“I’ve got other sizes,” she replies cheerfully. “Let me know what works.”
I press my palms against my eyes, willing away the memories. This isn’t then. I’m not that girl anymore. I’m Lena Kensington, actress. The girl who escaped. The woman who never has to wear hand-me-downs again. When my chest stops heaving, I finally look at myself in the mirror—smudged, streaked, and honest.
My face has paled, eyes too bright with unshed tears. I blink them away furiously. No one here will witness that vulnerability—especially not Finn Hollister, who already thinks I’m some spoiled princess.
Anger replaces the fear—anger at this whole mess, anger at myself, anger at the stain of poverty I can’t wash off. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, but it’s better than the damn tears. Anger is easier. Safer. I yank on the remaining clothes with savage efficiency, ignoring how they scratch against my skin. Each item reinforces my determination. I will endure this. I will excel at it. And when I return to Hollywood, my career resurrected, I will burn every piece of this clothing.
When I emerge from the dressing room, my expression islocked in cool indifference. Finn raises his head from the counter, his eyebrows rising slightly at my transformation.
“What?” I snap, daring him to comment.
“Nothing,” he says, regarding me with unexpected intensity. “Those actually fit you well.”
Agnes circles me, tugging at sleeves and checking pant lengths with professional assessment. “Not bad. You’ve got a good frame for outdoor wear.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of the compliment. After years of stylists praising my body for appearing good in couture, I’m now being complimented on how I fill out cargo pants.
Finn disappears midway through, leaving me to Agnes’s tender mercies. An hour later, a substantial pile of clothing and equipment sits on the counter. The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—dressed in cargo pants, a thermal Henley, and a burgundy flannel shirt. The woman in the mirror isn’t Hollywood’s Lena Kensington. She looks like she could’ve grown up here.
I turn away from the reflection, unsettled. “Ring it all up,” I say finally, pulling out my credit card. “Whatever you think I’ll need. I’ll expense it to the production later.”
As we exit the shop, I notice Finn across the street, standing outside a timeworn building with a sign reading May’s Café. “My brother Nash is meeting us at May’s,” he announces. “He’s bringing the camping gear.”
The rich smells from the diner cut through my misery. May emerges from behind the counter, her face lighting up. “Well, if it isn’t our reluctant bouquet-catcher and our resident grump! I was thinking you weren’t coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss your pancakes,” I reply, surprised by how pleased I am to be here.
A burst of laughter from the corner booth catches my attention. A man who can only be Finn’s brother waves usover—the family resemblance is unmistakable, though where Finn is all controlled strength and stoic reserve, Nash Hollister is all easy smiles and charm.
“If it isn’t our Hollywood guest,” he says as we approach his booth. “Out shopping for your survival starter pack?”
“Nash,” Finn warns, but his brother ignores him, extending a hand to me. “Nash Hollister, wilderness expert and the good-looking brother,” he introduces himself with a wink. “Hear you’re going to Painted Peaks.”
“Not by choice,” I say, shaking his hand.
Nash laughs. “Few people go into those mountains by choice, Hollywood. That’s what makes it an adventure.” His casual use of May’s nickname for me makes me wonder how many people have been discussing my arrival.
“I’ve got all the gear you requested loaded on my ATV’s trailer outside,” Nash says, turning to Finn. “Several tents, portable stove, water filters, bear canisters—the works.”
“Bear canisters?” I ask, my voice rising.
“For food storage,” Nash explains, amusement in his eyes. “Unless you want hungry midnight visitors with claws and teeth.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had a proper breakfast,” May says, cutting in with firm authority. “Sit. All of you.” Without missing a beat, she herds us into Nash’s booth. Before I can even consider a menu, May has vanished into the kitchen.
“So,” Nash says, leaning forward. “How’s the lodge treating you so far?”
“It’s ... rustic.”
Nash snorts. “Translation—my brother builds things to last, not to impress. Not a believer in updates or modern conveniences, our Finn.”
“The lodge is perfectly functional,” Finn defends, though he doesn’t deny the accusation.
“Remember when you tried to install that satellite internet system yourself?” Nash continues, eyes gleaming. “Half the town lost power.”
“That was a grounding issue,” Finn mutters, his ears reddening.
“My point,” Nash says, turning back to me, “is that my brother here is great at many things—building, fishing, scowling at tourists—but technology isn’t one of them.”
