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Chapter 3: Hay, Dirt, and Ego Bruises

The rooster crowed at a time Ashton was convinced no decent person should be conscious. The piercing call jolted him from his sleep on the couch, and for a disoriented moment, he thought he was in some sort of corporate nightmare.

Then he opened his eyes and saw the wooden rafters, the frayed quilt over his legs, and the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen.

Reality hit harder than jet lag.

He groaned and sat up, wincing at the crick in his neck. The couch, while serviceable, had clearly retired from comfort years ago.

He dragged himself into the kitchen where Ivy stood barefoot, flipping something in a cast iron pan. She was already dressed in jeans and a faded blue tee. Her braid was tighter today, but strands still rebelled around her temples. She looked casual. At home.

She looked like she belonged here.

Ashton cleared his throat. “Do people really wake up at this hour on purpose?”

She didn’t even glance at him. “No one’s holding a board meeting. You’re just in the country now. The farm doesn’t care about your sleep schedule.”

He muttered something under his breath and reached for a coffee mug.

She slid one toward him, black and chipped. “Don’t expect frothy milk or imported beans. That’s pure dark roast, brewed on the stove. It’ll kick you in the teeth.”

He took a sip—and nearly choked. “This tastes like liquid coal.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Despite the bitterness, Ashton drank. Warmth spread through him, and a tiny part of him admitted that even the terrible coffee was better than no coffee.

He glanced at the window. Rain still streaked down the glass, though the wind had died.

“I called Jack last night,” Ivy said, flipping her pancake. “Left a message on his voicemail. If the weather clears, he’ll be by this afternoon with his tow truck.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow. “Jack’s your mechanic-s***h-weather forecaster now?”

“Jack’s got a bum knee that acts up when storms are close. Says it’s better than any Doppler radar.”

“That’s… wildly unscientific.”

“Maybe. But he’s right most of the time.” She tossed him a plate with two golden-brown pancakes and a spoonful of honey. “Eat. Then you’re helping with the animals.”

He paused. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You’re still under my roof, and you’ve tracked mud through half my hallway. You can repay me with labor.”

He blinked at her. “You’re serious?”

“As a calf breach in spring.” She smirked. “Don’t worry. You’ll only smell like a barn for a few hours.”

Against his better judgment—and because arguing had failed yesterday—he followed her out after breakfast, now in a borrowed flannel shirt and a pair of old rubber boots she’d tossed at him earlier with the instructions, “Don’t cry if you step in something warm.”

---

The barn was larger than it looked from the outside. Red paint peeled at the corners, but it was solid, the scent of hay and wood and animal thick in the air. Cows stirred in their stalls, and a goat bleated somewhere in the back.

“I need you to help with feed,” Ivy said, lifting a fifty-pound sack with ease. “You’re taller than me, so you can reach the top shelf. Just don’t drop it on your foot. Those shoes you were so proud of are useless here.”

“Noted,” Ashton muttered, dragging the sack behind him.

By the time they finished feeding the animals, Ashton had hay in his hair, dirt on his knees, and one very wet boot after an unfortunate misstep near the goat trough.

“I am a corporate executive,” he grumbled, glaring at the goat that had just sneezed on his leg. “Not a stable boy.”

“Right now, you’re Ivy’s assistant. Get used to it.”

She flashed him a grin before disappearing around the corner with a bucket of water.

Despite the mud, the mess, and the overwhelming barn smell, Ashton found himself—strangely—not hating it.

He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: the situation, or the fact that Ivy Carter seemed to be enjoying watching him suffer.

When he finally stumbled back toward the entrance, Ivy was waiting, holding a hose.

“Don’t you dare—” he started, but she had already squeezed the nozzle.

Cold water blasted him in the chest.

“IVY!”

She was laughing too hard to speak, doubled over with tears in her eyes. “Oh my God… the look on your face…”

He stood there, soaked, blinking water from his eyes, unsure whether to shout or laugh.

Then he laughed.

It surprised them both.

For the first time in forty-eight hours, something in his shoulders eased.

---

Later, after changing into dry clothes and drying off by the fireplace, Ivy made them grilled cheese sandwiches and soup from a pot she’d had simmering since morning.

“So,” Ashton asked between bites, “you’re really not going to sell. Not for double the appraisal. Not for triple?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

She looked at him, serious again. “Because I don’t want to be part of turning this place into another corporate zone. You call it progress. I call it paving over people’s lives.”

“And what about survival?” he challenged. “What if someone offered you enough money to never work again?”

“I don’t want to never work,” she said. “I love this work. That’s the part you don’t get. Not everything’s about getting out.”

He studied her. “You ever think about leaving? Even once?”

“I did leave. For a while. Went to Charlotte. Big job offer. Fancy office, health insurance, iced lattes. Lasted six months.”

“What happened?”

“My dad got sick. Cancer. I came home to help. He died. Then Mama passed a year later. After that… I couldn’t leave. This land—it’s all I had left of them.”

Her voice didn’t crack, but it trembled just slightly at the edges.

He didn’t press further. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he knew what it meant to lose someone.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

She shrugged like she didn’t care. But her eyes looked far away.

“Don’t be,” she said. “Life happens. You do what you can with the pieces.”

---

That night, as the storm let up and the wind died down, Ashton found himself staring at the ceiling again, restless under the weight of unfamiliar silence.

The city had always been his rhythm—sirens, honking, elevator chimes, the low hum of electricity in the walls. But here, there was only the creak of wood, the occasional owl outside, and the ticking clock on the mantel.

He turned onto his side, facing the window.

He thought of Ivy’s voice—steady, stubborn, sincere.

He thought of her laugh when she sprayed him with the hose.

And he wondered what the hell he was doing.

This was supposed to be a business trip.

A land deal.

A quick signature, a flight back, and a new facility for the press release.

But now… he didn’t know.

Something about this place—and this woman—was burrowing under his skin.

And he didn’t know whether to fight it…

…or let it in.