Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
isaac
I’ve never washed a woman’s clothes before.
Not because I’m a Neanderthal. I know how the washer works. I know how to separate colors and delicates and all that. But because I’ve never had a reason to.
Until now.
I switch her clothes from the washer to the dryer, laying the knit top on a barstool at my countertop because I’m afraid drying it might ruin it.
Then I pull out my phone.
There’s only one woman in the world who I trust enough to call in this situation.
Laurel Logan answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Isaac?” she asks, suspiciously.
I don’t typically call anyone before noon unless someone is injured.
I scrub a hand down my face. “How do I know if I gave someone food poisoning? Hypothetically speaking of course.”
She sighs. “How about you tell me a little bit about why you think you might’ve hypothetically given someone food poisoning.”
“I made breakfast for El—a friend, and she bolted halfway through. Like full-on sprinted out of my house. A minute later, I find her behind the bushes, puking her guts up.”
“Oh no.” Her tone shifts instantly to gentle-mom mode. “Is she okay?”
“She said it wasn’t my cooking. But it was like two bites in. So now I’m here washing her vomit-covered clothing while she rests and I’m wondering if I low-key poisoned her.”
“Hm. That’s mighty quick unless the food was rancid, which you would’ve noticed a foul smell while cooking. I think there’s a stomach bug going around. Don’t worry, sweetie. If she’s resting now, she’ll be fine.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”
“Isaac?”
“Yeah?”
“She let you take care of her?”
I glance down the hall toward my room, where she’s curled up under my covers, waves of dark hair splayed on my pillow.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “She did.”
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “That’s a big thing for a girl like her.”
I hear the unspoken “don’t fuck it up,” but then I always hear that in my head.
“I didn’t say who,” I offer half-heartedly, fooling myself if I think I could ever get anything past my mom. “It might not be anyone you know.”
She makes a low humming sound over the line. “Right. Of course not. Just, be careful son.”
We hang up and I walk straight into the bedroom and lean against the doorframe.
Elena’s still out cold. Lips parted. Eyebrows pulled together like she’s mid-dream and doesn’t trust anyone in it.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. And so damn perfect in my bed, looking like she belongs there.
My heart changes rhythm, rushing blood through my ears with the solid sound of mine over and over again.
I swallow hard, trying my best not to think about how empty this bed will look and feel without her in it.
I fold my arms. Shift my weight. Try to pull my shit together and be logical.
She’s here for work—that’s all. A few months max. She’s got a whole life in LA or New Mexico or wherever the hell her dreams carry her when the credits roll. And I’m—
What?
Bound to land in Montana that I wouldn’t want to leave even if I could.
A cowboy with rough hands and a messed-up second-son complex who’s never had what it takes to be someone’s everything.
Wyatt’s always been the main character. I’m the wisecracking sidekick. It works. It always has. Since we were kids. I tried to be good at everything because I knew I’d never be the best at anything. The role was already taken.
But standing here, watching this woman sleep, I’m overcome with the ridiculous urge to ask her if I can just take care of her forever. Because it’s the one thing I feel certain I can be the best at. Better than any other motherfucker who’d dare try.
I rub the back of my neck.
I can’t recall ever caring this much about someone outside of my family. I’ve never brought a woman into my house, let alone my bed. Hookups always happened away from here. I prefer it that way. Easier. Simpler.
But Elena’s different. Nothing easy or simple about her.
She snuck in. Through the cracks. Past the charm and the jokes and the rules I kept in place to make sure no one ever took me seriously.
Hell I barely took myself seriously most of the time.
And now, I’m standing here like a stalker trying to untangle my feelings for this woman so I can let her go when it’s time.
Because it’s going to come. The final day of filming. The fake actress smile and the “It’s been fun, cowboy,” goodbye. Maybe I’ll get another lipstick note on a napkin and she’ll sneak off in the night with another souvenir.
Fuck, now I feel sick.
Maybe there is something catching.
Yeah, feelings, dumbass, I hear Wyatt’s voice thunder in my mind.
The thought of it makes my throat tight.
I take a breath.
Then walk over and brush a piece of hair off her cheek. She looks so sweet and innocent when she’s asleep and has her claws retracted.
Whatever this is, there’s no point in making myself sick over it—it’s too late to stop it anyway.
“Sleep tight, spitfire,” I whisper, more to myself than her.
I text Antonio a quick list for the hands to get handled and let him know I’ll check in later.
When I crawl in bed beside Elena, I suspect I’m putting myself at risk for contracting her stomach virus. But I don’t care.
This woman has already infected me in every way that matters.