She stalks out, pink slippers and all, the door banging shut behind her.
Elliott waits until she’s gone before turning to me with a pained expression. “This is where you come in, Mr. Hollister.”
“Me?” I set down the dishtowel I’ve been holding. “I’m simply providing lodging for your production.”
“Actually,” Elliott says, pulling a document from his bag and sliding it across the table, “according to the contract you signed, you’re also obligated to provide guiding services for the duration of filming.”
I look at him. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“Page eleven, section C, subsection four,” Elliott says, his tone apologetic as he points to a paragraph of minuscule text. “Crystal Creek Retreat will provide wilderness guiding services as needed for production requirements.”
My stomach sinks as I reread the dense legal language. I remember skimming this section, assuming it meant basic information about hiking trails or fishing spots—not leading a full wilderness expedition. I glance at Elliott, whose too-casual posture suddenly seems suspicious.
“Wait—there’s a guide component?” I ask.
Elliott nods, clearly trying to sound breezy. “Yeah. But don’t worry—you’ll get an additional stipend for that.”
My breath catches. Their payment for a guide—unexpected but very much needed—would cover a good quarter of what I need to keep the loan sharks at bay. Saying no isn’t an option. Not now.
“We need someone who knows the Painted Peaks area,” Elliott continues, his voice taking on a pleading quality. “The safety of our star and crew is paramount. A travel agent in Anchorage recommended you specifically when we were planning this expedition.”
I bite back a curse. That would be Linda Parker, the persistent travel agent who’s always trying to book her mainland clients with local guides. This has her fingerprints all over it.
“How long?” I ask, already mentally calculating what thiswill mean for the lodge. I’ll have to call Nash and Eliza to see if they can check on the place periodically.
“Maximum three weeks,” Elliott replies. “We’ll need to depart tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s not nearly enough time to prepare for a three-week backcountry expedition.”
Elliott’s expression turns desperate. “We’re on an extremely tight production schedule. The network has already announced the special will air in September.”
If I weren’t looking down the barrel of financial ruin, I would refuse outright. But the extra money might be enough to help me catch up on the debt that’s been hanging over me.
The door swings open before I can respond, Lena storming back in with her cell phone clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her face has paled to the color of winter frost, eyes wide with horror. Her voice is tight with disbelief. “Paragraph twelve specifically states I must take part in ‘immersive wilderness experiences’ as determined by the production team. My agent says I signed it.”
Elliott’s expression transforms from worry to poorly concealed relief. “Exactly. The network executives believe strongly that a realistic wilderness experience is key to the narrative of your transformation from Hollywood party girl to nature enthusiast.”
“Transformation?” Lena echoes, her voice rising. “I’m not here for some spiritual journey through the woods. This was supposed to fix the Martinez disaster, not create a new one!”
“This will be much more effective for that purpose,” Elliott assures her. “Think of the audience response—Lena Kensington, roughing it in Alaska, finding her real self away from Hollywood’s pressures.”
She slumps into her chair, defeated. “You told me the survival stuff was for show—staged for the cameras, withsafety crews hovering off-screen.” Her voice cracks. “You said I’d be communing with nature. That there’d be trailers. Catering trucks.”
The raw despair in her voice cuts through my simmering anger at Elliott. “Bait and switch,” I mutter, the words tumbling out before I fully think them through. A strange, unwelcome sense of kinship washes over me—two damn fools caught in the same professionally negligent trap. “I didn’t read my contract properly either.”
Her head snaps up. Her eyes, though narrowed with suspicion, show a trace of desperate hope that she isn’t the only one thoroughly conned. “What do you mean?”
I fight the urge to shove the contract in Elliott’s smirking face and instead tap the offending document on the table. “This little masterpiece of legalese,” I say, my voice flat with the effort of keeping it even. “Seems I’ve also agreed to be your personal wilderness guide for the next three weeks. I thought I was renting out the damn lodge.” As the words leave my mouth, I watch her process them. For one hard second, the sharp edges of her Hollywood persona soften, her suspicion giving way to a horrified understanding that mirrors my churning gut. We aren’t a jaded Alaskan and a pampered actress. We’re two people who’ve been played, plain and simple. The thought, this brief, uncomfortable alignment withher, of all people, is as galling as the looming bank payment.
“You’re coming?” A quick flicker of relief crosses her face—raw and plain to see—before her walls snap back into place, suspicion tightening her features.
That brief expression, as if my forced companionship in this farce is somehow agoodthing, is enough to stamp out this unwelcome shred of camaraderie I feel.
“Apparently,” I say, my tone deliberately dry, any hint ofshared misfortune quickly burying itself under a fresh layer of resentment for this entire circus.
“So, problem solved,” Elliott says, his voice brightening. “Finn will ensure everything runs smoothly. He’s got all the skills to keep us safe and comfortable.”
“I doubt that very much,” Lena mutters, though some of the fight seems to leave her. She looks down at her barely touched breakfast, then pushes the plate away. “Can I at least get a decent cup of coffee before we’re banished to the wilderness?”
