Page 61 of Resisting Isaac
I sigh heavily into the cab of my truck. “Where are you?”
“Me and Ivy and Elena are grabbing an early dinner at The Stillery. I’d invite you, but you probably have plans.”
I put my truck in gear. He had me at Elena. “No plans. I’m on my way.”
“Isaac—” he breaks in, but I stop him.
“It’s serious, Wy. It’s about Jimmy Peterson.”
He pauses a beat, then I hear Ivy say something I can’t make out in the background. Another deep breath and my brother says, “You want me to order you your usual?”
“That’d be great.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
elena
“Ihope you don’t mind if Isaac joins us for dinner,” Ivy says while her husband flags down our waitress to put in his brother’s order.
The Stillery smells like whiskey, fried pickles, and cedarwood. Someone’s covering Kacey Musgraves’Space Cowboyon the acoustic stage.
“Of course not. We, um, had tacos together recently.” My heart stammers in my chest, excited and nervous all at once. “After the storm.”
And insanely hot sex.
Ivy arches a brow. “After that big move he made during the scene blocking, I figured he’d ask you out, but Elena?—”
“I know,” I break in, hoping she can’t see the truth burning all over my face. “He’s just a good time guy and it’s against the rules. It was just dinner.”
Lying to this sweet woman who is also kind of my boss makes me nauseated. It seems like every emotion makes me sick to my stomach lately—probably why I usually avoid them.
I’m contemplating bailing on dinner entirely until the moment he steps through the door.
The cowboy hat, the gleaming eyes. Those thick, tan, muscular forearms peeking out from rolled up flannel sleeves. All of it moves toward us purposefully and I forget how to breathe.
“Hey there, spitfire,” he greets me with a wink. Then nods to his sister-in-law. “City girl.”
Ivy and Wyatt are on the other side of the booth leaving only the space beside me for him to slide into. Making my breathing shallower so I don’t inhale his scent and lose my mind in front of everyone, I scoot over to the wall to give him as much room as possible.
“Hope I’m not crashing your party.” He eyes me briefly, but I ignore him, continuing a conversation with Ivy about filming.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she says as Isaac and his brother begin speaking in low voices to one another about an aging neighbor.
I set my drink down, silently praying she’s not going to ask me how many times her brother-in-law has made me come. I’ve lost count.
“What’s up?”
She pulls out her phone and scrolls for a second before flipping the screen to face me.
“This is a rewrite I added between your character and the ranch foreman.” She hands me the phone and I peruse it quickly, smiling at the tender fatherly moments on screen. “It’s just a quiet moment where they’re cooking together. I wanted to let some of your heritage shine through.”
I blink, caught off guard by how sincere this woman is. Previously my experiences with screenwriters haven’t been great.
“He’s cutting onions,” she goes on, “and you’re making fun of him while teaching him how to make your abuela’s arroz rojo.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “That’s dangerously close to a sacred staple.”
“I know,” she says softly, her hazel eyes wide. “That’s why I’m asking. I don’t want to screw this up, Elena. I don’t want to just use your background as flavor—I want to respect it. Honor it. Because most shows still toe a fine line with stereotypes, and the last thing I want to do is add anything that disrespects your culture.”
