Chapter 9 Ivy
NINE
IVY
There should be a law against men like Rhett chopping wood in public.
Or in private.
Or within a fifty-foot radius of an emotionally vulnerable PR gal with a camera and a thing for forearms.
Because watching him now… yeah. It does something to me.
He sets each log on the stump with this calm, lethal precision, grips the axe like it’s an extension of his body, and brings it down in one smooth, powerful arc.
The crack of wood splitting echoes through the trees, sharp and satisfying.
Muscles bunch under his flannel. Breath puffs in the cold air.
The whole thing is absurdly, unfairly… hot.
“Just hold it there for a second,” I call, framing him in profile as he pauses, axe resting against his shoulder.
He glances over, breath fogging, cheeks flushed from exertion and wind. “You getting your cinematic?”
Oh, I’m getting something.
“Yep,” I say, keeping my voice breezy instead of feral. “Very rustic. Very… authentic.”
He huffs and goes back to work, but I catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
My chest feels warm and fizzy, like I’ve swallowed a cup of champagne and three candy cane cookies. This isn’t just attraction anymore. Not just “wow, nice hands, would like to see again in different lighting.”
It’s the way he brings in extra wood before the storm hits. The way he knows the sound of bad wind from show-off wind. The way he made biscuits this morning without a single comment about it being “women’s work”—just a quiet, competent man in a kitchen making sure I ate.
I’m in trouble.
He finishes the last log and sinks the axe into the stump with a practiced thud. I lower my phone and give him a thumb-up. “That was perfect. You’re officially the star of ‘How To Survive Winter and Also Accidentally Make the Internet Swoon.’”
“Hard pass on the swooning,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. But his tone is softer than it would’ve been two days ago. Less edge, more… resigned amusement.
He heads toward the porch, and I hurry to help stack the wood. It’s mindless, comforting work—wood, step, stack, repeat. My fingers tingle in my gloves, not from cold, but from being near him.
When we’re done, he frowns.
“Bad news?” I ask, heart wobbling.
“Sheriff called earlier,” he says. “They’re having trouble with the main pass. Plows are working double, but ridge roads are lower priority.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re probably stuck up here another day. Maybe two.”
“Oh.” I try to sound casual, but my voice does a little slide on the way out. “So… more storm mode.”
“More storm mode,” he confirms.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
On one hand: my job, my boss, my deadlines, my life in Saint Pierce. The longer I stay, the more Margo’s emails are going to sound like sirens.
On the other hand: this cabin. This quiet. This man in flannel who chops wood and feeds horses and looks at storms like old rivals and makes biscuits that ruin my life.
I should be panicking. Instead, my stomach does a slow, traitorous flip.
“Guess I’ll have plenty of time to edit,” I say lightly. “And…film more content.”
He nods. “Sponsor’ll get their bells.” And then, more quietly: “You okay with staying?”
The fact that he asks floors me. Like it actually matters to him how I feel about being trapped on his mountain. Like I’m not just some chaos elf who broke his sleigh and invaded his cabin.
“Yeah,” I say, surprising both of us. “As long as I’m not driving you crazy.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “The jury’s still out.”
Warmth curls low in my belly.
We head inside as the sky turns soft and pink at the edges. The day settles into a slow, easy rhythm. I upload footage and rough together a teaser cut while he checks the fence line and brushes the horses. When he steps out, the cabin feels too big. When he comes back in, it feels exactly right.
By dinner, the world is blue twilight and chimney smoke. Another small snow storm rolls in, quieter than the one before.
We eat at the small table—simple food that tastes better than it has any right to. Pan-seared something, vegetables, leftover biscuits warmed on the stove. It’s quiet but not empty. Comfortable. The kind of silence that feels like a blanket, not a wall.
After, we migrate to the couch.
It’s the same couch he slept on last night, but now there’s a firelight glow and a hand-knit quilt and two mugs of tea standing guard on the low table. I tuck my legs under me at one end. He sits at the other, one arm draped along the back, legs crossed at the ankle.
The space between us feels charged and calm at the same time.
“Tell me about Saint Pierce,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What do you want to know?”
“What makes you stay there?”
The question lands deeper than I expect. “My job. My friends. The coffee shop that knows my order without judgment.” I shrug. “I like that it’s busy, but not…too big. And it’s close enough that I can come up to places like this when I need room to breathe.”
He nods like that makes sense. “You’re good at what you do.”
It’s not a question.
“I try,” I say. “It’s like… taking all the parts of a story that people skip over and making them shine. The quiet hands. The little rituals. The way someone checks a strap twice instead of once.” I glance at him. “You’re very good content, by the way.”
He huffs out a breath. “Glad my neuroses are marketable.”
“Extremely.” I smile, shifting slightly toward him. “What about you? Why are you living on a mountain top secluded from the world?”
Silence stretches. It’s not awkward.
He stares into the fire for a long moment. His jaw works, like he’s chewing on something invisible. “I don’t talk about it much,” he says finally. “Iraq.”
The air shifts.
I straighten, tucking my hands under my thighs so I won’t reach for him too fast. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His gaze stays on the flames, the light painting the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Most people want the movie version. Clean lines. Good guys, bad guys. ‘Thank you for your service’ and then change the subject.”
I swallow. “I don’t need the movie version.”
He nods once. The wood pops softly.
“We were out on a routine escort,” he starts, voice low and steady in that way that makes my chest ache. “Nothing flashy. Nothing that should’ve gone sideways. I was driving second vehicle. Sun was…too bright. Heat coming off the road like you could fall into it.”
He pauses. I don’t rush him.
“We missed the signs,” he says. “That’s the part that sticks.” His fingers curl, like they’re remembering the feel of a steering wheel. “The kids who weren’t on the street. The shutter that closed too fast. We rolled right into it like a gift.”
My throat goes tight.
“The blast took the lead truck,” he continues.
“Man in front—my friend—was gone before I could even process the sound. After that it was noise. Dust. Smoke. Training.” He exhales through his nose.
“You move. You do what you’re supposed to.
And then later, when it’s quiet, you’ve got this loop in your head.
All the ways you should’ve seen it coming. ”
I want to reach for him so badly my fingers tingle.
“Christmas was a few weeks later,” he says. “We were back at base. Somebody put up tinsel. Somebody played carols on a busted speaker. There was a folding chair where he should’ve been sitting.”
He finally looks at me, eyes darker than the room.
“Holiday lights don’t sit right after that,” he says simply. “You look at a tree and all you can see is the empty space around it.”
My heart cracks cleanly in two.
I don’t offer platitudes. I don’t say you couldn’t have known or you did your best, even though both are probably true. I just let myself move, closing the space between us inch by inch.
“Rhett,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”
His jaw flexes. “It was a long time ago.”
“It doesn’t have to stop hurting to be old.”
We’re close now. Our knees almost touch. The fire hums, and the wind outside the walls might as well not exist. It’s just us and the quiet.
I reach out, giving him all the time in the world to pull away.
He doesn’t.
My fingers rest lightly over his hand where it’s fisted on his thigh. Warm. Solid. He untangles his hand slowly, flips it, and threads his fingers through mine.
The simple contact sends a shock through me, hot and fragile and huge.
“I like it here,” I admit, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “With you. Even with the storm. Even with the axe and the chainsaws and the couch that probably tried to murder you last night.”
His mouth twitches. “It failed.”
“I’m glad,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. Once. Twice. Each pass is a question.
“Ivy,” he says, and I feel my name in the center of my chest. “You’re going back to Saint Pierce when the road opens.”
“Yes.” My voice wobbles. “That’s the plan.”
“You got a life there.”
“I do.”
He nods slowly, like he’s testing the shape of the truth between us.
“Doesn’t change this,” he murmurs.
“Doesn’t change what?” I ask, and I’m pretty sure I know, but I need to hear it anyway.
“The fact that I’ve been trying not to touch you since you fell into my sleigh,” he says quietly. “And I’m losing that battle.”
Heat floods my face, my chest, my whole body. My pulse trips over itself.
“I—” I start, then laugh breathlessly. “Same. Just…in case that helps.”
The corner of his mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “You sure?”
I squeeze his hand. “Yes.”
He shifts closer.
The room narrows to the inch of space between us, charged and crackling. He reaches up, slow enough for me to stop him if I want to, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers skim my jaw. My skin prickles.
“Ivy,” he says again, softer. A warning. A prayer.
“Yes?” I breathe.
“Gonna kiss you now.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Good. Yes. Please.”
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine.
The first brush is gentle—testing, reverent. But the second isn’t. The second is hungry.
Heat slams through me.
I make a sound in the back of my throat—half sigh, half something wilder—and he catches it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of my neck, sending sparks down my spine. I lean into him, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him closer.
He comes willingly.
The world tilts. Our lips move together, slow then faster, like we’ve been kissing in every timeline but this one and we’re just now catching up. His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me as I shift, closing the last of the distance between us.
I end up half in his lap, knees bracketing his thigh, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure he can feel it.
He definitely feels it.
His chest rises and falls under my palms, breath coming rougher now. He angles his head, deepening the kiss again, and I open for him without thinking. Heat blooms everywhere—my mouth, my skin, my bones.
He tastes like tea and something darker. Like winter and fire and all the things I didn’t know I needed.
When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only by an inch. Our breaths tangle. His forehead rests against mine, eyes closed like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Hell,” he murmurs. “That was a mistake.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh,” I say quietly, trying to pull back.
His hand tightens on my waist, keeping me close. “Not that kind of mistake,” he says, voice rough. “The kind you want to make again and know you shouldn’t.”
Something unknots in my chest.
“We’re snowed in on a mountain,” I whisper. “I think the universe is rooting for bad decisions.”
He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh and kisses me again, quick and soft this time.
“We’ll figure it out when the road opens,” he says, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Saint Pierce. All of it.”
“And until then?” I ask, heart in my mouth.
His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, and there’s nothing grumpy in it now. Just heat and something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Until then,” he says, voice low, “I’m gonna spend an irresponsible amount of time kissing you on this couch.”
My pulse trips over itself. “Sounds like a very solid content strategy.”
He groans softly. “You and your content.”
“You knew what I was when you let me in your barn,” I tease.
He kisses me again before I can say anything else, and this time there’s no space left between us at all.
The storm outside has finally gone quiet.
Inside, I’m a blizzard.