Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
elena
Iwake up to the smell of coffee again. But this time, it’s laced with something warmer. Familiar. Pine and fabric softener.
Comfort.
Isaac.
The bed is empty, but his presence lingers. I sit up too fast and immediately regret it when my stomach flips.
Not a full somersault like earlier. Just a mild protest.
Still, it’s enough to snap me back to reality.
I shouldn’t be here.
The position of the sun and the golden glow through the window tells me it’s dinner time.
I missed the table read and today’s scene blocking.
I know exactly what that leads to. Comments that I’m flaky or a diva that somehow make their way to the tabloids.
A younger, cheaper actress coming in to replace me when they kill my character off the show. Been there, got murdered by that.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pull on my shoes on.
This isn’t what I do.
I don’t let men tuck me in. I don’t take days off.
I sure as hell don’t melt into cowboy beds and wake up thinking about what it would be like if he were here to snuggle.
I glance at the other side of the bed. It’s rumpled enough, leading me to believe snuggling might have occurred without my consent.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I nearly collide with him.
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug in one hand, his hair still a little messy, eyes tired and warm.
“Hey,” he says softly, setting the coffee on the counter. “You feeling better?”
I force a smile and backpedal toward the door. “Totally fine now. Thanks for letting me crash.”
“Elena—”
“Really.” I cut him off with a shake of my head and an overly bright grin. “I feel a million times better. Stomach bug must’ve just run its course.”
He eyes me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying.
Which I am.
Sort of.
I reach for the doorknob. “No time for coffee. I’ve got to go freshen up and check in with the crew. Ivy’s probably already wondering where I am.”
“I texted and told Ivy you were down for the count today,” he says with a frown.
“Well, I’ll let her know I’m all better now. Ready to get back to work.”
I trip over a stray boot, stumble, and am inches from face-planting when he catches me around the waist.
“You need more rest,” he says gently.
“I was just testing gravity,” I say as I right myself. “Still there. Still works.”
When he speaks, his voice is low. Serious. “You don’t have to rush out. No one’s expecting you to—”
“I know what they’re expecting,” I interrupt, too fast, too sharp. I soften my tone the best I can. “I really appreciate everything you did. But I’ve taken enough of your time—and your bed. Promise I’m good.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, likely seeing more than I want him to.
“Thanks for taking care of me. Super sweet of you. But I’m fine now. Just a blip. It’s passed.”
I open the door before he can reply, the heat of the afternoon sun hitting my cheeks like a slap of reality. My stomach threatens to turn again.
I practically sprint to my cabin before I reenact the scene from this morning on Isaac’s flowerbed.
Before I change my mind. Before I say something dangerous. Like thank you for making me feel safe. Or I wish I didn’t have to go.
Letting myself want this—him—means giving up control. And I’ve fought too damn hard, for too damn long, to let someone else write my ending.
Even if part of me might always imagine what it might’ve looked like.
After texting back and forth with Ivy for ten minutes and failing to convince her I can work this evening, my phone buzzes in my hand.
The second I see Mamá pop up on the screen, my stomach sinks faster than it did when I lost my breakfast in Isaac’s yard.
I hesitate before I answer. But not answering will only make it worse.
“Hola, Mamá.”
There’s silence for a beat too long.
Then, “So you do remember how to use a phone.”
I exhale through my nose. “Sorry. We’ve been blocking all hours of the day this week and—”
“I’m not calling about this week, Elena.” Her voice slices, low and measured in that particular way only mothers can manage. “I’m calling about last week. You missed your father’s birthday.”
Shit.
My throat tightens. “Wait—what?”
“You didn’t call. You didn’t send anything. Not even a text message.”
“Mamá, I—I thought—”
“He waited for your call all day.” Her voice falters for the first time. “He didn’t say anything. Just sat in his chair and kept glancing at the clock like maybe your fancy people in Montana are on a different calendar.”
Guilt rips through me.
I close my eyes and press a hand to my forehead. “Did you at least get the money I sent?”
“We’re not talking about money, mija. We’re talking about you. Your father. Your family. Not that you care. Obviously.”
The ache in my chest spreads like wildfire.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Sorry doesn’t fix this. You haven’t been home in months. Too busy ‘playing actress’ on some cowboy reality show to visit your own family?”
“It’s not a reality show,” I murmur, knowing there’s no point in arguing with her.
I press my lips together, because if I say something now, it won’t be kind. The words “playing actress” rake across me like razorblades. Everyone else in our family has respectable careers according to her, but I’m playing actress.
Even when she’s wrong—when it feels like she’s reaching for reasons to wound—she’s not completely wrong. My job feels like playing pretend most of the time.
“I’ll call Papá,” I say quietly. “Today. Now.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she snaps, and then hangs up before I can say another word.
I sit there for a second, phone still pressed to my ear long after the line goes dead, trying to breathe through the fog of guilt and shame.
My mother is always disappointed in me, but ever since I was born a girl instead of the son my father wanted, I’ve tried extremely hard not to let him down. To make him proud.
I’ve never missed his birthday. Ever.
I check the calendar on my phone.
My dad’s birthday was last Saturday.
I do the math. I’ve been in Montana for a little over eight weeks.
And I haven’t had a period since I left the last set I filmed on in Nova Scotia.
My skin goes cold as blood drains from my face.
No. No, no, no. That’s not possible. Is it?
It could be stress.
Travel. Work. The altitude.
But it could also be—Oh God.
I throw on clean jeans and a Black Keys tee. I text Ivy and ask if someone can drive me to the tiny pharmacy in town. Thanks to Isaac, she knows I was sick. I hope she’ll just assume I’m grabbing nausea meds or something.
After entirely too much back and forth where she offers to pick up my meds herself, she tells me Isaac is on his way to town already and I can text him what I need.
I nearly scream out loud.
What are the odds that I, a person who hates asking for help, am now residing on a ranch surrounded by a family full of the most helpful human beings on the planet.
Everyone in the business is always saying I need to hire a personal assistant. My stubborn ass refused but now I’m wishing I had.
I dart out of the cabin and scramble toward the barn where I find the ranch foreman, Antonio I think, and one of the hands that helped with the injured mustang we rescued.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself so as not to startle her, but both men look at me sideways when I step inside.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “I need a ride into town. I was hoping someone could maybe take me to—”
“I can,” the ranch hand offers eagerly, stepping toward me.
The ranch foreman places a hand on the kid’s chest. “I’ve got it, Marcos. Keep an eye on the mustang until I get back.”
We ride to the pharmacy in comfortable silence. It’s a short drive and Antonio is a man of few words. He reminds me of my father, and I’m mostly weighed down by guilt the entire way into town.
For a moment, I’m worried he might try to walk me into the pharmacy, but he only parks on the street and tells me to take my time.
An electronic chime sounds when I walk into the small Main Street storefront with the Paradise Valley Drugs sign out front. I make a beeline for the feminine products aisle with my head down.
When I reach the shelf, ironically labeled family planning, there are more options than I’m prepared for. I grab two, one that appears to have two lines if it’s positive and another more expensive one that helpfully spells out the p-word for morons like me.
To be safe, I go ahead and grab a third, which appears to feature a plus sign for expectant mothers, because maybe if I take enough of them, one will be negative, and I can keep hope alive that this isn’t happening.
But when I reach the check-out aisle, I’m pulled up short by the customer paying ahead of me.
In a black Triple Creek Ranch T-shirt that fits him snugly enough across his broad shoulders to make my insides tighten, he stands at the counter holding a small plastic sack.
Isaac.
He looks over as the cashier greets me. Those gleaming green eyes meet mine.
Then he smiles, expression full of concern. “Hey, I grabbed you something for your stomach. Figured I’d drop it by—”
Then he sees the box in my hand. Correction, boxes.
His smile fades. The color drains from his face.
He’s pretty much me twenty minutes ago.
And for the first time since I met him, Isaac Logan doesn’t say a damn thing.