46. Ivy
Chapter 46
Ivy
T he thing about knitting is that it’s supposed to be relaxing. Supposed to be.
But let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing relaxing about pinching your fingers between the knitting needles for the seventh time in a row. Nothing Zen about having to unravel half a baby beanie because I somehow managed to add an extra ten stitches out of thin air. And it is certainly not stress-free when three large, lumberjack-grade men come crashing into the cabin like they own the place—because, well, they do.
I look up from my tangled mess of yarn, brow furrowed, as Hank, Wyatt, and Holt stomp their way inside, dragging in the crisp scent of pine, sawdust, and all the hard labor they’ve been up to today.
Wyatt’s grinning like he just won the lottery. Holt looks equal parts amused and exhausted. And Hank—well, Hank is Hank. Gruff, broody, so attractive in that “I could chop wood and fix your car and probably wrestle a bear” kind of way.
They kiss me in greeting before peeling off to their separate corners to wash up, change, and whatever else they need to do.
I take the moment of quiet to stretch out my fingers, flexing the soreness away, and glance down at the lumpy, misshapen baby hat in my lap. It’s…well, it’s ugly. But I tried , and that’s what matters.
A year ago, if you’d told me I’d be here—knitting, of all things, in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by three men who’ve somehow become my people—I would have laughed you right out of the room. Back then, my world was cameras and contracts, my face plastered on tabloids, my life dissected for public consumption.
Now?
Now, I’m starting over. Really starting over.
I canceled my contract with the network. No more reality TV. No more pretending. No more letting someone else dictate the story of my life.
Of course, my family didn’t take that well. At all. I expected anger and guilt trips. But I did not expect them to try and sue me for “loss of wages”. As if my existence— my work—was their paycheck. The audacity would almost be impressive if it weren’t so disgusting.
It stung. I won’t pretend it didn’t. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that walking away doesn’t always mean losing. Sometimes, it means winning in a way no one else understands.
And here? This life?
This is mine. So, I’m making it mine. I like this quiet life we’re building, but I need some creature comforts.
I paid to have the internet upgraded up here, which was a small fortune but completely worth it. Because once it’s up and running, I’ll be starting online courses. I want to get a business degree, something real and useful. I want to help Hank and Wyatt run their companies. Maybe I’ll even start my own.
I still miss some of my city comforts. I won’t lie about that. But I’ve learned to appreciate the simple things. The quiet. The way the air smells fresher here. This place—this life—feels real in a way nothing ever did before.
And these men?
They’re home.
The three of them aren’t gone long, and before I know it, they’re crowding me again.
“Whatcha got there, sweetheart?” Wyatt asks, plopping down next to me on the couch and nudging my knee with his own.
“A disaster,” I deadpan, holding up the uneven, misshapen attempt at a baby beanie. “I think I accidentally made a hat for a lopsided watermelon.”
Holt snorts, leaning over to inspect it. “Not bad for a beginner.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was dangerously close to an insult.”
Hank, of course, just stands there, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression of his. I’ve learned that means he’s thinking. Hard. Which is usually followed by him saying something either incredibly profound or infuriatingly blunt.
I brace myself. But I’m pleasantly surprised.
He jerks his chin toward the door. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I glance between him and the half-finished beanie, then at the other two, who don’t seem at all surprised. That’s enough to make me curious. I set my mess of yarn aside and push up off the couch—with help, because let me tell you, being six months pregnant with twins is no picnic. “This better not be a trick to make me help you chop wood.”
Hank doesn’t even crack a smile. He just grabs his keys and heads for the door.
Wyatt grins as he nudges me forward. “Trust me, you’ll like this.”
Outside, Hank’s new truck is parked in the drive—a proper one with a full cab. No more bench seat. This one is all tricked out and comes with a full backseat so there’s plenty of room for car seats.
They’ve all started making changes for me. Small but noticeable changes. It’s…I don’t know how to put it into words. These men have shown me what it’s like to truly be loved.
A rush of emotions swells in me.
I don’t say anything as I climb in—with help, again. The drive is quiet, the hum of the engine blending with the sound of the wind through the trees as we bump down the dirt road, deeper onto their property. Hank reaches over to rest his hand on my thigh, and I weave my fingers through his. He smiles and brings our hands to his lips before returning them to my lap.
We don’t head down the mountain like I expect. Instead, we drive further into the boys’ property. Since the snow has melted and it’s safe for me to be out and about with them, I’ve learned they actually own a nice chunk of land up here.
After about fifteen minutes, Hank slows the truck and pulls into a clearing. I blink, stepping out onto solid ground and looking around.
The view that stretches out in front of me is the most breathtaking I’ve seen yet.
The mountains roll on forever, their peaks dusted in white, framed against a sky so blue it looks unreal. The valley below is a patchwork of gold and green, the trees swaying in the wind like they’re welcoming us home.
I take a slow, stunned breath. “Wow.”
Hank shifts next to me, hands in his pockets, watching me instead of the view.
I shake my head, completely overwhelmed. “I never want to leave.”
He finally speaks, voice rough. “You won’t have to.”
My brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
Hank clears his throat, shifting like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “Come on,” he mutters, nodding toward a spot a few feet away.
I follow, because really, what else am I going to do? The other two trail behind, and when we reach the spot, I see them—blueprints.
Okay, technically, schematics.
But that’s not the point. The point is: Hank has them spread out on the hood of the truck, weighed down with a couple of rocks, and I can tell by the way his hands flex at his sides that this is important to him. That this is big.
My stomach flips. “What’s this?”
Hank doesn’t answer right away, just watches me with those steady, unreadable eyes of his. Then?—
“Our house.”
I swear, the wind gets knocked right out of me.
I blink down at the schematics, taking in the rough outlines of walls, rooms, the way the space flows together. And then I see it—big, open living areas, a kitchen meant for actual cooking, bedrooms—multiple. Enough for the twins. For more than just the twins.
“Oh my God.”
Wyatt chuckles, stepping up behind me and resting his chin on my shoulder. “It’s got everything we’ll need,” he murmurs. “Enough space for all of us. Plenty of room for the babies to run around. And Hank’s even talking about adding one of those big wraparound porches you like so much.”
Holt leans against the truck, arms crossed, grinning. “It’s gonna be a hell of a lot of work, but with some help, we’ll get it done right about the time the twins are big enough to start tearing the place up.”
My heart is pounding .
Hank lets out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll be building it myself,” he says, like he’s already anticipating an argument. “With help from some guys I’ve worked with before. But—this is my thing. I want to do this for you. For us .”
For a second, I can’t move. I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
Wyatt starts laughing as I wrap my arms around his neck. Holt is right there, solid and steady, pressing a kiss to my temple. And Hank—Hank doesn’t move at first, just watches with those sharp, serious eyes.
So I reach for him.
He steps into me, his hands firm on my waist, and when I tip my head back to look at him, his face softens.
“I love you,” I whisper.
The words come easy, like breathing.
And then he’s kissing me— they’re kissing me—Wyatt laughing into my mouth, Holt’s hands warm on my back, Hank’s grip tight like he’s never letting go.
Tears slip down my cheeks, but I don’t care.
Because this?
This is everything.