Carlos stirs, checking his watch. “They should be back soon.”
I nod, self-conscious about my appearance. I haven’t seen a proper mirror in days, but there is grime on my skin and tangles in my hair. In Los Angeles, I wouldn’t have let anyone see me like this—especially not a man whose opinion shouldn’t matter but somehow does.
Using water from the rain barrel outside, I manage a makeshift sponge bath and change into my last clean shirt. I’m working a comb through the snarls in my hair when I hear voices outside.
The door swings open, and there he is—Finn, silhouetted against the morning light, his tall frame filling the doorway. Behind him, Elliott and the crew trudge up the path, looking more bedraggled than when they left.
“How’s the ankle?” Finn asks, his eyes finding mine.
“Better,” I say, surprised by the breathlessness in my voice. “Your willow remedy worked.”
Something in his expression alters—relief, maybe, or quiet satisfaction. In three long strides, he’s across the cabin, kneeling beside me. His hands are gentle as he inspects the injury, his touch sending a surprising jolt across my skin.
“Good,” he says, his fingers warm where they touch. “You followed instructions.”
“I can be taught,” I reply, aiming for light humor but hearing something else entirely in my voice.
His eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, everything else disappears—the cabin, Carlos packing his equipment, the sound of the crew approaching. There is only Finn, hiscalloused hand cupping my heel, his eyes—God, those eyes—seeing straight through the Lena Kensington disguise to someone I’d almost forgotten existed.
Then Elliott bursts through the door, breaking the moment with his perpetual energy and clipboard. “Perfect timing!” he exclaims. “How’s our star patient? Ready for a triumphant return to the wild? We’re thinking a ‘rising from adversity’ narrative for today’s shoot.”
Finn stands, putting space between us that is both necessary and disappointing. “She can walk, but we take it slow,” he says, leaving no room for debate. “And we change the route. No steep descents.”
“But—” Elliott begins.
“Those are the conditions,” Finn cuts him off. “Or we stay another day.”
I watch the exchange with a newfound appreciation for Finn’s authority. He hasn’t asked my opinion, which would typically infuriate me, but somehow, I don’t mind. He’s protecting me—not because I’m a celebrity client, but because he cares about my wellbeing. A surprising warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the morning sun now streaming through the window.
“We leave in thirty,” Finn announces to the room at large. “Pack up. Eat something.”
As the crew bustles around gathering their gear, Finn returns to my side, holding out a familiar silver-wrapped bar. “Breakfast,” he says. “Then we’ll see how that ankle handles walking.”
Our fingers brush as I take the offering, and I imagine the way his linger for a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you,” I say, my voice low. “Not only for this. For yesterday. For making Elliott let me stay.”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “He’s not the boss out here.”
“No,” I agree, locking eyes with him. “He’s not.”
The truth settles between us—out here, without Hollywood gloss or city comforts, the rules are different. The hierarchy is real. And Finn Hollister, with his competence and unwavering principles, outranks any clipboard-wielding producer by miles.
As I prepare to rejoin the expedition, lacing my boot over my tender ankle, I realize something has shifted during our day apart. The script I’ve been following—the one where I endure this adventure as a necessary career move—no longer feels right. I’m writing new pages now, and I have no idea where the story might lead.
Chapter Nine
FINN
The air feels cleanerafter yesterday’s rain. I shoulder my pack and watch Lena try to hide her wince as she shifts weight onto her injured ankle. When she bends to pick up her pack, I move faster.
“I’ll take that,” I say, lifting her pack before she can protest.
“I can carry my gear,” she says, reaching for the straps.
I hold it away from her grasp. “Your ankle needs time to heal. No sense pushing it with unnecessary weight.”
“I’m not an invalid,” she insists, though she doesn’t put full pressure on her injured foot.
“I’m not saying you are. But there’s a difference between tough and foolish.” I secure her pack on top of mine, adjusting the balance.
