Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ivy’s legs were not steady. She told them to be. They did not listen.
She took the first step down from the stage as if she had control over her body, as if she hadn’t just stood under lights and cameras and let a man taste from her fingers in front of a crowd. Like her pulse wasn’t still trying to outrun her.
She focused on the steps. On placing her foot carefully. On not thinking about Finn behind her.
Which was impossible. Because she had seen it. The hesitation. The fraction of a second where his weight shifted before he followed her down. The way he’d masked the pain in his knee.
The Purple Heart Ranch took in wounded warriors. Everyone knew that. Everyone there carried something—visible or not.
She had never asked Finn about what had brought him to the ranch, only what had brought him to the farm. The other part hadn’t felt like her place.
Did she get to ask now? Was it rude to ask? She wanted to know what had happened to him. She wanted to know how to make it better. She didn't like the idea of Finn hurting.
She wanted to know what he had been like before. She wanted… everything.
She wanted to cook with him again. Not for a competition. Not for a crowd. Just the two of them in a kitchen where time didn’t matter, and no one was watching.
She wanted to feed him again. Properly this time. Not a staged handoff. Not a napkin between them. No one was watching except the two of them.
His mouth.
Her fingers.
It wasn’t fair. He’d tasted her twice now.
Her gaze flicked, unbidden, to his hand where it still held hers. To his thumb. She knew exactly what it looked like when it disappeared between his lips. The slow, deliberate pull. What she didn't know was what it would taste like.
How could she — accidentally on purpose— find out?
What would his kisses taste like? Would they be slow like that? Intentional?
But this was fake. There was no need for them to kiss. Except for when they won. Because, of course, they would win. The crowd size and cheers assured them of that. A kiss would be necessary along with the prize. Right?
But then what? After the fake dating, the cameras, the crowd. She wanted something after that.
Ivy's grip tightened in his. Because it wasn’t fake for her. Not anymore. She wanted more.
Not a performance. Not a moment clipped into something shareable. A real date.
Her heart pounded hard.
Fine.
She would just say it.
She would.
She would turn to him the second they were off the steps, look him in the eye, and—
They reached the bottom. And were immediately surrounded.
Voices. Movement. People pressing in, smiling, talking, congratulating, asking questions she didn’t hear because her attention had narrowed to Finn.
He didn’t let go of her hand. If anything, his grip shifted, drawing her closer, angling his body so she was slightly behind him, tucked into his side like that was where she belonged.
She liked this. Too much. The steady presence of him. The quiet, unspoken protection in the way he moved, the way he held her without making it a thing.
She leaned into it before she could stop herself. Let herself be guided. Let herself be kept.
Her other hand twitched toward her phone. She should be recording this. This was content. This was exactly the kind of thing her followers—
No, this was hers.
Not for the camera. Not for the comments. Not for anyone else to pick apart and replay and claim.
Just hers.
She left her phone where it was. Let the moment exist without trying to capture it.
Finn shifted beside her, closer still. Then he leaned down, his mouth near her ear, his voice low enough that it didn’t belong to anyone else.
"Do you want to get out of here? "
"Yes, " she said.
Or maybe she only thought it. Because before she could move, before she could turn, someone shouted, “Give us a kiss!”
The shout cut through the crowd, followed by others. Laughter. Cheers. The sudden, electric shift of attention. Cameras lifted. Lights angled.
Finn looked at her. Not composed. Not controlled. Caught. Like a deer in headlights.
Ivy didn’t think. That was the problem. Or maybe the answer. Because the want that had been building all afternoon, all day, longer than that—it surged, fast and overwhelming, washing out everything else.
She wasn’t sure who moved first. Later, she would tell herself it had been her. But in that moment, she did not care. Because Finn's lips were on hers. And hers were on his.
Both of them. Both of his lips. As she'd predicted, the balance of them, the fullness she had noticed and couldn’t forget, completely overwhelmed her.
There was no easing into it, no gentle question. His mouth took over hers, and she let him.
More than that. She leaned into it. Wanted it.
The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the press of his lips, the warmth of him, the solid, grounding presence of his body close to hers.
He tasted like the kitchen. Like tomato and salt and something earthy and real and entirely him.
Savory.
Safe.
Her fingers tightened in his shirt, anchoring herself to him as if the rest of the world had dropped away. She could have stayed there. Would have stayed there. In his arms. Against his mouth. In this moment, where nothing else existed.
But the world didn’t let them.
The lights hit her first: bright, intrusive. Then the sound. Cameras clicking. Voices rising. Someone called out again, louder this time. The reality of it crashed back in all at once.
This was not what she wanted. This was not private. This was not theirs alone.
Ivy pulled back. Even though every instinct in her body screamed to stay right where she was. But she couldn’t give this to them.
Finn let go immediately. His hand tightened around hers, no hesitation now, no performance.
He pulled her through the crowd. Fast. Decisive. A path opened for them, whether people meant for it to or not. She barely registered faces, voices, the way the noise followed them.
Finn didn’t look back. Didn’t speak.
Her heart was still racing, her lips still tingling, her entire body lit up as if something had been struck and hadn’t settled yet. They walked across the market, across the town square. They didn’t stop until they reached her door. Only then did he let go.
The absence hit instantly.
Finn stood there, a step away, his expression stricken. He dragged a hand through his hair, then looked at her—really looked at her—as if he was trying to measure something and failing.
"I’m sorry," he said. "That went too far."
"It did."
His jaw tightened, as if he was bracing for something worse. “It won’t happen again.”
“What if I want it to?”
The shift in him was immediate. Anguish gave way to confusion, his brow pulling together as he searched her face, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“But next time,” she said, softer now, steadier, even as her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest, “I don’t want any cameras on. Just the two of us.”
Slowly—so slowly she could see every stage of it—his expression changed. Like butter melting in a hot pan, the tension loosened, the sharp edges softening. And like butter added to anything worth making, it turned into something richer. Warmer.
Joy.
"There're no cameras now," he said.
"Yeah. I think now would be a good time."
Finn didn’t hesitate. This time, there was no audience, no noise, no pressure to perform. Just the quiet space between them, charged and waiting. When he stepped in, it was slower, deliberate in a different way—like he was giving her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
His hand came up, not to guide, not to claim, but to hold; fingers settling lightly on her jaw. When his mouth found hers again, it wasn’t overwhelming in the same way as before.
It was better.
Softer, but deeper. Intentional.
Finn kissed Ivy as if he meant to stay there. Ivy felt it everywhere: the slow press of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the quiet certainty in the way he held her, like this wasn’t something to rush through or prove. Something real and completely theirs.