Wild At Heart Sanctuary

By: Hazel Green

A Grumpy Sunshine Fake Dating Romance

He needs a stable reputation to save his sanctuary. She needs a place to hide from her corporate burnout. A fake relationship is the perfect solution… until it stops being fake.

Ivy Quinn is done with being “professional.” After walking out on her soul-crushing graphic design job in Chicago, she flees to the middle of nowhere with nothing but a sketchbook and a desperate need for a fresh start. What she finds at Wild at Heart Sanctuary is a muddy, chaotic mess—and a sanctuary director who looks at her tattoos like they’re a safety hazard.

Dr. Leo Walker has one goal: keep the sanctuary running. But between a crumbling budget and a conservative investor who threatens to pull funding because Leo doesn’t fit the “stable family man” image, he’s drowning. He doesn’t have time for the chaotic artist with the Doc Martens and the attitude, no matter how good she is with the animals.

But when the investor demands to meet Leo’s “partner” to secure the expansion grant, Ivy makes a wild proposal: she’ll play the part of the devoted girlfriend.

It’s a simple business arrangement. The Rules:

Keep it professional.
No real feelings.
Definitely no kissing in the parking lot after a donor dinner.

But as they navigate forced proximity, late-night emergency intakes, and a baby zebra named Zola who thinks she’s a puppy, the lines begin to blur. Leo realizes that beneath Ivy’s “grumpy misfit” armor is the only person who sees the real him. And Ivy starts to wonder if the man she called “Dr. Golden Boy” might actually be the home she’s been running toward all along.

When the lies start to threaten the very sanctuary they’re trying to save, Leo has to decide: keep up the perfect image, or risk everything for a love that’s messy, complicated, and terrifyingly real.

Wild at Heart Sanctuary is a steamy, sweet, and emotional contemporary romance featuring a grumpy veterinarian, a sunshine (but sarcastic) artist, and a cast of adorable rescue animals.

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WILD AT HEART SANCTUARY CHAPTER ONE

The pothole came out of nowhere.

Ivy’s sedan lurched sideways, and she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands as muddy water exploded across her windshield. The wipers smeared it into a brown streak that somehow made visibility worse.

“Perfect,” she muttered, squinting through the mess. “Just perfect.”

The GPS on her phone had given up ten minutes ago, the little blue dot freezing in place before the screen went dark with a cheerful “No signal available!” message. Of course. Because driving into the middle of nowhere to volunteer at some struggling animal sanctuary—a place she’d found on a desperate 3 AM internet search—was exactly the kind of stupid, impulsive decision she’d been making since quitting her job three weeks ago.

No. Not quitting. Fleeing.

Another pothole rattled her teeth. The dirt road—if it could even be called that—twisted through dense pine forest, the trees pressing in on both sides like they were trying to swallow the path entirely. The air smelled like rain and something earthy, almost animal. It was nothing like Chicago. Nothing like the sterile, air-conditioned design studio where she’d spent the last two years of her life slowly dying inside.

Ivy’s knuckles were white on the wheel. The car fish-tailed slightly, and she eased off the gas, her heart hammering. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. She should turn around, drive back to the city, update her resume, and apply for another soul-crushing junior designer position creating pop-up ads for teeth whitening kits.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. Her reflection stared back: tired eyes, a faded Pixies t-shirt she’d owned since college, the silver nose ring her mother had hated. The botanical tattoo on her forearm—delicate leaves and petals winding from wrist to elbow—stood out starkly against her pale skin.

Unserious. Flighty. A misfit.

That’s what her old boss had called her. Well, not to her face. But she’d overheard him on the phone with a client: “Ivy? Oh, she’s… you know. Creative type. A little chaotic. We’re working on making her more… professional.”

She’d walked out that afternoon.

The trees finally opened up, and Ivy’s foot eased off the gas as a large wooden sign appeared on her right. The paint was faded, the letters barely legible: WILD AT HEART SANCTUARY.

Beneath it, in smaller letters: A safe haven for rescued wildlife.

The sign tilted slightly to one side, like it had given up trying to look impressive years ago.

Ivy pulled into what might generously be called a parking area—really just a patch of dirt and gravel next to a cluster of low buildings. She put the car in park and sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel, staring at the main building.

It was rustic. And by rustic, she meant broke.

The building was a single-story structure with peeling white paint and a sagging front porch. A handmade banner hung above the door—”Welcome Volunteers!”—but one corner had come loose and flapped in the breeze. To the left, she could see a series of wooden enclosures and metal fencing, some of it looking newer than others. Beyond that, the land rolled away into open fields dotted with trees.

It smelled like hay. And mud. And something indefinable that was probably just… animals.

Ivy took a deep breath and opened her car door.

Her platform Doc Marten sank six inches into the mud.

“Oh, you have got to be—”

She yanked her boot free with a squelch and tried to find more solid ground. There wasn’t any. Every step was a careful negotiation between puddles and soft earth that wanted to eat her footwear.

By the time she reached the porch steps, both boots were caked in mud, her jeans were splattered, and she was pretty sure she’d stepped in something that definitely wasn’t just dirt.

This was a mistake.

But she’d driven three hours. She’d told the sanctuary manager—Dr. Meera something—that she’d be here. And she had exactly seventy-three dollars in her checking account until she figured out what the hell she was doing with her life.

So. Animals it was.

Ivy wiped her boots on the edge of the porch—it didn’t help—and pushed through the door.

The inside of the main office was chaos contained in a single room.

Mismatched filing cabinets lined one wall, their drawers half-open and overflowing with papers. An ancient coffee maker gurgled in the corner, filling the air with the smell of burnt coffee. The desk at the center of the room was buried under folders, sticky notes, and what looked like medical charts. A poster on the wall showed a cheerful giraffe with the caption: “Every Animal Deserves a Second Chance!”

The giraffe looked more optimistic than Ivy felt.

“You must be Ivy!”

Ivy turned. A woman stood up from behind the desk—mid-fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a practical bun and warm brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a fleece vest over a button-down shirt and had the kind of smile that made you want to trust her immediately.

Ivy’s defenses went up.

“Uh. Yeah. Hi.”

“Dr. Meera Patel.” The woman came around the desk, her hand extended. Her handshake was firm, confident. “We are so glad you’re here. Really. We need all the help we can get, and when I saw your email about graphic design experience—well, you’re an answer to prayers.”

Ivy blinked. She hadn’t expected that. She’d expected judgment. She’d expected the same look her old boss used to give her when she showed up to client meetings in her band t-shirts and ripped jeans instead of the “business casual” uniform everyone else wore.

“It’s… it’s not that much experience,” Ivy said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “I mean, I did corporate stuff. Logos, mostly. Some branding packages. Nothing special.”

“Nothing special?” Meera laughed, gesturing to the cluttered office. “Ivy, look around. Our current ‘branding’ is a ten-year-old logo I made in Microsoft Word. You could sneeze on a napkin and it would be an improvement.”

Despite herself, Ivy felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Almost a smile.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Meera asked, already moving toward the gurgling machine. “I’ll warn you—it’s terrible. But it’s caffeinated.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Meera poured two mugs, both of them chipped and mismatched. She handed one to Ivy. The coffee smelled like it had been sitting on the burner since yesterday.

Ivy took a sip. It tasted like it smelled.

“So, welcome to Wild at Heart,” Meera said, leaning against the desk. “I know the drive out here is a bit rough. And I know we’re… well, we’re not exactly the Smithsonian. But what we lack in funding, we make up for in heart. Every animal here is a rescue. Every single one.”

Ivy cradled the coffee mug, feeling the warmth seep into her hands. “What kind of animals?”

“Everything.” Meera’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got a zebra foal whose mother was killed by poachers. A barn owl with a damaged wing. Three white-tailed deer who were orphaned in a fire. We just took in a baby porcupine last month—”

The door burst open.

Ivy jumped, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her mug.

A man strode in, and the whole energy of the room shifted.

He was tall, maybe early thirties, with the kind of face that belonged on a university brochure: square jaw, serious eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, light brown hair that looked like it had been combed this morning but had given up by noon. He wore a khaki work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dirt-stained jeans, and boots that had seen some serious action. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, and his other hand held a phone.

He didn’t look at Ivy. He was laser-focused on Meera.

“Meera, the feed shipment is late again,” he said, his voice clipped and urgent. “And Henderson’s assistant just called—they need the quarterly reports by end of day, and I haven’t even started the section on operating costs because the invoices from last month are still—”

He looked up.

Saw Ivy.

For half a second, his entire face transformed. The urgency smoothed out, replaced by something practiced, something automatic. A smile clicked into place—warm, professional, the kind of smile that probably worked wonders on donors.

“Oh. Hello. Welcome.”

Then his eyes moved. Down from her face to her Pixies t-shirt. To her ripped black jeans. To the muddy platform Doc Martens.

To the botanical tattoo curling up her forearm.

The smile tightened.

It was subtle—just a slight shift in his expression, a brief flicker of something in his eyes—but Ivy saw it. She’d seen that look before. The assessment. The judgment. The mental calculation that added up to: This person is not professional.

His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it like he was trying to work out a knot. A tell.

Ivy’s spine straightened. Her free hand moved instinctively to cross over her tattooed arm.

“Ivy,” Meera said smoothly, “this is Dr. Leo Walker. He’s our lead veterinarian and sanctuary director.”

“Dr. Walker,” Ivy said flatly.

“Leo, please.” The smile was still there, but it looked like it was held in place with fishing wire. “It’s great to meet you. Meera mentioned we’d have some help with… with the branding.”

His eyes flicked to her tattoo again. Just for a second.

Ivy felt her jaw tighten.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s me. The help.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

Leo cleared his throat. “Well. Great. That’s… great. Meera, I need you in my office. Now. We need to talk about the Henderson situation before—” He caught himself, glancing at Ivy. “Before end of day.”

He gave Ivy a nod—polite, dismissive, professional—and turned toward a door at the back of the office.

“Excuse us for just a moment, Ivy,” Meera said, her voice apologetic. “Leo, I’ll be right there.”

Leo disappeared through the door, and Ivy heard his footsteps retreating down a hallway.

Meera sighed, setting down her coffee mug. “I apologize. It’s been a stressful few weeks. Funding issues. Leo’s doing his best, but…” She trailed off, then seemed to catch herself. “Anyway. Let me show you around. You’re going to love the animals.”

Ivy didn’t move. She was still staring at the door Leo had disappeared through.

She knew that look. That assessment. That subtle, instinctive recoil when someone saw her tattoos, her clothes, her whole existence and decided she was a problem they’d have to manage.

She’d come here to escape that.

And apparently, it had followed her anyway.

“Ivy?” Meera’s voice was gentle. “Are you alright?”

Ivy uncrossed her arms. Forced herself to unclench her jaw.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine. Let’s see the animals.”

But as she followed Meera toward the back door, she couldn’t shake the feeling settling in her gut like a stone:

She already hated Dr. Golden Boy.

The sanctuary sprawled across what had to be at least twenty acres of rolling hills and forest. Meera led Ivy down a gravel path that wound between enclosures, pointing out buildings and explaining the layout as they went.

“That’s the main clinic,” Meera said, gesturing to a low metal building with a red cross painted on the side. “Leo spends most of his time there. We also have a smaller intake building for new rescues, and the feed storage is over there—”

She pointed to a large shed. Through the open door, Ivy could see rows of nearly-empty shelves.

“We’re running a bit lean this quarter,” Meera said, her voice carefully neutral. “As I’m sure you heard Leo mention.”

A bit lean was an understatement. The place looked like it was running on fumes and prayer.

They passed a cluster of wooden enclosures. In one, a trio of white-tailed deer lifted their heads to watch them pass. In another, a red-tailed hawk perched on a log, its fierce eyes tracking their movement.

Despite herself, Ivy felt something in her chest loosen.

“Here,” Meera said, stopping in front of a large, beautiful enclosure. “This is Zola.”

Ivy stepped closer to the fence.

A baby zebra stood in the shade of a tree, her coat still fuzzy with youth, her stripes stark and perfect. She was small, gangly, all legs and big eyes.

“Her mother was a victim of poaching,” Meera said quietly. “A wildlife rescue organization in Kenya contacted us. She was too young to survive on her own, and they didn’t have the resources to care for her long-term.”

Ivy’s throat tightened. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s lonely,” Meera said. “Zebras are herd animals. Being alone is… hard for them.” She paused. “Unfortunately, the specialized milk-replacement formula she needs is expensive. Very expensive. It’s part of what’s keeping the lights on overtime, if you know what I mean.”

Ivy knew exactly what she meant.

The subtext was clear: We can’t afford it. We’re barely keeping this place running.

Zola took a few tentative steps toward the fence, her ears swiveling forward. Her large, dark eyes fixed on Ivy.

Ivy held very still.

“You can touch her,” Meera said softly.

Ivy reached out slowly, her fingers extending through the fence. Zola hesitated, then stepped closer, her soft nose brushing against Ivy’s palm.

Something cracked open in Ivy’s chest.

This. This was why she’d come.

Not for the fake-smiling, judgmental veterinarians. Not for the corporate branding projects. For this. For something real. Something that didn’t care about her tattoos or her ripped jeans or whether she fit into some narrow definition of “professional.”

“She likes you,” Meera said, smiling.

Ivy pulled her hand back slowly, not wanting to startle the zebra. “She’s perfect.”

“Come on. I’ll introduce you to someone else.”

They continued down the path, and Ivy tried to ignore the way her eyes kept drifting back toward the main buildings, where Dr. Leo Walker was probably still stressing about quarterly reports and feed shipments and whatever the hell the “Henderson situation” was.

She was here for the animals.

She didn’t need to like him.

The Avian Rehab building was smaller than the main clinic, tucked into a quiet corner of the sanctuary near a grove of oak trees. Inside, it was divided into a series of large enclosures, each one housing a different bird.

And standing in the center of the room, wearing overalls and rubber boots, was a young woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a cozy fall photoshoot. Early twenties, blonde hair in a messy bun, with a bright, open face and the kind of genuine enthusiasm that was either endearing or exhausting, depending on your mood.

Ivy wasn’t sure which category she fell into yet.

“Tay!” Meera called. “Come meet our new artist-in-residence.”

The young woman looked up, and her face split into a grin. She practically bounced over, stripping off her work gloves as she came.

“Oh my god,” she said, her eyes going wide. “You must be Ivy! Meera said you were coming, and I was like, ‘We’re getting an actual artist?’ because that is so cool, and—” She stopped, her gaze landing on Ivy’s tattoo. “Oh my god, I love your tattoo! Is that a botanical sleeve? That’s so cool. And your boots! Are those real Docs?”

Ivy blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.”

She was not prepared for this level of enthusiasm.

“I’m Tay,” the young woman said, extending a hand. “I’m an intern here. Well, I’m technically a senior at State, but I’m doing my practicum here, so I’m basically full-time. I’m studying wildlife biology, but honestly, I just really love animals, you know? Like, I can’t imagine doing anything else. Oh, and I also do the social media, but it’s kind of a disaster because I’m terrible at captions, but Dr. Walker says we need an ‘online presence,’ so—”

“Tay,” Meera said gently. “Breathe.”

Tay laughed, not remotely embarrassed. “Sorry. I get excited.”

Despite herself, Ivy felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Tay’s energy was like a golden retriever in human form—relentlessly positive and completely unfiltered.

“So, what do you think of the sanctuary?” Tay asked. “I know it’s kind of run-down, but it’s the best place in the world, I swear. And Dr. Walker is amazing. Like, he’s basically a genius with animals. Last week, we had this baby raccoon come in with a broken leg, and he—”

“Tay,” Meera interrupted again, this time with more firmness. “Why don’t you show Ivy the birds?”

“Oh! Right. Yes. Okay.” Tay gestured for Ivy to follow her toward one of the larger enclosures. “This is Professor. He’s a barn owl. He came in last year with a wing injury. He can’t be released back into the wild, so he’s a permanent resident now.”

The owl sat on a high perch, its heart-shaped face turned toward them. Its eyes were dark, unblinking, and deeply judgmental.

“He hates everyone,” Tay said cheerfully. “Except, apparently… you?”

Ivy looked at the owl. The owl looked back at her.

Then, to Ivy’s surprise, the owl clicked its beak softly and tilted its head, almost curious.

“Wow,” Tay breathed. “He never does that. You’re like… an animal whisperer or something.”

Ivy snorted. “I’m really not.”

But she stepped closer to the enclosure, holding out her hand—not to touch, just to let the owl see her. The botanical tattoo on her forearm caught the light, the delicate leaves and petals standing out against her pale skin.

The owl watched her, calm and still.

“Grumpy misfit recognizes grumpy misfit,” Ivy murmured.

“He’s not a misfit!” Tay said, sounding genuinely offended on the owl’s behalf. “He’s perfect. He’s just… selective.”

“Selective,” Ivy repeated, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. I get that.”

Meera was watching this exchange with an expression that Ivy couldn’t quite read. Something thoughtful. Something almost calculating.

“Ivy,” Meera said, “animals are excellent judges of character, don’t you think?”

Ivy pulled her hand back, suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of Meera’s gaze. “I guess.”

“Come on,” Meera said. “Let’s keep going. There’s someone else I want you to meet.”

They found Leo in the outdoor paddock next to the main clinic.

Or rather, they found Leo kneeling in the mud next to Zola, the baby zebra.

Ivy stopped walking.

He wasn’t wearing the polite, professional smile anymore. He wasn’t wearing any kind of mask at all. He was just… focused. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his hands gentle as he checked Zola’s leg, his voice low and soft as he talked to her.

“I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts. Just let me see… there we go. Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”

Ivy’s breath caught.

This wasn’t the stressed, judgmental veterinarian from the office. This was someone else entirely. Someone real.

His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His glasses had slipped down his nose. He was covered in mud and didn’t seem to care. And the way he touched the zebra—so careful, so gentle—made something in Ivy’s chest tighten.

Quiet competence.

That’s what this was. No performance. No charm. Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing and cared deeply about doing it right.

Ivy’s heart did a stupid, traitorous little flip.

Then Leo finished his examination, gave Zola a final pat, and stood up. He turned and saw them watching.

The mask slammed back into place.

“Ah, ladies!” His voice was bright, cheerful, wrong. “Hope the tour is going well!”

Ivy’s stomach sank.

There he was. Dr. Golden Boy. All charm and no substance.

The real Leo—the one who’d been kneeling in the mud, talking softly to a frightened baby zebra—disappeared behind the professional smile.

Ivy hated him all over again.

Leo walked over, wiping his muddy hands on his jeans. Up close, Ivy could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“Ivy, glad you’re getting the lay of the land,” he said. His eyes scanned her briefly—assessing, categorizing. “Meera mentioned you’re a graphic artist?”

“Yeah.” Ivy crossed her arms. “So?”

“Great. Great.” His smile was strained. “We could really use some help with our branding. The investor is… very particular. We need a look that’s, you know… professional. Clean. Family-friendly.”

The words landed like a slap.

Professional. Clean. Family-friendly.

Translation: Not you.

Ivy felt her defenses go up, sharp and instant. “I know what ‘professional’ means, Dr. Walker.”

His smile faltered, just for a second. He rubbed the back of his neck again—that tell—and looked like he was about to say something else.

Ivy didn’t give him the chance.

She turned on her heel and walked away, back toward the main building, her boots squelching in the mud.

Behind her, she heard Tay’s confused voice: “Did I miss something?”

She didn’t care.

She’d driven three hours to escape people who judged her for her appearance. People who saw her tattoos and her ripped jeans and decided she was “chaotic” and “unprofessional.”

And apparently, she’d driven three hours straight into another one.

This was a mistake, Ivy thought as she stalked back down the gravel path. This whole thing was a mistake.

But when she looked up, she saw the faded “Wild at Heart Sanctuary” sign. She thought about Zola, the lonely baby zebra. She thought about Professor the owl, who’d looked at her with something almost like recognition.

She thought about her checking account balance: seventy-three dollars.

So she kept walking.

Not away from the sanctuary.

Toward it.

Because maybe—just maybe—the animals were worth putting up with Dr. Leo Walker’s judgment.

Even if he was the most infuriating man she’d ever met.