I take the easy way out. “Meh, I’m alright. Don’t let the accent fool you. I’m the most boring one.”
Her mischievous smile says she doesn’t buy that for a second.
Mac bursts into the room, filling it with noise and charm. He always enters like he’s stepping onto a set: boots heavy on the wood, energy unmistakable, voice rolling in with that gravelly, effortless authority that made him a household name long before I was even a twinkle in his steel gray eyes.
“Well, hell,” he drawls, sweeping his gaze over the room like he owns every inch of it. “Look at this sweet little elf. Must be Christmas.”
Ally brightens instantly at him, the way everyone does. Mac’s charm is gravitational, and she’s only human, not immune. She grins up at him, all warmth and easy affection.
“Hi, Mac,” she says, tucking a stray strand of pale hair behind her ear with a soft, unconscious gesture that knocks the breath out of me.
He bends to kiss the top of her head, gentle in a way most people would never believe him capable of after watching his trademark bloodthirsty movie shootouts. “There’s my girl. You travel OK? Or did ol’ Californee scare the Yorkshire right outta you?”
She laughs, bumping his arm. “It’ll take more than palm trees and a little sunshine to burn the Leeds out of this lass.”
Mac booms a laugh, clapping his hands together like the room was getting cold and he needed to warm it by force of his personality alone.
And as I watch her bathe in the orbit of his charm, her smile wide, her eyes bright, her golden hair in waves behind her ear, I feel something drop straight through me.
I’m in trouble.
Ally Montrose is sixteen. She’s my stepsister. She could not possibly be more off limits if she came wrapped in crime scene tape.
So the necessary wall goes up, the sting of regret shoved aside. I’ll be polite. I’ll keep my distance. This instinctive, insistent pull toward her will fade.
It has to.
CHAPTER 1
Twelve years later
Nate - 30
The wrap party lights are too bright, too artificial, and I’m too tired to keep pretending I like being seen.
Some smartass picked a western-themed bar for theCochise Countyseason three wrap. Edison bulbs cast warm cones of light over reclaimed barn wood and curated dust, while more fluorescent lights near the DJ deck clash and throb in the most headache inducing way. They’ve repurposed wagon wheels as tables, and there are faithful replicas of curved saloon doors. More ominously, there’s a mechanical bull in the corner already eyeing the room like it’s choosing victims.
I lean against the wall with a bottle of water, smiling at crew members whose names I’m ninety percent sure I’m forgetting. Makes me feel like an asshole, but there are so damn many of them, and none of them ever seem to want to talk; they just keep their heads down and get on with their work.
The DJ shifts from outlaw country to synth pop. The cast under twenty-five cheers like they’ve been sprung from jail. The older actors boo.
I should be celebrating.
Season three of the Amazon Prime juggernaut is in the can. I’m one of the main characters. The show’s already renewed for two more seasons. My career is, objectively, thriving.
Andit’s nearly Christmas.
So why do I feel so damn hollow?
The cast is phenomenal. The scripts are excellent. I like the historical angle of the show: life on Henry Clay Hooker’s Arizona ranch, the settlement years, the tension around the Earp vendetta ride. It’s all interesting and textured. I get to play the enviable role of Henry Hooker’s son, Joseph, and get some amazing scenes opposite top tier actors. It’s good work, the kind actors of my age would kill for.
But my agent still insists on pushing me into westerns because of who my father is.
Cowboy royalty by bloodline.Lucky me.
Man, my diamond shoes must be so tight they’re cutting off circulation.
Itisa fantastic opportunity.
