Chapter 8 Elena
CHAPTER EIGHT
elena
I’m worried that I’m late when the car service the network arranged pulls into a long winding driveway. Horses graze on either size of the fence as we approach a modern lodge-style farmhouse.
Triple Creek Ranch is breathtaking.
I’m filled with a sense of relief since it’s going to be home for the next six months between training camp and then filming.
Ivy informed me on the phone that she’d arranged for me to stay in a guest cabin on the property.
She said it was one she’d stayed in before marrying her husband, the ranch owner.
The butterfly effect was crazy. She told me she’d walked in on a cheating ex, driven here on sheer impulse to escape, rented a cabin and had been so inspired by the rancher who owned the place and his family that she’d written the pitch for Welcome to Paradise.
Now here I am. In a place I never expected to be.
The sprawling property is all pastures and mountains with a river running through it. Like a Welcome to Montana postcard come to life.
Dust rises in the rearview, trailing me like every bad decision I’ve ever made. Including last night.
Well, maybe.
I haven’t decided yet. The sex was incredible and for a moment this morning, I’d been tempted to wake the sexy sleeping cowboy for one more round. I’d almost left my name and number on the note I left him.
But he’d made it very clear. One night only.
The bartender had mentioned women trying to seek him out for round two only to be avoided or rejected. Pass on that.
God, it was a wild night. I’d never felt so incredibly free to be myself. To take what I wanted so greedily.
Look how well that greedy pussy takes my cock, spitfire.
I twitch in my seat at the memory. The delicious soreness between my legs has me smiling like a lunatic. The exhaustion from a night of no sleep is real, but it was one thousand percent worth it.
I shift to a more comfortable position in the passenger seat of the SUV, tugging the hem of my dress down like that’ll make me feel less anxious.
As soon as we crest the final hill, the main house comes into view—wood and stone and weathered charm nestled into the landscape like it’s always been there.
The SUV rolls to a stop in front of the wraparound porch, and before the driver can kill the engine, the front door swings open. A petite woman with curly hair wrangled into a long side braid steps out wearing a stylish floral romper with cowgirl boots and a soft welcoming smile.
Ivy Logan.
I’d looked her up online when I signed the contract for the role, but she’s much more striking in person—hazel eyes, perfect skin, a glowing presence that makes me feel like she’s welcoming an old friend even though—aside from a few phone calls—we’re strangers.
I climb out of the SUV and the driver moves to grab my luggage. We get a two week break between training camp and filming but after yesterday’s conversation with my mother, I haven’t decided if I’ll go home or to a beach somewhere.
After seeing this place, I might ask the owner permission to stay right here.
“You must be Elena!” she calls out, jogging down the steps.
“Ivy?” I say as I walk in her direction, forcing a smile as I adjust my sunglasses. I’ve got my tote bag of a purse slung over my shoulder and jet lag trailing behind me like a needy child. “Sorry I’m a little worse for the wear this morning.”
“You look like you belong on a magazine cover. If this is you at ‘worse for the wear,’ we can fire the hair and makeup people,” she teases gently, then pulls me into a quick, warm hug before I can brace myself. “I’m so glad you’re here. Welcome to Triple Creek Ranch.”
I’m not typically a hugger, but something about her makes it impossible not to. She’s all warmth and sunshine and something I don’t realize I need until I’m wrapped up in it.
Before I can respond, another woman appears at the top of the porch steps. A taller brunette with wavy hair with strands of gray framing her face.
“Laurel, come meet Elena!” Ivy waves her down.
The approaching woman smiles like I’m her long-lost child.
“Ivy’s told me amazing things,” she says, offering her hand. “I’m Laurel Logan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and to my surprise, I mean it.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this .
. . welcome. I’ve been on more sets than I can count, met directors and producers and actors with too many opinions—but there’s something different about this place.
About these women. Like they’re not putting on a performance to impress anyone.
Genuine energy isn’t exactly in abundant supply in the movie business. Usually meet and greets are awkward, forced, and fake.
We relieve the driver of my bags, and I follow Ivy and Laurel up the steps and into the lodge-style main house.
The space smells like pine and lemon oil and something sweet and warm baking in the oven. If they have cookies, I might cry. I filmed a holiday movie once in Canada where they tried to make the set look and feel like this, but I can now confirm that nothing compares to the real thing.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, taking in the vaulted ceilings and rustic furniture that somehow manages to feel both elegant and lived-in.
“Thank you,” Laurel says warmly.
“This is the main house,” Ivy informs me.
“We’ll get the ranch hands to run your stuff down to the cabin where you’ll be staying.
I’ll take you down on the side-by-side. It’s close to where Wyatt and I live so I’ll be just a hop, skip, and a jump away if you need anything.
It’s a super cozy cabin. Quaint but functional.
You’ll have plenty of space to run lines or collapse after a long day of training. ”
Training. Right.
Which reminds me—
“So...is Eli already here?”
Ivy and Laurel exchange a look that makes something inside me go on alert.
“He’s here,” Ivy says carefully. “He just needed a little more one-on-one time with the horses first,” she adds, smoothing her braid over her shoulder.
She lowers her voice as if telling me a secret she’s afraid someone might hear.
“He’s never ridden before, and since his character grew up on a ranch, we figured it made sense for him to stay closer to the equestrian center my sister-in-law runs.
That way he can get more intensive instruction. ”
Laurel smirks at the word intensive. “If he can survive Willow, he can handle anything.”
I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral.
I don’t know who Willow is. Could be the sister-in-law or a horse, I guess.
But Welcome to Paradise is a major gig. My first leading role on a streaming platform, and the buzz has already started.
But if Eli James—America’s favorite brooding action hero—shows up unprepared, the entire production could go sideways fast.
Before I can ask when he’ll be joining us, I catch a flicker of movement outside the kitchen window.
A tall broad-shouldered figure moving with slow easy precision rounds the side of the house.
A weathered ballcap pulled low shields his face, but the way he walks—confident, capable, all that hard-earned cowboy strength coiled beneath denim and sweat—triggers something low in my stomach.
Something…familiar.
No.
He turns slightly, and I catch the angle of his jaw.
“Oh,” Ivy says, following my line of vision. “There’s my husband now. I’ll grab him and get him to help with your bags.”
Her voice softens on “husband” and my heart threatens to stop.
I blink, hard. Hoping the sight before me will change. Quickly.
It can’t be.
But my gut twists all the same, because the cowboy who possibly ruined me for all other men last night looks a lot like this one.
“Oh, um, don’t bother him while he’s busy. I can take my own bags down on my lap if needed.”
Please please please do not let that be him.
Maybe it’s a coincidence.
Maybe all Montana cowboys will remind me of the guy from last night. If so, I might move here permanently.
Ivy glances over her shoulder. “He won’t mind. Just don’t pay him any attention if he’s gruff at first. He’s mostly bark.”
I force an uneasy smile and try to ignore the odd tingles running down my spine. A cold sweat breaks out on my neck.
Because if Ivy’s husband is the man from last night, I’m about to make the worst first impression in the history of first impressions. This poor woman already has one cheating ex.
But then he turns fully as Ivy waves him inside from the doorway, and I exhale so hard I nearly lose consciousness.
Nope. Not him.
Thank freaking goodness.
“You okay, hon?” Laurel Logan clearly noticed my near nervous breakdown.
I nod and force a smile with the ounce of energy I have left. “Yeah, just, um, jet lag. I have low blood sugar sometimes.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Have you eaten anything? I made raspberry jam thumbprint cookies for the cast and crew event today. They’re probably still warm.”
The door slams before I can answer and Ivy’s husband steps over to stand beside his wife. Their size differential is insane.
“Did someone say raspberry jam cookies? My favorite,” he says, greeting Ivy with a sweet kiss on the lips. They share a secretive smile, and it feels like I’m intruding on an intimate moment.
The uncanny resemblance to my wild cowboy from last night is distracting and I stare for longer than is appropriate.
Dark eyes instead of gleaming green ones. Dark auburn unruly hair instead of messy blonde locks. Much darker stubble on his face. Slightly broader build. I can’t quite put my finger on what makes them seem so inexplicably similar, but the way this man moves feels familiar when it shouldn’t.
Maybe the night of hot sex rewired my brain.
Ivy’s husband reaches out to shake my hand with a grin. “Wyatt Logan. My wife has been beside herself waiting for your arrival.”
His voice does the same thing on wife that Ivy’s did on husband. It’s so sweet my chest aches.