“That’s comforting.”
“It should be,” he says, and I’m surprised to hear actual conviction in his voice. “It means nothing out here is personal. No malice. No judgment. Only life doing what life does.”
I consider this perspective, so different from Hollywood's calculated ecosystem of favor and spite. “I've spent my entire career in an industry where everything is personal. Every critique, every rejection, every success—it's all filtered through this lens of who likes you, who's jealous, who's pulling strings.”
“Sounds exhausting,” he observes.
“It is.” I pull the blanket closer around my shoulders, suddenly feeling the cold again. “Maybe that's why I find this—” I gesture vaguely at the wilderness beyond our tent “—oddly refreshing. It's trying to kill me, but at least it's honest about it.”
His soft laugh warms the space between us. Without discussion, we gravitate back toward our earlier position, my back against his chest, his arm around my waist. This time, thearrangement feels less like survival necessity and more like chosen comfort.
“About earlier,” I start, then falter. How do I explain an impulsive thank-you kiss that felt like something more?
“The deer?” he asks, though I'm certain he knows that's not what I mean.
“No,” I whisper. “Before that.”
His arm tightens slightly around my waist. “You don't need to explain.”
“I think I do,” I counter, gathering courage. “I kissed you.”
“I was there. I remember.”
“It wasn't ... I mean, I wasn't trying to...” The words tangle in my throat. I'm never at a loss for lines, but without a script, I'm floundering.
“Lena,” he says, his voice gentle in a way I've rarely heard from him. “It was a thank-you kiss. For rescuing your sunscreen from certain doom. I understand.”
Butdidhe understand? Did I? It had started as gratitude, but in that moment when my lips touched his, something else had sparked—something unexpected and terrifying in its potential.
“Right,” I say finally. “A thank-you kiss.” The definition feels insufficient, but it's safer than the alternatives.
“Though as thank yous go,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, “it was very effective.”
My pulse quickens. “Was it?”
“Very.” His breath warms the back of my neck. “Much better than a handshake.”
A laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. “I'll keep that in mind for future expressions of gratitude.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the warmth between us building like a cocoon against the wilderness night. His heartbeat is steady against my back, his breathing gradually slowing toward sleep.
I should be exhausted, but my mind races. Everything is changing—not just this unexpected connection with Finn, but something deeper within me. The woman I've pretended to be for so long feels increasingly distant, like a character I once played rather than my true self.
As sleep claims me, my grandmother's voice drifts through my mind, whispering the words she repeated every summer when we'd gather herbs at dawn.Las raíces más profundas sobreviven cualquier tormenta. The deepest roots survive any storm.
For years I've been a tree without roots, bending to whatever direction Hollywood demanded. But here, pressed against Finn's solid warmth, I feel something long-dormant stirring beneath the surface—not the polished Lena Kensington, but the wild, stubborn heart of Magdalena who knows the names of plants in three languages and remembers how to tie knots that hold against rushing water.
The woman who might be strong enough to finally stop running from herself.
Chapter Thirteen
FINN
I waketo the sound of voices outside the tent. Lena's curled against me, breathing with a steady rhythm. The cold air seeps through the tent's thin walls, but between our shared body heat and the emergency blanket, we've avoided freezing during the night. I'm acutely aware of my body's reaction to her curled against me—a reaction that would likely make Lena Kensington bolt, even if the real woman beneath the image might understand. A ghost of a smile touches my lips, remembering her embarrassment last night when she felt my flashlight through my pocket.
Professional boundaries. I need to remember those. I shift away from her, trying not to wake her. She needs the rest, especially after yesterday's flash flood and the deer incident. Four tents for eight people—not ideal, but we're working with what we have. Elliott's voice carries through the morning air, directing his crew. I slip into my boots and jacket, leaving Lena asleep. Time to check our situation and figure out our next move.
I unzip the tent and step out. The first thing I see is Elliott directing Carlos, who has his camera aimed at our tent.
