Chapter 8 Rhett
EIGHT
RHETT
I’ve been chopping wood for about thirty minutes now, and the weirdest part?
I don’t hate it.
Which is insane.
Because Ivy is exactly ten feet away, filming me from every angle like I’m starring in Lumberjacks of the North: Hearththrob Edition. And instead of gritting my teeth and growling like I usually would, I’m… letting her.
Hell, I’m almost performing. Splitting logs with cleaner swings. Wiping sweat off my brow in a way that definitely looks less like function and more like… a move.
What is happening to me?
She circles around me slowly, phone in hand, bundled in her marshmallow coat with that ridiculous fluffy pom-pom bobbing like she’s starring in a snow globe. Her boots crunch across the packed snow as she crouches for a low angle, then pops up again like she’s directing a scene.
“Can you do that again?” she asks, breathless. “That swing. Right there. From the side?”
I raise an eyebrow, resting my hand on the axe handle. “You want me to split the same log again?”
“Just once more. It was—” She flushes, then quickly recovers. “Perfect lighting. Very… cinematic.”
Cinematic.
Right.
I shake my head but set another log in place. My shoulders roll, muscles loose from repetition and heat, and I let the blade fall with a clean, satisfying crack. The wood splits in two and lands with a thump in the snow.
I hear her exhale. Not a word. Just a sound. A kind of breath you don’t notice unless you’re listening for it.
Which I am.
God help me, I fucking am.
I should hate being the object of someone’s attention. I’ve spent years ducking it—preferring the horses, the barn, the forest. Quiet things that don’t ask questions or point cameras or tilt their heads when they look at me.
But Ivy doesn’t stare like she’s prying. She watches like she wants to understand.
That might be worse.
I glance over, and she lowers her phone. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her eyes are shining with that unshakable enthusiasm she carries like a superpower. She’s smiling—soft and secret—and I feel it like a punch to the chest.
Last night, in the loft…
I almost didn’t leave that bed.
Her arm across my chest, her breath warm near my neck. The way she murmured something and nestled in closer, completely unconscious, like her body already trusted mine.
She doesn’t remember. I could tell the moment she came down the ladder this morning. No pause. No blush. No flicker of recognition when she looked at me.
Just a cheery “Morning!” and a bright-eyed smile that nearly knocked me flat.
So I didn’t mention it.
Didn’t mention her hand over my heart, or the kiss she pressed—half-dream, half-dagger—against my jaw.
Because if she didn’t know, I wasn’t going to take it from her. And if she did know but didn’t want to remember, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to make her.
So I made breakfast instead.
And now I’m chopping wood like it’s penance and praying I can keep my damn hands to myself for however long this storm has us snowbound.
My phone buzzes. I wipe my gloves off, tug it free from my pocket, and check the screen.
Sheriff Dayle.
I answer with a clipped “Ryder.”
“Hey, Rhett. Just checking in on your ridge. You and that PR girl okay?”
“We’re fine. Tree’s down across the road, but we’ve got food and heat.”
He grunts. “Good. ‘Cause we’re a little backed up clearing the main pass. Ridge roads are secondary priority until tomorrow afternoon. Might be another day or two before we get a crew out there.”
I glance toward the cabin where Ivy’s set up a tripod. “Copy that.”
“Keep warm. And stay safe.”
I hang up and stare out across the snow-covered path.
Another two days.
I can barely keep myself in check for one. She’s been here less than forty-eight hours and I’ve already had a full-blown emotional crisis under a quilt. If I spend another night in that cabin listening to her breathe while I pretend I don’t want to touch her?
Game over.
She waves at me, grinning, and calls out, “Okay, one more swing, and I think I’ve got everything I need for the opening shot!”
I nod, throat tight, and set another log on the stump.
I can do this. I can keep my distance. I can be the solid, boring man she films and forgets when she heads back to Saint Pierce.
But when I look up and see her tucking a curl behind her ear, beaming like I just lit the whole damn town square tree with one swing of my axe?
Yeah.
I’m not sure I want to.