Chapter 2 Sadie
TWO
SADIE
The car lurched up the dirt road as Sadie squinted through the windshield at the row of cabins ahead.
This was home for the next five months. Charming, if your definition of charming included abandoned horror movie sets and a strong sense of impending doom.
It was the kind of place where you half expected to trip over a bloody axe and hear a documentary narrator whisper, They were never seen again.
Everywhere she looked, people hustled with purpose, hauling camera gear, wrangling costumes, and unloading what appeared to be a truly irresponsible number of cowboy hats.
The car finally rolled to a stop. Sadie hauled her bags from the trunk, inhaled a deep breath of crisp mountain air, and immediately sneezed so violently she nearly pitched forward into the gravel. Strong start.
Her mother had absolutely been right about the allergy meds, considering Sadie was, at this point, clearly allergic to nature itself.
She straightened and wiped her nose, attempting to project competence while her sinuses declared open rebellion. That was when a cow in a nearby paddock fixed her with a long, unblinking stare and released a slow, deeply judgmental moo.
“Nice to meet you too, Bumblefuck,” Sadie muttered.
She yanked her suitcase after her, the wheels catching on every rock, stick, and possibly one invisible but deeply vindictive gopher.
At this point it was no longer luggage. It was a fifty-pound grudge, and she was one wrong step away from abandoning it to the wilderness and starting a new life without clothes.
God, she hated the outdoors. Fresh air was a scam. Trees were just oversized sticks that shed pollen like weaponized confetti. Anyone who hiked for fun was deeply unwell.
“Do people in Montana not believe in asphalt?" she grumbled, shooting an annoyed glance at the bumpy road.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the email with her lodging assignment.
Her gaze traveled over the row of cabins until she found it.
There it was. Cabin 5C, complete with a hand-painted sign and the unmistakable energy of a serial killer’s weekend retreat.
It was aggressively brown. Brown walls. Brown roof.
Brown trim. Brown spirit. The kind of brown that suggested joy had once visited and decided not to stay.
She adjusted her grip on the most uncooperative suitcase ever manufactured and sighed before dragging it forward.
The stairs leading up to the porch looked harmless enough, which immediately made her suspicious. She tested the first step. It creaked. The second step groaned. The third step made a sound so dramatic it felt like it needed medical attention.
Sadie froze, whispered a brief prayer to the gods of shoddy carpentry, and hurried up the rest of the way before gravity could involve itself.
She dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out the key she had been handed at the front gate.
“Sadie! Oh, thank God!”
Avery, one of the production assistants she had met earlier for approximately ten seconds, came hurtling toward her like a caffeinated tornado.
This was the same person who had earlier thrown the cabin key at her like a quarterback under pressure.
Now Avery skidded to a stop in front of the porch, breathless and wide-eyed, clutching a clipboard like a flotation device.
“Well hey there, panic personified,” Sadie said. “You okay, or did another intern try to bathe the drone again?”
Avery froze, eyes going even wider. “No. Why. What have you heard? Who told you? Was it accounting? They always know first.”
“Nothing,” Sadie said quickly, lifting her hands. “That was a joke.”
“Oh. Good.” Avery dragged a hand through her half-escaped ponytail. “So you remember the Howdy Hoedown? The welcome party?”
Oh, Sadie remembered. The e-vite had read like it was written by a rodeo clown on a sugar binge.
There was line dancing, a mechanical bull named Bessie the Bruiser, and cocktails with names like Rootin’ Tootin’ Ritas.
It invited attendees to square dance their way into the magic of Blood on the Prairie, complete with glitter font and a boot-scootin playlist link.
Sadie had developed stress hives halfway through reading it.
“It’s supposed to kick off production tonight,” Avery panted. “But the band ghosted me like a man with commitment issues. I need a replacement in…” she checked her watch and visibly winced, “...five hours. Also I need help with decorations, snack logistics, emotional stability, possibly CPR.”
She clutched her clipboard so hard it looked like it might snap. “You are the only person who has walked through those gates with kind eyes and what I am praying is a Type A personality. I think you might be my last hope.”
“Nope. Total Type B,” Sadie said. “And you met me five minutes ago. For all you know, I run a pyramid scheme in my spare time.”
“I have handled worse. I once had to cut the crusts off bread for an actor who swears gluten gives them night terrors.” Avery waved that off.
“Please help. I will owe you forever. Organ-donor-level favor. You need a kidney? Done. You need help burying a body at three in the morning? I already have gloves.”
Sadie sighed. She had been planning to face-plant into a nap before her first day on set, but she was deeply vulnerable to chaos, open bars, and ironic line dancing under twinkle lights. The promise of a mechanical bull didn’t hurt either.
At the very least, it was an excellent opportunity to observe the crew, flirt irresponsibly, and identify the first doomed set romance forming near the snack table.
She groaned, then smiled. “Fine. I’m in.”
“Yes!” Avery pumped a fist. “I will be back in an hour with decorations and possibly a lasso.”
Sadie deadpanned. “If you show up with a lasso, I will use it to tie you to a chair and escape into the woods.”
Avery cackled like that was a perfectly reasonable outcome and sprinted away, clipboard flapping wildly behind her.
Sadie exhaled, unlocked the door, and stepped into her cabin. The inside matched the outside in its commitment to rustic minimalism, with wooden furniture, a tiny kitchen, and a narrow hallway that creaked ominously underfoot, as if the building wanted her to know it had opinions.
She followed the hall until it opened into a bedroom and bathroom.
The bedroom was small but serviceable, with a queen-sized bed shoved against the wall and a chest of drawers positioned like it was guarding the door.
The whole place had that unsettling lived-in feeling, like someone had just stepped out and might wander back in at any moment.
Then she saw the bathroom. In the corner sat a claw-foot tub that was deep, glossy, and aggressively luxurious for a cabin that looked like it hosted axe murders on weekends.
“Okay,” she said aloud, grinning. “You win.”
For a brief, seductive moment, she considered canceling all her plans and soaking until she lost track of time and her fingerprints. Unfortunately, balloons needed inflating and a production assistant was one inconvenience away from a breakdown.
She began unpacking her suitcase, placing her clothes in the small dresser by the bed. As she pulled out a pair of jeans, something shifted outside the large bedroom window. Her heart did a leap and her eyes locked onto a dark figure moving near the tree line.
For one terrifying second, it looked like a bear. It was big, hulking, borderline murdery.
She froze, her dad’s voice echoing in her head like a low-budget Discovery Channel narrator: Bears have an incredible sense of smell. They can rip open car doors just to get to food. Or worse, your strawberry lip balm.
But as she squinted, ready to accept her fate, the shadowy figure came into focus. Not a bear. Just a massive, intimidating man swinging an axe like he was born to do it.
His broad shoulders flexed with each swing of the axe, the thwack of splitting logs echoing through the clearing.
He was wearing flannel, because of course he was.
He looked like someone who drank black coffee, owned at least one knife with a backstory, and could start a fire using nothing but two sticks and a glare.
Not that she was staring. Except she was. And her eyes definitely drifted lower. Yep. That was a very impressive ass. Maybe this whole “nature” thing wasn’t a total disaster after all.
Just as she was starting to enjoy the view. He turned, giving her a clear look at his face. Her appreciation curdled like expired milk.
Quentin. Freaking. Ramos.
Of course, it had to be him. The same infuriatingly handsome face she had spent the entire flight trying not to think about was now ten yards away, casually chopping wood like he was auditioning for Hot Lumberjacks of the Wild West.
And because the universe was cruel, he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal what appeared to be an eight-pack.
Sadie blinked, momentarily betrayed by her own eyeballs.
Math was not her strong suit, but she was fairly certain she could count to eight.
Then, he took a slow, gratuitous sip from a water bottle handed to him by a starstruck production assistant practically vibrating with admiration.
Sadie felt bamboozled. Completely played. She couldn’t even appreciate a firm ass in peace these days. Quentin Ramos ruined everything.
Why was he even chopping wood? Did he lose a bet? Was this some sort of method-acting nonsense where pretending to be a rugged man of the people counted as character development? Her irritation simmered as she watched him, all broad shoulders and irritating competence.
These cabins were meant for production staff and the art department, people who actually needed to be here.
Actors, especially A-listers like Quentin Ramos, were supposed to be living comfortably in a luxury hotel in Bozeman, wrapped in plush robes, ordering room service, and having their egos massaged right alongside their calves.
What, did he think chopping wood would make him look rugged and relatable?
Was he expecting someone to swoon and hand-feed him a granola bar for all his hard work?
It felt like a sad, attention-seeking ploy.
She could practically hear the crew gushing over his “dedication” while he soaked up every compliment like a human sponge.
Oh wow, Quentin, you’re so strong! So down-to-earth!
Sooo not doing this for a behind-the-scenes featurette!
Just as she reached for the curtains, his eyes lifted and locked onto hers through the glass.
Heat rushed through her like she had mainlined espresso and pure rage. Her first instinct was to flip him off with both hands for emphasis. She managed to restrain herself, mostly because that would be childish, even if it sounded extremely satisfying.
Professionalism mattered, unfortunately, and she needed to remember that.
Instead, she narrowed her eyes into a glare sharp enough to strip paint. If looks could kill, Quentin Ramos would have collapsed into a smoldering heap of overpriced cologne and unchecked arrogance.
Something shifted in his expression. His jaw tightened. His eyes hardened just enough to suggest she had landed the hit.
Good, she thought. Stay mad.
Rather than looking away like a normal person who had just been mentally set on fire, he held her gaze. He doubled down, turning it into a full-blown stare-off that belonged in a spaghetti western. All they were missing was dust blowing through and a whistling soundtrack.
Her heart, traitorous and useless, gave a small, uninvited thump at the intensity of it. That only made her angrier. Fine, she would be the bigger person.
With a sharp huff, she yanked the curtains shut. Then, because growth was a journey and she was only human, she lifted her hand and flipped him off through the sheer fabric. A slow, deeply satisfied smile tugged at her mouth. Maturity was overrated anyway.