Page 22 of Resisting Isaac
The sprawling property is all pastures and mountains with a river running through it. Like aWelcome to Montanapostcard 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’swelcoming 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’vebeen 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.
