Chapter 2 #2
“They want real wilderness immersion,” Elliott explains, adjusting his glasses nervously. “We’re going to relocate to the Painted Peaks area for most of the shoot. We’ll set up camp there.”
“Camp?” Lena repeats, her fork clattering against her plate. “What do you mean, camp?”
“You know,” Elliott says, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “Tents, campfire, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t camp,” Lena states flatly. “I’ve never even glamped.”
“The scenery is absolutely stunning,” Elliott rushes on, desperation coating his words. “Waterfalls, alpine meadows, incredible wildlife opportunities?—”
“Wildlife?” Lena’s voice rises an octave. “You mean bears?”
I watch the color drain from her face. Pale as birch bark in winter. No doubt she’s been fed a line about what this job entails.
“Elliot,” she says with a forced calm that barely masks the tremor in her voice, “I agreed to stay at a lodge with actual amenities while capturing some nature videos and photos. Not to sleep on the ground in bear country.” She picks up her phone and stares at the screen.
Her eyes widen, and she slowly lowers it like it might bite her. “No service? Are you kidding me?”
“Service is spotty,” I say, unable to help myself. “Best reception is on the east deck, facing the mountain.”
She shoots me a glare that could freeze the creek solid, then turns back to Elliott. “What kind of project is this, exactly?”
Elliott winces, like this is the part he hoped to avoid. “It’s a survival documentary,” he says with forced enthusiasm. “ Stars in the Wild . Think Survivor meets Naked and Afraid . Only PG. Mostly.”
“So, I’m the unwitting star of a reality show?” Her eyes narrow.
“A high-end, prestige docuseries,” he says, like that somehow makes it better. “With an emphasis on emotional resilience.”
She lets out a strangled sound. “You mean I’m supposed to fumble around the forest while America observes me sweating through bug bites and breakdowns?”
Elliott opens his mouth—probably gearing up to call it “empowering” or some equally delusional nonsense—but she’s already turning away, lifting her phone over her head and pacing toward the door.
“I’m calling my agent. I don’t care if I have to hike to a cell tower—I’m getting out of this wilderness nightmare. ”
She stalks out, pink slippers and all, the door banging shut behind her .
Elliott waits until she’s gone before turning to me with a pained expression. “This is where you come in, Mr. Hollister.”
“Me?” I set down the dishtowel I’ve been holding. “I’m simply providing lodging for your production.”
“Actually,” Elliott says, pulling a document from his bag and sliding it across the table, “according to the contract you signed, you’re also obligated to provide guiding services for the duration of filming.”
I look at him. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“Page eleven, section C, subsection four,” Elliott says, his tone apologetic as he points to a paragraph of minuscule text. “Crystal Creek Retreat will provide wilderness guiding services as needed for production requirements.”
My stomach sinks as I reread the dense legal language. I remember skimming this section, assuming it meant basic information about hiking trails or fishing spots—not leading a full wilderness expedition. I glance at Elliott, whose too-casual posture suddenly seems suspicious.
“Wait—there’s a guide component?” I ask.
Elliott nods, clearly trying to sound breezy. “Yeah. But don’t worry—you’ll get an additional stipend for that.”
My breath catches. Their payment for a guide—unexpected but very much needed—would cover a good quarter of what I need to keep the loan sharks at bay. Saying no isn’t an option. Not now.
“We need someone who knows the Painted Peaks area,” Elliott continues, his voice taking on a pleading quality. “The safety of our star and crew is paramount. A travel agent in Anchorage recommended you specifically when we were planning this expedition.”
I bite back a curse. That would be Linda Parker, the persistent travel agent who’s always trying to book her mainland clients with local guides. This has her fingerprints all over it.
“How long?” I ask, already mentally calculating what this will mean for the lodge. I’ll have to call Nash and Eliza to see if they can check on the place periodically.
“Maximum three weeks,” Elliott replies. “We’ll need to depart tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s not nearly enough time to prepare for a three-week backcountry expedition.”
Elliott’s expression turns desperate. “We’re on an extremely tight production schedule. The network has already announced the special will air in September.”
If I weren’t looking down the barrel of financial ruin, I would refuse outright. But the extra money might be enough to help me catch up on the debt that’s been hanging over me.
The door swings open before I can respond, Lena storming back in with her cell phone clutched in her hand like a weapon.
Her face has paled to the color of winter frost, eyes wide with horror.
Her voice is tight with disbelief. “Paragraph twelve specifically states I must take part in ‘immersive wilderness experiences’ as determined by the production team. My agent says I signed it.”
Elliott’s expression transforms from worry to poorly concealed relief. “Exactly. The network executives believe strongly that a realistic wilderness experience is key to the narrative of your transformation from Hollywood party girl to nature enthusiast.”
“Transformation?” Lena echoes, her voice rising. “I’m not here for some spiritual journey through the woods. This was supposed to fix the Martinez disaster, not create a new one!”
“This will be much more effective for that purpose,” Elliott assures her. “Think of the audience response—Lena Kensington, roughing it in Alaska, finding her real self away from Hollywood’s pressures.”
She slumps into her chair, defeated. “You told me the survival stuff was for show—staged for the cameras, with safety crews hovering off-screen.” Her voice cracks. “You said I’d be communing with nature. That there’d be trailers. Catering trucks.”
The raw despair in her voice cuts through my simmering anger at Elliott.
“Bait and switch,” I mutter, the words tumbling out before I fully think them through.
A strange, unwelcome sense of kinship washes over me—two damn fools caught in the same professionally negligent trap.
“I didn’t read my contract properly either. ”
Her head snaps up. Her eyes, though narrowed with suspicion, show a trace of desperate hope that she isn’t the only one thoroughly conned. “What do you mean?”
I fight the urge to shove the contract in Elliott’s smirking face and instead tap the offending document on the table.
“This little masterpiece of legalese,” I say, my voice flat with the effort of keeping it even.
“Seems I’ve also agreed to be your personal wilderness guide for the next three weeks.
I thought I was renting out the damn lodge.
” As the words leave my mouth, I watch her process them.
For one hard second, the sharp edges of her Hollywood persona soften, her suspicion giving way to a horrified understanding that mirrors my churning gut.
We aren’t a jaded Alaskan and a pampered actress.
We’re two people who’ve been played, plain and simple.
The thought, this brief, uncomfortable alignment with her , of all people, is as galling as the looming bank payment.
“You’re coming?” A quick flicker of relief crosses her face—raw and plain to see—before her walls snap back into place, suspicion tightening her features.
That brief expression, as if my forced companionship in this farce is somehow a good thing, is enough to stamp out this unwelcome shred of camaraderie I feel.
“Apparently,” I say, my tone deliberately dry, any hint of shared misfortune quickly burying itself under a fresh layer of resentment for this entire circus.
“So, problem solved,” Elliott says, his voice brightening. “Finn will ensure everything runs smoothly. He’s got all the skills to keep us safe and comfortable.”
“I doubt that very much,” Lena mutters, though some of the fight seems to leave her. She looks down at her barely touched breakfast, then pushes the plate away. “Can I at least get a decent cup of coffee before we’re banished to the wilderness?”
“May’s Café in town has the best coffee in Port Promise,” I say. “And her sourdough pancakes are legendary.”
Something shifts in Lena’s expression. “May ... the woman from the wedding? She mentioned her pancakes.”
I nod, recognizing an opportunity to escape this uncomfortable conversation. “We could head into town now. You’ll need proper gear, and the consignment shop has decent outdoor clothing.”
“Consignment,” she says. “As in worn by strangers. And touched by their ... germs. On fabrics of questionable origin. Is this even sanitary? This wouldn’t pass muster on a low-budget set.”
“As in practical and affordable,” I correct. “Unless you brought hiking boots and waterproof clothing?”
A challenge sparks in her eyes. “Actually, I brought boots.”
“Let me guess,” I say, unable to suppress a chuckle. “With heels?”
Her silence is answer enough.
“Thought so.” I grab my keys from the hook by the door. “Let’s go now. May stops serving pancakes at ten.”
“But we haven’t finished breakfast,” Elliott protests.
“You all enjoy the casserole,” I say, nodding toward the production crew, who are still eating. “We’ll be back in a few hours with proper gear for this expedition you’ve planned. ”
Lena pushes up from her chair like she’s heading for a firing squad.
“I need to change first,” she says, glancing down at her casual attire.
“Ten minutes,” I call after her as she heads toward the door. “I’ll bring the Polaris around.”
The sound of her frustrated sigh is oddly satisfying.
Whatever these next three weeks hold, one thing is certain—Lena Kensington is about to experience a very different Alaska than the one she signed up for.
To be honest, a small, petty part of me is anticipating witnessing Hollywood’s princess face the reality of wilderness living.
The woman who showed up in a leather dress to Alaska deserves a little humbling.
As I watch her hurry from the lodge, the full weight of the situation settles over me.
Her shoulders droop with defeat, her movements heavy with reluctance.
Three weeks in the backcountry with a spoiled actress who can’t handle regular coffee, a film crew hungry for drama, and wilderness that refuses to accommodate Hollywood expectations.
The pristine silence of my mornings will turn to chaos of complaints about mosquitoes and lack of cell service.
My structured routines will unravel as I balance guiding responsibilities with their unrealistic demands.
I turn back toward the kitchen, eyes landing on the contract still open on the table.
The microscopic text blurs together, but the message comes through loud and clear—Elliott manipulated us both.
The contract lies there, deceptively harmless, its fine print binding me to a disaster in the making.
But the bank notice on my desk carries more weight.
I could walk away—tell Elliott to find another guide, spare myself three weeks of drama in the backcountry.
But Crystal Creek isn’t simply some business venture.
Losing this place? Can’t happen. Too many memories.
Dad teaching me the creek sounds. The way the sun hits my peaks first thing.
This place keeps me grounded when things move too fast.
I fold the contract and tuck it into my pocket. The choice isn’t a choice at all.
Give me a hungry grizzly over a pampered celebrity any day. At least the bear would be honest about wanting to eat me alive.