16

Chapter 2: Stuck in the mud

Ashton Steele had closed mergers worth billions, talked his way through hostile acquisitions, and once convinced a congressman to co-sponsor legislation he didn’t even understand. But in all his years, he had never been defeated by a field.

Until now.

He stood behind his Mercedes, glaring at the rear tires, which were currently half-submerged in the soggy, unforgiving mud of Willow Creek’s back roads. Each time he’d tried to reverse, the wheels had only spun deeper, flinging muck up the side of the car like nature’s cruel joke.

He reached into his blazer for his phone—again. Still no signal. Of course.

“Need a push, city boy?”

He turned. Ivy Carter stood a few yards away, leaning casually against a fence post with that infuriating pitchfork in hand and a grin that said she was enjoying this far too much.

“This isn’t funny,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she said, her smile widening. “You and your fancy GPS thinking you could just drive onto a sodden pasture like it’s a valet lot. You’re lucky the cows weren’t still out here. They’d have taken one look at that car and decided to redecorate.”

Ashton ignored her and knelt beside the car, peering beneath the chassis. The mud clung like concrete, thick and heavy. He tried pushing the car once more, the engine whining helplessly before he gave up and slammed the door.

“Do you have a landline?” he asked.

She laughed. “What year do you think it is? No one’s used a landline here since my grandma’s knee surgery in ’09.”

“Satellite phone? Anything?”

“Nope. Jack’s Tow Service is your best bet,” Ivy said. “But Jack won’t come out in this weather. Or after five. Or if he’s watching a game. Which he is.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke about Jack.” She adjusted her hat. “Looks like you’re stuck for the night.”

Ashton looked down at his mud-streaked shoes, then back at the porch. The farmhouse wasn’t exactly five-star, but it was dry, and he was soaked to the bone. His pride whispered sleep in the car. His common sense slapped that idea down fast.

“Do you have a spare room?” he asked through clenched teeth.

She didn’t move for a second. Then her eyes twinkled.

“You’re not sleeping in my room, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking—never mind.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’ll pay you. Just until the morning.”

Ivy looked amused. “You think I want your money for giving you a dry couch? You still think everything’s a transaction, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth, but she was already walking past him.

“Come on, Mr. Steele,” she called over her shoulder. “Try not to fall on your way in. The porch steps are slick, and I’d hate to explain to the sheriff why there’s a dead CEO in my front yard.”

---

Inside the house was warmer than Ashton expected. Cozy, in that cluttered, homey way he found both comforting and chaotic. The living room had quilt-covered chairs, faded family photos on the walls, and a brick fireplace that looked like it hadn’t worked since the Reagan administration.

Ivy tossed him a towel. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Try not to track mud all over my mama’s floors. She might be dead, but I’ll still hear her voice.”

He caught the towel and hesitated. “Thank you… for not leaving me out there.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “I still haven’t decided whether you’re a trespasser or a houseguest.”

He made his way down the hall, his wet shoes squishing with every step. The bathroom was small but clean, the scent of lavender soap and pine cleaner lingering in the air. He peeled off his soaked jacket and looked in the mirror.

His hair, normally slick and neat, was a wind-blown mess. His white dress shirt was translucent with rain, clinging to his skin. His expression was hard to read—somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

What was he even doing here?

Back in New York, his assistant probably thought he was dead. His board was expecting him to present quarterly growth strategies by Monday. Yet here he was, drying off in a stranger’s bathroom, stuck on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

And Ivy Carter… she wasn’t what he’d expected. Not at all.

She was blunt. Sharp. Borderline rude. But there was something else—integrity, maybe. Or defiance. Or a kind of fierce loyalty to this place that made him… curious.

That curiosity was dangerous.

He came out to find her in the kitchen, spooning thick stew into two mismatched bowls. “It’s deer meat,” she said. “Don’t wrinkle your nose. It’s lean and it’ll warm you up.”

“I wasn’t going to wrinkle my nose,” Ashton lied.

She handed him a bowl and pointed to the table. “Sit. Eat. Then I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

They ate in silence for a while. The stew was better than he expected—rich, seasoned, and hearty. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until his spoon scraped the bottom.

“You cook well,” he admitted.

“Grew up cooking for five,” she said. “Only two of us now. Me and Granny Mae. She’s visiting my aunt in Alabama this week. Otherwise, she’d be grilling you about where your people are from and why your watch ticks too quietly.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“She’s a hoot.”

When they were done, she led him to the living room and tossed a pillow on the old plaid couch. “It’s lumpy. There’s a draft. And I don’t do turndown service. But it beats sleeping in your metal box.”

“I’ve stayed in worse,” he said.

“Yeah?” Ivy smirked. “Like where?”

He paused. “A conference in Vegas. Hotel ran out of rooms. I had to sleep in a suite with a broken air conditioner and no minibar.”

She rolled her eyes. “Poor thing.”

He looked at her, about to say something sarcastic, but stopped. Her smile wasn’t mocking anymore. It was tired. Honest.

“You really love this place, don’t you?” he asked.

She looked away. “I do. Even when it rains. Even when it’s hard. It’s my home.”

Ashton nodded slowly.

He stretched out on the couch as she flicked off the lights.

“If you snore,” she said as she started up the stairs, “I reserve the right to hit you with a broom.”

“Understood.”

Silence settled over the house, broken only by the ticking of a nearby clock and the occasional creak of the old wooden frame shifting against the wind.

Ashton lay staring at the ceiling.

Something about this town was pulling him in.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist.