Chapter Thirty-Three – Paisley
Chapter Thirty-Three
Paisley
T he road stretches ahead like an old friend—one with bad breath and a habit of tripping you when you're not looking. Every pothole and rut feels familiar instead of frustrating. Three months ago, I counted every cell tower and plotted my escape route to the nearest decent coffee shop. Now? The empty signal bars on my phone feel like a hall pass to sanity.
Fernando hums along to some country song, shooting me smug little looks in the rearview mirror like he knows something I don’t. Which he probably does. He’s chauffeuring my life changes again, only this time, I’m packing exactly one practical bag and more optimism than I have any right to.
“You missed the turn,” I say, nodding at the crooked fence post marking the way home. The word home catches in my throat. When did that happen? “It’s past the Thompson place, where the fence?—”
“Broke last spring,” he finishes, grinning. “I remember. Also noticing that you haven’t asked about Wi-Fi yet.”
I snort. Last time, I clutched my phone like it contained the meaning of life. “Funny how priorities change.”
The morning mist lifts like a bad stage effect, revealing the ranch in slow motion: the weathered barn, the fence I helped mend—poorly—and the chicken coop where I learned that peacocks are judgmental jerks. Everything is exactly as I left it. And yet, somehow, it feels sharper, more real than Manhattan ever did.
My fingers tighten around my bag. No designer luggage this time. Just jeans, boots, and a single scarf. Partly because I know it makes Wes’s eyes darken in a way that should be illegal, and partly because I want to see Bernard’s look of absolute disgust when I wear it near the chickens.
The crunch of gravel under my actual boots—broken in by work, not Instagram—feels like crossing a finish line. Or a battlefront. Either way, every living creature on this property definitely heard Fernando’s car roll in and is just politely pretending otherwise.
Jake’s by the barn, feeding the animals. He hasn’t seen me yet, but I’d bet good money everyone inside the house has already clocked my arrival and is just waiting for the drama to unfold.
The porch steps loom ahead, their creaky boards holding years of Montgomery footsteps. I know exactly which ones will betray a sneaky exit or an early morning arrival.
How am I supposed to face him?
What if Emma’s wrong? What if that porch light wasn’t an invitation but just… forgetfulness? What if?—
HONK.
The sound splits the quiet like a judge’s gavel. Bernard, the world’s most dramatic goose, waddles toward me, neck extended like he’s gearing up for a TED Talk on abandonment issues. The last time I stood here, he chased me across the yard. Now, he stops a foot away, inspecting me like a returning criminal.
“I missed you, too, you unhinged feather duster,” I whisper.
To my shock, he doesn’t attack. He just circles me once, taking in the boots, the jeans, and the way I’m not clutching my phone like a stress ball. Then, with what I swear is a nod of approval, he lets out a softer honk.
The screen door squeaks—the exact Wes is trying to be quiet squeak I remember.
My heart stops. Then starts again. Loudly.
I turn, gripping my bag like a shield. And there he is.
Wes Montgomery, standing in the doorway, coffee mug halfway to his lips, looking at me like I’m either a ghost or a bad decision he’s about to make anyway.
The morning light turns his eyes an unfair shade of blue. He hasn’t shaved—probably too busy brooding at the coffee maker to bother. The stubble along his jaw makes my fingers twitch, which is not helpful.
“Hi,” I manage. Not exactly the confident, rom-com-worthy entrance I’d planned, but we’ve never done normal.
He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like he’s debating whether or not to believe this is real.
Bernard, offended by the lack of immediate action, honks again like a freaking referee. The spell breaks.
“You’re here,” Wes says, voice rough. Coffee drips from his hand from where he forgot to finish lifting the mug.
“I’m here.” I take a step forward, then another. My boots leave deliberate prints in the frost. “Though, uh… you are spilling coffee.”
His gaze drops to the cup, then back to me. A flicker of something crosses his face—hope, fear, maybe both. Then, finally, a real smile tugs at his lips.
“Wouldn’t want that,” he says. “Might have to make more.”
“Heaven forbid.” I’m close enough to see the exhaustion under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. The same shadows I’ve been seeing in my own mirror.
“I heard you switched to the expensive kind.”
His breath catches. “Emma talks too much.”
“She talks just enough.” I reach out, brushing my fingers against his where they grip the coffee mug. His skin is warm, rough, and stupidly familiar. “We should probably discuss that. Maybe over coffee?”
He glances at our hands. Then at my face. And just like that, I see the exact moment he realizes he’s not alone in this anymore.
“Paisley…”
“I know about the developer,” I cut in before he can start his usual self-sacrificing nonsense. “The bank, the tourist cabins, all of it.”
His jaw tightens. “Then you know why?—”
I grin, cutting him off before he can start with the noble suffering routine. “I do know why. And I also know how to fix it.”
Wes narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious. “Paisley?—”
“My book sold.” The words rush out in a single breath, my heart pounding as I watch his face for a reaction. “Miranda called me this morning. It’s not just sold—it’s huge, Wes. Seven figures.”
For a second, he just stares at me like I’ve announced I’m an alien here to steal his cattle. “Seven what now?”
“Figures. As in, over a million dollars.” I gesture wildly, trying to get him to keep up. “Like, real money. Not the I’ll pay you in exposure kind. Actual, life-changing money.”
His lips part slightly, like he’s still buffering. “Okay,” he says slowly, still looking at me like I’ve been out in the sun too long. “And what exactly does this have to do with the ranch?”
“Well,” I say, shifting my weight like a kid about to drop a bombshell on their parents, “the producers don’t just want the book. They want to film it. Here. On the ranch.”
Wes blinks. “What?”
“The actual ranch. This one. Where I wrote the book. They want to pay big money to use it as the filming location.” My hands fly to my hips, my excitement barely contained. “Wes, do you get what this means? They’re willing to pay a lot —enough to save the ranch. No tourist cabins, no selling off land to developers, no losing what your family built.”
His jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact. “You’re telling me some Hollywood suits want to roll in here with cameras, actors, and who knows what else?—”
“Yes!” I cut in. “And they’re paying handsomely for the privilege. More than handsomely. Stupidly. Recklessly. Like, what-were-they-drinking-when-they-signed-this-deal money.”
Wes scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling like a man who just realized the universe is conspiring against his peace. “And you agreed to this?”
“Not yet,” I admit. “The producer is flying in this afternoon to discuss the details. Which, by the way, means you should probably shave. Or at least try to look slightly less like a brooding rancher romance novel cover.”
“I am a brooding rancher,” he mutters.
“Yes, but today, you need to be a negotiating brooding rancher.”
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Paisley, do you have any idea what it’s like to have a film crew invade your home? The mess, the noise, the people?”
“Wes.” I step closer, tilting my head. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose your home? Because that’s the alternative here.”
That lands. I see it in the way his shoulders tense, the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. He knows he’s running out of options.
I press my advantage. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. I know the thought of cameras and actors makes you want to crawl into the nearest horse stall and hide. But this is the best deal you’re gonna get. No strings, no compromises, just enough money to make your problems disappear—without selling a single acre.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the coffee mug like it holds all the answers.
Then, finally, “When does this producer get here?”
I grin. “Oh, you know. Soon. Very soon.”
“How soon?”
“Like… this afternoon soon.”
Wes chokes on his coffee. “Paisley.”
“Surprise?” I offer weakly.
He groans, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
Wes drags a hand down his face like he’s aged ten years in the last ten seconds. “Let me get this straight. Some Hollywood hotshot is flying in today to talk about turning my family’s ranch into a film set?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Yep! And they’re bringing a ridiculous amount of money.”
He looks at me. Then at his coffee. Then back at me, like he’s debating whether to drink more or just throw the whole mug into the yard. “And when exactly were you planning to tell me this?”
I bite my lip. “Right now? Which, if you think about it, is actually perfect timing because now you have a whole”—I glance at my watch—“five hours to mentally prepare.”
“Five hours.” His voice is flat.
“Give or take! Could be four. Maybe three. Planes are unpredictable.”
Wes makes a noise that sounds like a mix between a groan and a growl, muttering something under his breath about city women and their harebrained schemes.
Before he can start listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea, the screen door swings open, and Emma comes barreling onto the porch like a human missile.
“Paisley!” She slams into me with the force of a small linebacker, nearly knocking me off my feet. “I knew you’d come back!”
I squeeze her tight, my heart catching in my throat. “Of course, I did, kiddo. Did you really think I’d miss out on all the chaos?”
She leans back, grinning. “Uncle Wes said you might get tired of ranch life and stay in New York forever, but I told him he was dumb.”
Wes pinches the bridge of his nose. “I did not say that.”
Emma ignores him entirely, already launching into updates about life on the ranch, the animals, and the latest drama with the peacock. She barely pauses for breath before asking, “Did you bring me anything from New York?”
I grin and pull a small bag from my pocket. “One fancy city chocolate bar, because I figured you’d appreciate something sweet.”
Emma gasps. “The good kind?”
“The ridiculously overpriced kind.”
She takes it with reverence, then immediately starts unwrapping it. “You do belong in this family.”
Wes clears his throat, crossing his arms. “Emma, why don’t you go inside and tell Uncle Jake Paisley’s here? I need to talk to her for a minute.”
Emma pauses, clearly sensing something is up, but shrugs. “Okay. But if you make her leave again, I’m poisoning your coffee.”
Wes sighs. “Noted.”
She disappears inside, and the second the door swings shut, Wes turns back to me, arms still crossed. “A movie, Paisley?”
I shift on my feet. “I know it’s a lot. And I know you hate this kind of thing, but?—”
“Hate is a strong word,” he grumbles.
I arch a brow. “Is it?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the horizon like it might hold the answer he’s looking for. Finally, he mutters, “If one of them so much as suggests turning my barn into a dressing room, I’m tossing them into the cow pond.”
I grin. “Deal.”