Chapter 7 Ivy
SEVEN
IVY
The bed is warm when I wake up.
Too warm.
Like someone else was just here.
I stretch, blinking sleep from my eyes, and the cabin creaks around me.
The quilt is still tucked around my legs, and the sun—low and lazy—filters through the loft window, casting golden stripes across the wood floor.
It smells like coffee and something buttery and perfect, and for a moment, I melt into the scent.
And then I remember the dream.
The one where Rhett was in this bed.
With me.
It felt so real. Like, absurdly real. Vivid in a way dreams rarely are. I swear I could feel his chest under my hand. Solid. Steady. Then racing, like my touch set off an alarm he didn’t expect. His breath against my skin. My lips brushing his cheek. The weight of his presence next to me.
But it was just a dream.
It had to be.
I mean—there’s no way the world’s grumpiest sleigh man climbed into bed with me last night, right? He’s too principled. Too closed off. Too Rhett.
Still… I glance at the spot beside me. The covers look a little rumpled. There’s a faint indent in the pillow I definitely didn’t make. My fingers twitch like they remember the shape of him. My palm tingles where I swear I felt his heartbeat.
I press my hand there now.
No thump.
Just cotton.
Okay, Ivy. Calm down. Just a dream. A very detailed, very Rated-Holiday dream. But still a dream nonetheless.
From down below, I hear the soft clatter of pans and the low creak of cabinet doors opening and closing. Rhett’s voice murmurs something to himself, too low to make out. There’s the scrape of wood against cast iron, and I swear I smell bacon.
I grab my phone from the crate-turned-nightstand and swipe through notifications.
One from Margo.
SUBJECT: Content Status Update
MESSAGE: Hope the snow didn’t eat you. Sponsor’s asking for something ASAP—audio, teaser clip, anything with heart. Clock’s ticking. Give me magic, Ivy.
No pressure.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge, cheeks still flushed from the dream, the email, and the realization that I’m going to have to spend another day in close quarters with the man my subconscious just turned into the leading man in a snowed-in romance.
Down on the main level, Rhett moves with his usual quiet precision. By the time I climb down the ladder, he’s at the stove in flannel and jeans, sleeves pushed up, hair a little tousled like maybe he didn’t sleep much either.
“Morning,” I say, testing the waters.
He glances over, then back to the skillet. “Coffee’s on. Mugs on the table.”
His voice is a touch gruffer than usual, but not cold. Not clipped.
Almost…warm?
I grab a mug—the one I used last night, because I respect boundaries—and pour myself a cup. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Biscuits and bacon,” he says simply. “Storm burned itself out. Road’s probably still blocked, but sky’s clear. Should be able to cut the tree later.”
“That's good,” I say, then bite my lip and open my email again. I read Margo’s message like a stress mantra and turn toward him. “Would you be okay filming a little more today? Just some extra content. Small stuff.”
He doesn’t look at me for a second. Just flips a strip of bacon with a fork that somehow looks way too intense for such a task. “What kind of content?”
I smile into my coffee. “Authentic. Atmospheric. Rural rustic chic.”
“English, Ivy.”
I grin now, because this is familiar territory. “I mean…you. Doing what you do. Whatever that is. I can be a fly on the wall.”
He finally looks at me. There’s a long pause. Then: “I’m chopping wood after breakfast.”
My brain stutters.
Chopping wood.
Rhett. Flannel. Axe.
I nearly choke on my coffee.
“That,” I say, voice too high, “is…perfect.”
His brow arches. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I am,” I whisper into my cup.
He doesn’t smile.
But his mouth twitches.
Just the smallest shift, like he’s holding it back, like he knows what he’s doing.
Great. Fantastic. I’m spending the day watching a ruggedly handsome man swing an axe while I try not to combust like a candy cane in the sun.
No big deal.
I take another sip and try to get a grip.
It was just a dream. A stupid, cinnamon-scented, shirtless-dream Rhett. And this is real life. Where I film tasteful, rustic content and do not think about climbing him like a Christmas tree.
“Okay,” I say, setting my mug down with determination. “Let’s go make something magical.”
He nods once. “You’ll need gloves.”
“I brought spares,” I chirp, already mentally reviewing every angle that won’t get me labeled the Flannel Thirst Elf on TikTok.
He plates the bacon, sets it on the table, and gestures for me to sit.
And for the next few minutes, we eat in a comfortable, quiet rhythm.
But I swear I catch him glancing at me once or twice.
And for the first time since I got here, I’m not entirely sure I’m the only one trying to act like something didn’t happen last night.
Even if it was just a dream… I’m starting to wonder if maybe he had one too.