Page 44 of Resisting Isaac
He nods once. “Agreed.”
Actor or not, we’re both lying.
To each other. To ourselves. Hell, to everyone around us.
Every muscle in my body knows it.
“Good,” I whisper.
“Great.”
But we’re still standing too close. Still breathing the same dust-filled air, hearts pounding like they’re trying to claw through our ribs just to get a little closer.
I step back.
He doesn’t follow.
I turn and walk away, trying to figure out why this is getting harder instead of easier.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
elena
The following day, when the sun has dipped low, casting golden streaks through the slats in the stable walls, my arms ache in that satisfying, hard-earned kind of way. I’m brushing down the mare I’ve been riding, a sweet sassy girl named Lady, sweat sticking my shirt to my back, when Isaac walks in with two of the ranch hands.
Before I have time to greet him, his phone rings.
He answers with a distracted, “Yeah?” but his spine straightens almost instantly.
“Shit.” He pulls the phone from his ear and looks at the hands with him. “There’s a wild mustang out past the ridge—on high ground. Injured. Antonio needs help wrangling her.”
I drop the brush into the grooming bucket. “I can help.”
Isaac blinks at me as if he hadn’t realized I was in the stables. “Definitely not. You could get hurt. I’m sure that’s against the production rules.”
I frown. “I think I can manage.”
“You don’t have anything to prove, Elena.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to help,” Isay, gripping the saddle like that’s the end of the discussion. “You’ve seen me ride. I can handle it.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue but knows better. “I’m not riding out there. I’m flying.”
“Flying?” Maybe this is a Montana ranch term I’m unfamiliar with.
He tells the ranch hands to head out on their horses, then turns to me. “She got caught up in some fence. I’ve got to carry equipment to free her. So, I’m taking the plane. You’re not riding out to the ridge unsupervised with ranch hands.”
The urge to remind him I’m not a child that needs supervision is strong. But it’s overtaken by the new information he’s presented. “You fly the plane yourself? Like a pilot?”
“That’s what my license says.” There’s a flicker of something cocky beneath his calm exterior. “Plane’s gassed and ready.”
“Then I’m flying with you.” I move toward the door before he can stop me. “We both know you’re wasting time arguing with me.”
A few minutes later, I’m strapped into the passenger seat of his small plane as we taxi down a short runway.
The urge to chew my nails is overwhelming, even though I kicked the habit when I went into acting.
“Nervous?” he asks as we lift off, voice steady through the headset.
