Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
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.
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.