Chapter 1
Twelve years later
The wrap party lights are too bright, too artificial, and I’m too tired to keep pretending I like being seen.
Some smartass picked a western-themed bar for the Cochise County season three wrap.
Edison bulbs cast warm cones of light over reclaimed barn wood and curated dust, while more fluorescent lights near the DJ deck clash and throb in the most headache inducing way.
They’ve repurposed wagon wheels as tables, and there are faithful replicas of curved saloon doors.
More ominously, there’s a mechanical bull in the corner already eyeing the room like it’s choosing victims.
I lean against the wall with a bottle of water, smiling at crew members whose names I’m ninety percent sure I’m forgetting. Makes me feel like an asshole, but there are so damn many of them, and none of them ever seem to want to talk; they just keep their heads down and get on with their work.
The DJ shifts from outlaw country to synth pop. The cast under twenty-five cheers like they’ve been sprung from jail. The older actors boo.
I should be celebrating.
Season three of the Prime juggernaut is in the can. I’m one of the main characters. The show’s already renewed for two more seasons. My career is, objectively, thriving.
And it’s nearly Christmas.
So why do I feel so damn hollow?
The cast is phenomenal. The scripts are excellent.
I like the historical angle of the show: life on Henry Clay Hooker’s Arizona ranch, the settlement years, the tension around the Earp vendetta ride.
It’s all interesting and textured. I get to play the enviable role of Henry Hooker’s son, Joseph, and get some amazing scenes opposite top tier actors.
It’s good work, the kind actors of my age would kill for.
But my agent still insists on pushing me into westerns because of who my father is.
Cowboy royalty by bloodline. Lucky me.
Man, my diamond shoes must be so tight they’re cutting off circulation.
It is a fantastic opportunity.
It really is.
It’s just not the one I would have chosen for myself.
My own secret dreams involve treading boards that my heroes stood on and acting live in front of an audience, not being able to hide behind re-takes.
But if I told people I’ve been longing to do Shakespeare on stage, they’d almost definitely laugh themselves sick.
The cowboy’s kid doing Hamlet? What’s next, the Prince of Denmark and Laertes have a shootout at the OK Corral?
“You look like a man whose agent won’t return his calls,” comes a familiar voice to my left.
Fallon Montrose. Costume designer for Cochise County, former stepmother, and one of the only people in the industry I like and trust without reservation. She’s radiant in black velvet and silver cuffs, her perennial Yorkshire burr warm as she hands me a glass of amber liquid.
“Scotch?”
“Ginger ale. You don’t need alcohol, you’re already burnt out.”
“Rude,” I say, but it’s affectionate. Fallon always had radar for lost causes and quietly drowning souls. “I’m fine. Just being a spoiled jackass.”
She gives me a hard assessing look over. This woman knows me a lot better than my agent does. “You’ve been running on fumes since the desert shoot. You look knackered.”
My mouth quirks. “Occupational hazard.”
“No, love. That’s called burnout. Different species entirely.”
She settles beside me, crossing her legs with that calm authority that used to make my father worship and fear her in equal measure.
He still loves her, despite everything. He just couldn’t keep his dick in one place, and Fallon, bless her, is not a woman who tolerates disrespect.
He’s still reeling from being told, No, I won’t accept that.
No, I won’t make allowances just because you’re film industry royalty.
Your behavior stinks, and I’m worth more.
I’m immature enough to find his wounded shock satisfying. Maybe he’ll learn this time.
For a moment, I nearly tell her everything: the insomnia, the pressure, and how every time someone calls me Mac Woodruff’s son something inside me knots tighter. How, when the cameras shut off, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.
But then the director stands on a chair, slurring a meandering toast, and the moment dissolves under raucous cheers, applause, and clinking glasses.
Fallon sighs. “Three seasons of dust, sweat, and horses prettier than half the cast. Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” I agree listlessly, though it feels more like I’m praising someone else’s achievements.
She studies me again. “It’s not what you want, though, is it?” Damn, she’s astute.
I pause… then take the risk. “It is, and it isn’t.
I’m proud of the show. I am. But it always feels like I’m Mac: The Sequel.
Like nobody sees me as anything but his son, destined to star in the projects he would’ve taken at my age and nothing else.
” I sigh. “I know I’m a total nepo baby, and I am grateful for the foot in the door.
It’s just that there’s a ball and chain that comes with it, and…
I dunno, I guess I’m indulging in my own private pity party, rather than doing anything meaningful about it.
” My mouth twists. “Complaining’s way easier, after all. ”
“You’re not complaining. You’re telling it like it is.
” The squeeze of her hand on my forearm is sympathetic rather than dismissive, and she doesn’t take out the world’s tiniest violin, so for a few seconds I feel less like the most ungrateful shit in Hollywood.
Like my feelings aren’t those of an overindulged brat, but may be, dare I say, valid.
“You need a break,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Somewhere quiet.”
“Define quiet.”
“Mac’s cabin in Montana.”
I huff. “Dad’s hermit hut? At Christmas?”
Fallon snorts. “It’s not like the Woodruffs ever gather for the holidays.
Half your siblings are on different continents.
And your father’s probably grooming wife candidate number five.
” I don’t miss the archness in her tone, and she’s not wrong.
I’m pretty sure he’s planning to propose to his latest co-star over the holidays, the one who plays his onscreen daughter’s best friend. The gross cliche is lost on him.
The idea sinks in, warm and tempting. Snow and silence. A roaring fire. Space to breathe, to re-evaluate, to think for myself.
“Tempting,” I admit.
She nudges me gently. “You should go, love. Sleep. Read something that isn’t a script. Remember what your own voice sounds like. It’ll do you a power of good.”
I lean my shoulder into hers. “Feel free to come keep me company?”
Fallon snorts. “Bugger off. There’s only one bed, darling, and I’m not freezing my arse off in Montana. Besides, I’ve got Christmas with my sister in Leeds this year.”
“No Ally?”
I ask it too quickly, too easily for my liking. My stomach drops the way it always does. I haven’t seen Ally in years, a necessary and deliberate move on my part. Because she’s always been much too easy for me to love.
Because I’ve spent twelve years trying to unlearn a crush that refuses to die. And addictions need abstinence if you’re going to take your life back.
“Not this year,” Fallon says. “Olympics are next summer, remember? Training camp in Wyoming for the holidays. Lucky cat.” Fallon beams with pride. “We’ll video call on the day.”
Something softens in her eyes when she looks at me. Searching. Gentle. And my pulse stumbles. Does she know? Has she guessed that Ally has been the gold standard since I was eighteen? That every woman I meet gets compared to her without my meaning to?
No, she can’t. I’ve never said a word. Never slipped. Always kept distance when I should. Always been careful.
Still… Fallon sees more than most, always uncannily good at reading between the lines.
She pats my knee. “Text Mac. Tell him you’re going. He keeps the cabin stocked.”
“Yeah, one case of whiskey and enough jerky to feed a small country.”
“Then stop for some sensible groceries. And pack a book without your face on the cover.”
Across the room, the guy who plays my brother gets bucked off the mechanical bull. The bar erupts. Someone calls for tequila slammers, and Fallon and I share a synchronized grimace.
“My cue,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Go home. Pack warm things. Take care of yourself. And Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to want to be your own person.”
She disappears into the crowd, velvet swinging behind her, and I feel something like gratitude.
And something like grief. Since Mom passed, Fallon’s the only family who’s ever felt unequivocally safe; always nurturing, unfailingly pleased to see me, and never expecting me to be anyone other than myself.
I pull out my phone and stare at a contact I haven’t used in months.
Ally Montrose.
My thumbs type: Hope training’s going well. Have fun in Wyoming.
I delete it before I can convince myself to press send. Even ‘brotherly’ messages are a slippery slope when I’m already unraveling at the edges.
Across the bar, the cast starts a drunken hum-along to the show’s theme. I can’t tell if it makes me nostalgic or nauseous, but either way, it’s enough.
Fallon’s right. I need to leave this city.
Leave my father’s shadow. Leave my own head.
So, before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my jacket and push through the crowd, already planning the drive.
I’ll text Dad on the way; he’ll be fine with me using the place.
We’ve been… better, recently. Not cats in the cradle or anything, but working on a film together helped us find a little common ground, and we text more often now.
Montana, here I come. A few weeks of cold, quiet, blessed solitude. Christmas and the New Year alone with my thoughts in the peace and quiet of a cozy cabin. Maybe I’ll finally get my head on straight, come up with a viable plan that lets me be Nate, rather than Mac’s natural successor.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll even be able to finally put this impossible, unrequited crush on my stepsister to rest.
Somehow.