Page 18 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Chapter 8

Ivy

I’ve spent the past few days doing absolutely nothing for once in my life, and apparently, that’s a crime.

“That’s it.” Hank’s gruff voice snaps through the cabin, cutting off any hope of another lazy morning. “You’re not just gonna sit around and eat up our hospitality.”

I blink at him from my spot on the couch, blanket wrapped around me like a burrito. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He crosses his arms, every inch the brooding mountain man. “There’s too much to be done for you to lounge around like a princess, princess.”

Before I can argue that I never asked to be here in the first place, Wyatt slides onto the armrest beside me, grinning. “C’mon, sweetheart. It won’t kill you to pitch in.”

Holt smirks from across the room, eyes glinting with mischief. “Would be a shame if you broke a nail, though.”

I scowl. “I’m not that helpless.”

“Great.” Holt claps his hands together. “Then you won’t mind helping me split some wood.”

I lift my chin. “I would mind, actually. Very much.”

Holt chuckles. “We’ll work you up to that.”

Before I can argue, Wyatt takes pity on me and slides onto the armrest beside me, grinning. “C’mon, City Girl. I’ll start you off easy.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the kitchen. His touch is warm, fingers rough with callouses, and I hate the way my pulse flutters at the simple contact. The man flirts like it’s his job, and yet, my body still reacts like I’m some naïve, lovesick girl.

Wyatt shoves a cutting board in front of me. “All right, sweetheart. Think you can handle peeling potatoes?”

I level him with a dry look. “I am a functional human being, you know?”

Wyatt leans in, voice dropping to a murmur as his lips quirk into a smirk. “Then prove it.”

Damn him.

I tuck a stray lock behind my ear and glance back at Hank. He's watching, eyes shadowed but intense.

With an exaggerated sigh, I pick up the peeler and get to work. It’s simple enough, and Wyatt stays close, his presence too warm, too distracting. Every so often, his arm brushes against mine as he moves around the kitchen, and each time, a little shiver works its way down my spine. By the time I’m finished, my hands are stiff from gripping the peeler, and I’m trying very hard to ignore the way Wyatt’s been watching me with open amusement.

“Not bad, sweetheart,” he says, tossing me a wink. “Didn’t even cut yourself.”

I roll my eyes. “Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

Before he can say anything else, Holt steps into the kitchen, tossing a bundle of clothes onto the counter. “C’mon, CG. Time to put some muscle into it.”

I stare at the clothes, then at him. “What is this?”

“Layers,” Holt says. “You’ll freeze if you go out like that.”

He’s not wrong. I’m still in leggings and a thin sweater, hardly equipped for the below-freezing temperatures outside. I sigh and pick up the bundle—a thermal, an oversized flannel, thick socks, and a jacket that smells faintly like Wyatt.

“You’re lucky I don’t look terrible in plaid,” I mutter, pulling on the layers. The clothes drown me, but at least I’ll be warm.

Wyatt smirks. “You look adorable.”

“Come on, CG!” Holt calls out from the front of the cabin.

Curious—and a little wary—I follow the deep, rumbling voice outside. The cold air bites at my face the second I step onto the porch, and I immediately regret not layering up more. Holt must notice because he sighs and shrugs off his thick jacket, draping it over my shoulders without a word.

The scent of him—woodsmoke, cedar, and pure masculinity—wraps around me, and I swallow hard. He’s so close, his fingers lingering at the edges of the fabric, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

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