? And why would they want to? I'm a mess, a fake, a woman who doesn't even know her own mind anymore.
And, how exactly does one date two men at the same time? I mean I know people do it, but they usually do it because they’re cheating bastards who are allergic to monogamy, or they have multiple situationships. I mean, I know poly relationships exist. I’ve read enough why choose books to understand how they work. I’ve just…never seen one in real life. Is that what this is? A relationship? With both of them?
"You don't have to decide right now," Holt adds, misinterpreting my silence. "Just something to think about."
"No, I mean—" I stammer, struggling to gather my thoughts. "I'm just...surprised."
"Why?" Wyatt asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
I gesture vaguely at myself. "Because I'm...me. And you're..." I wave my hand to encompass both of them, unable to articulate what I mean. That they're real in a way I'm not. They belong here, in this world of solid things and honest work, while I'm a mirage. I’m just a carefully constructed illusion that could vanish with a strong enough wind.
Holt laughs, the sound sends a shiver down my spine every time. "Yeah, we're us. And?"
"And I'm a walking disaster," I blurt out. "I burned eggs yesterday. I cried over a dream last night. I still cannot work that damn coffee machine. Or the vacuum. And the washing machine and I are frenemies at the moment. I don't know the first thing about living in a place like this, and I'm not sure I even know who I am anymore. Why would anyone want to date that?"
Wyatt pushes away from the counter and comes to sit at the table. His movements are deliberate, like he's trying not to spook me. Dammit. What about me seems like a skittish animal? I don’t like being treated with kid gloves. The producers used to do this, too. They acted like I was a naive child who needed to be coddled.
"Maybe because we like what we see," he says simply.
"What you see isn't real," I say before I can stop myself. "It's all..." I trail off, not wanting to explain the facade, the years of pretending, the carefully crafted image that bears little resemblance to the woman underneath.
"Bullshit," Holt says, his cheerful demeanor slipping for the moment. "We've been watching you for weeks now, CG. The real you slips out more than you think. Mistakes make you human."
I stare at him, caught between horror and fascination. "And you still want to take me on a date?"
"More than ever," Wyatt says, and his expression makes my chest tighten.
I look down at my “coffee”, trying to process this. This is crazy. I'm still sorting through the wreckage of my life, trying to figure out what's next. The last thing I should be doing is getting involved with anyone, let alone three someones who live in a world so different from mine.
Well, two someones. Hank doesn’t want me; he tolerates me.
I literally just got out of a four-year relationship with a man I thought I was going to marry. Oh, look at that. I am a naive child.
I don’t get a chance to give them an answer, because Hank walks into the kitchen. He doesn't move from the doorway, just stands there, a mountain in flannel pajama pants and a worn T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders. His hair sticks up on one side, and there's a pillow crease on his cheek. It makes him look softer, more human, less like the intimidating giant who often barely speaks two words to me.
He nods at Wyatt and Holt, barely acknowledging the conversation, then catches my eye. There's a moment—brief, charged—but it’s gone just as fast as it began.
"Breakfast," he announces, moving to the refrigerator with the steady purpose of a man on a mission.
Wyatt and Holt exchange a look, then push back from the table simultaneously. "I need to check on that leak in the guest bathroom," Wyatt says.
"And I promised to call the station," Holt adds, already backing toward the doorway. "Make sure they don't need me today. Snow’s cleared enough I can use the four wheeler to get down if I need to."
They're gone before I can process what's happening, leaving me alone with Hank. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the air as thick as the very unappetizing “coffee” I’m trying to force myself to finish.
Hank pulls eggs, bacon, and sausage from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter with methodical precision. He doesn't speak, doesn't look at me, just moves with the quiet confidence of someone in their element. Or someone very strategically trying to ignore little ol’ me. Can’t say I blame him. But we live together, so I’d like to clear the air sooner rather than later.
I clear my throat. "Need help?" The words come out raspier than I intended, and I take a sip of my cooling coffee to cover it up.
Hank glances at me, then nods toward a cabinet. "Pancake flour is in there. Bowls above the sink."
I find the bag of flour—this is the real deal, not the shake-and-pour stuff I used to buy—and grab a mixing bowl. "About last night," I begin, not sure where I'm going with this.
"Don't," Hank says, the word soft but firm.
I look up, startled. "Don't what?"
"Don't apologize for being human," he says, echoing Holt's words from earlier in a way that makes me wonder if this is a phrase they all use.
"I wasn't going to apologize," I say, though maybe I was. It's a reflex at this point—apologize first, so I don’t have to deal with the fallout later. Call it self-preservation. "I was going to thank you.”
Hank nods once, accepting this. He reaches for a cast iron skillet that hangs on the wall, his movements unhurried. "No need."
We keep working side-by-side in silence. Hank preps the pan, tossing in the bacon, and then starts slicing the sausage into patties. The knife makes wet sounds before clacking against the cutting board. I’ve never found the scent of raw meat appetizing, but this is… it’s like the smell intensified—raw, primal, suddenly overwhelming.
"I'm going to start the coffee pot again," I say, looking for any excuse to move away from the counter. "We'll need more when the guys come back."
Thankfully, Holt left it set up. All I need to do is add some grounds and press the pretty flashing button this time. Hank grunts in acknowledgment, still focused on his task. I move to the coffee maker, putting my back to him and taking shallow breaths through my mouth. This is ridiculous. I'm normally not squeamish.
I literally watched Hank skin a rabbit for a stew that I then ate.
But the smell follows me, clinging to the air. I measure coffee with shaking hands, trying to focus on the task and not the growing nausea in my gut.
Behind me, Hank adds the sausage to a separate pan, and the sizzle sends another wave of scent through the kitchen—fat rendering, meat cooking, normally appetizing but now incredibly, intensely wrong. My stomach lurches.
I grip the edge of the counter, closing my eyes and willing the sensation to pass. Maybe I'm coming down with something. A flu, a stomach bug, anything to explain this sudden aversion.
"You okay?" Hank's voice is closer than I expected. I open my eyes to find him watching me, spatula in hand, concern etched in the furrow of his brow.
"Fine," I manage. "Just a little..." I wave my hand vaguely, unable to explain what I don't understand myself.
Hank's eyes narrow, assessing. He flips the bacon with practiced ease, never looking away from my face. "You're pale."
"Am I?" I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled. "Must be the lighting in here."
The sausage pops in the pan, sending another wave of scent my way. Bile rises in my throat, hot and sudden. I press my hand to my mouth, eyes widening in horror.
"Bathroom," I choke out, already moving. "Sorry—I need?—"
I don't finish the sentence, literally can't finish it. I flee the kitchen, down the hallway to the small powder room, barely making it inside before my body revolts completely. I heave into the toilet, my empty stomach offering little but bitter acid. My eyes water, my throat burns, and humiliation washes over me in waves nearly as powerful as the nausea.
When it finally subsides, I slump against the cool porcelain, breathing hard. What is happening to me? I was fine until the meat. Even that sad excuse for coffee earlier didn't bother me. Just the meat, with its raw, animal smell. I gag again at the thought.
I push myself up shakily and flush the toilet, then move to the sink to rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror is startling—pale skin, eyes too bright, an alarming vulnerability.
A soft knock on the door makes me jump.
"Ivy?" Hank's voice, concerned but not demanding. "Need anything?"
I close my eyes, mortification washing over me anew. First crying in front of him, now this. He must think I'm a complete mess.
"I'm fine," I call back, my voice hoarse. "Must be a stomach bug."
There's a pause, and I imagine him on the other side of the door, weighing his words as carefully as he does everything else.
"I'll make toast for you," he says finally. "Plain. Easy on the stomach."
The simple kindness of it makes my throat tight for a reason that has nothing to do with nausea. "Thank you," I manage.
"Take your time," he says, and I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I turn on the faucet again, letting the cold water run over my wrists. My mind races with possibilities. A virus. Food poisoning from yesterday. Nerves about the date conversation.
But a small, quiet voice in the back of my mind offers another explanation—one I'm not ready to consider. It can't be that. No, it has to be a bug. Just a temporary thing that will pass.
I straighten up, dry my hands, and take a deep breath. Whatever this is, I'll deal with it. I've weathered public scandals, family drama, and a broken heart. I can handle a little nausea.