Page 37 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"Keep looking," Wyatt encourages, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. As he heads out the door, he adds, "Something'll turn up."

"Or you can keep enjoying the five-star accommodations here at Chez Mountain Man," Holt adds with a chuckle. His humor doesn't quite mask the sincerity behind the offer.

"Thanks," I mumble, warmth blooming in my chest at their words, even if I can't let myself settle into the comfort they offer. Not yet. Not until I find a place that's unquestionably, undeniably mine.

But I’m not having any luck. No rentals. Nothing to purchase. It’s stay here or go home. And I don’t really want to go home.

With a sigh, I close out of the browser and drift to where I know Holt is in the kitchen. Hank is actually relaxing in the living room. I didn’t know the big broody grump had an off button. It’s fascinating.

"Need a hand with anything?" I ask, glancing up at Holt who's cleaning his rifle at the other end of the table.

Holt looks up, eyes crinkling with that familiar amusement. "Unless you've suddenly developed a knack for gun maintenance, I think we're good."

"Maybe not guns," I concede, a smile tugging at my lips despite the unease knotting in my stomach. "But I must be useful for something around here."

"Your company's enough," Hank grumbles from his armchair by the fire without looking up from the book he's pretending to read. His voice is rough like gravel, but it lacks the bite I'm used to.

It’s also a far cry from his previous demand that I pull my weight. The implication stings more than it should. Am I really that useless?

I mean I know I haven’t been exactly perfect, but I'm trying. I thought that was enough. Sure, I nearly burned down thekitchen trying to make toast. I tripped over my own feet in the snow and face-planted so hard Holt had to haul me up like a sack of potatoes. Istillcannot figure out the damn coffee machine. And let’s not forget the time I mistook a coyote for a stray dog and tried to lure it inside with leftover bacon. That one nearly gave Hank an aneurysm.

But is it really any different from my old life? Back in the city, my disasters just had better lighting and a bigger audience. I once knocked over an entire champagne tower at a charity gala, sending a flood of Dom Pérignon straight into the mayor’s lap. Another time, I “accidentally” started a trend when I wore two different shoes to a red carpet event. The joke was on me, because for months, high-end designers were selling mismatched heels like it was fashion genius instead of me being a mess. And the pièce de résistance? I got locked out of my own penthouse in a silk robe and had to be rescued by firefighters—right in front of the paparazzi. That one made the front page.

The clumsiness was real. But the over-the-top dumb blonde act was what they scripted to go along with it.

Here, I’m just as clumsy, just as prone to disaster. But I thought it didn’t matter here.

I thought they didn’t judge me the way everyone else always has, that they saw me as more than a walking headline, more than the punchline to whatever viral moment I stumbled into next. I thought I was just Ivy here—not a spectacle, not a brand, not a mess to be gawked at.

But now? Now, I’m not so sure.

Maybe I was stupid to think I could just slot myself into their world, that they didn’t see me the same way everyone else does. A pretty disaster, good for entertainment, but not much else.

I stare down at my hands, fingers curling around nothing. Maybe being a reality TV star really is all I’m good at.

"Thanks, Hank, but I don't want to feel like a freeloader." The need to contribute prickles at me, persistent and urgent. I've never been one to sit idle while others work hard.

Ivy Blake didn’t become an international brand because I sat on my ass.

Wyatt walks in then, snow dusting his jacket and a cold flush on his cheeks. "Storm's gonna hit sooner than expected," he says, shaking off the chill. "We'll need more supplies if we're gonna hunker down properly."

"Let me do it." The words tumble out before doubt can hold them back. "The shopping, I mean. It's the least I can do."

Wyatt pauses, a skeptical arch to his brow. "You sure? It's no small list."

I nod, firmer this time. "I'm sure. Give me the list, and I'll handle it."

"All right." He fishes a paper from his pocket and hands it to me.

“No,” Hank declares.

“No?” I glance up, taken aback by the sharp finality in Hank’s tone. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Hank crosses his arms, leveling me with that no-nonsense look that somehow makes me feel like I’m five years old again. “I mean no. There’s stuff on that list you wouldn’t know how to pick out.”

I frown, glancing down at the paper like it might suddenly reveal some ancient, cryptic knowledge. “It’s a grocery list, Hank. Not a classified government document.”

Holt snorts from the corner, but Hank doesn’t budge. “Yeah? Tell me, princess, you know how to tell if a cut of venison’s been properly butchered? Or what kind of feed we need for the stock? How about the right type of firewood for curing in this weather?”

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