Page 9 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

The truck rocks gently as we navigate another curve, and I can't help but watch him. He drives with purpose, hands steadyon the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. There's a solidness to him, an unspoken assurance that I find myself leaning into, if only for a moment.

I fold my arms, the cold from the window seeping into my skin, and let the silence settle once more. We drive on, the slow grind of wheels on gravel the only sound in a world gone quiet.

A little while later, the truck comes to a halt at the end of a long drive. I peer out the window, breath catching in my throat.

There's a man outside. Chopping wood. He’s humongous. Not as big as Hank, but close, with shoulders stretching the fabric of his canvas jacket, arms swinging an axe with ease.

An honest-to-God fucking lumberjack. Is this real life? The thud of metal biting into timber echoes, rhythmic and primal. His hair is this dirty blonde mess, strands sticking to his forehead under his winter cap. His beard is just long enough to be more than stubble but trimmed enough to show he cares.

His eyes haven't caught mine yet. They're focused on the block before him. Every swing is sure, powerful. He's grace in raw form, all strength and control.

My heart does a somersault, and it's not from the cold. Heat floods my cheeks. It's ridiculous. He's just a man. Some random dude. Shut up, heart.

But as he splits another log, muscles rippling down his back, foreign feelings stir inside me. I feel a rush from watching him work, like my body knows something my mind hasn't figured out yet.

He straightens up, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and turns. Those warm eyes meet mine through the glass. Surprise flickers across his features, replaced quickly by a slow-spreading grin that says he's no stranger to being watched.

"Out," Hank's voice is a low command, snapping me out of whatever this is.

I fumble with the door latch, climbing out into the crisp air. My feet crunch in the snow, and my breath puffs out in clouds. And that grin is still there, sending a jolt right through me that has nothing to do with the chill.

Hank grunts something that might be my name—or a warning—and hoists my suitcases like they're stuffed with feathers instead of my hastily packed life.

"Come on," is all he says, and I'm trailing behind him, shoes slipping in the snow, heart hammering against my ribs. We step past the lumberjack, who leans on his axe, watching us pass without a word.

The door to the cabin opens with a creak that speaks of long winters and the weight of snow. Warmth rushes out to greet me, wrapping around my chilled skin. Inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon fills my nostrils.

"Jesus, it's like walking into a postcard," I mutter to myself.

We step inside, and before I can fully take in my surroundings, movement from the couch catches my eye.

Another man.

He's younger than Hank and the axe-wielding lumberjack outside, less rugged but just as undeniably built. Where Hank is all gruff edges and quiet authority, this one is sharp angles and easy charm.

His hair is a tousled dark mess that begs for fingers to smooth it.

Thick biceps stretch the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his thighs fill out his jeans in a way that makes my stomach flip before I can stop it.

And then he grins.

It’s shit-eating and shameless, like he already knows exactly what effect he has on people.

My pulse jumps. For a split second, panic grips me—does he recognize me? But there's no flash of realization in his gaze, no moment of dawning awareness. Just interest.

He’s a flirt. That, at least, I can handle.

"Well, now," he drawls, eyes flicking over me with blatant interest. "Ain't every day Hank brings home a stray that looks like you."

"Nice to meet you," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

"Likewise," he replies, his gaze lingering as if he's trying to unravel me piece by piece. “I’m Holt.”

“Ivy.”

Hank clears his throat, an effective end to whatever moment is brewing. "This way," he says, his voice low, tugging my attention back to him.

Hank's heavy tread leads me through a living space cluttered with the comfortable chaos of lived-in spaces—a pair of boots here, a book open face-down there—then down a hallway.

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