I press my hand there now.
No thump.
Just cotton.
Okay, Ivy. Calm down. Just a dream. A very detailed, veryRated-Holidaydream. 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 withheart.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 spendanother dayin 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 hedidn’tsleep 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 notcold.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?”
