Page 27 of Backed By You (Montgomery Brothers of Montana #3)

Callie

I blow out a breath and shake out my hands in front of me.

“How are you doing, Callie? Can I get you anything? Water, gum?” Ellen asks, a phone in each of her hands as she checks her meticulously set, by-the-minute schedule.

“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears alongside a familiar tightness in my chest that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

We’re in the back of the limo, moments away from pulling up to the theater. Outside the tinted windows waits a gauntlet of photographers, reporters, and fans—all eyes waiting for me and the cast to walk the red carpet.

I wish Hulk were here…

Beau grips my thigh from his spot beside me, a solid presence in his perfectly tailored tuxedo.

I shift my focus to him. He’s devastatingly handsome—the black suit emphasizes his broad shoulders and the crisp white shirt makes me want to crawl inside, rest my head on his juicy pecs, and never come out.

His gaze meets mine, steady and calm.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, just for me. His thumb presses into my thigh, forcing me to focus. To listen.

I take a deep breath, my bare shoulders rising with the action. He doesn’t smile or offer any words of encouragement. He doesn’t have to. He simply holds my gaze and breathes with me. He rubs his thumb back and forth over my skin through the slit on my dress.

Last night on the beach feels like a dream now. His quiet confession of love, the peaceful sunset, the simplicity of the moment. It was perfect. This, however, the premiere, the cameras, the noise—not so much.

“Thirty seconds,” Ellen announces, checking her phone. “Jack and the rest of the cast are already on the carpet. Studio executives are waiting to greet you at the entrance.”

I take another deep breath. “How do I look?” I ask no one in particular.

The dusty pink, mermaid gown catches the light with every movement, thousands of hand-sewn sequins creating a subtle shimmer. It’s elegant without being flashy, and the fabric is cool against my skin. My hair is pinned back, makeup done professionally.

Shea sits across from us in a stunning, golden gown of her own design and gives me an encouraging smile. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Everyone knows the plan,” Ellen reminds us all. “Beau stays with you as security. The press has been briefed not to ask personal questions, but be prepared for some to try anyway. Keep responses focused on the film.”

The car slows, and my stomach drops as I catch sight of the crowd outside. It’s ten times larger than I expected, with barricades holding back fans and photographers lined up three to four deep.

“Oh, god,” I whisper.

Beau squeezes my hand. “I’ve got you.”

I turn to him and blow out an anxious breath. Those three words steady me more than any breathing exercise could.

The car stops. Ellen exits first, then Shea, who turns to give me one last thumbs-up before disappearing into the flash of cameras. Then, it’s our turn.

Beau steps out first, all military precision in his movements as he extends his hand to help me from the car. The moment my heels touch the red carpet, the noise hits me. A wall of shouted names, camera shutters, and the dull roar of the crowd.

“Callie! Callie, over here!”

“Miss Ryan, this way, please!”

“Here, here!”

“Callie, who are you wearing?”

Beau’s hand rests on the small of my back, a reminder that I’m not alone. His presence behind me feels like a shield as I plaster on my practiced smile and begin to walk.

The first section is just photographers—no questions, just a flurry of flashes and shouted directions. I know the drill: pause every few feet, turn slightly, smile. Beau stays behind me but remains within reach. His face carefully neutral.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he murmurs when I pause between photo spots.

I manage a genuine smile in response, and the cameras go wild, mistaking it for a posed shot.

The next section is the press line—television cameras and reporters with microphones, each allocated a few precious minutes. This is the part I dread most. It’s like being trapped, stuck in a mud that no one will tug you out of until they’ve gotten theirs.

“Callie Ryan.” The first reporter beams at me. “Congratulations on the film. How does it feel to be back after your hiatus?”

“Thank you,” I say, the practiced answer coming easily. “It feels wonderful to share this film with audiences. The entire team has worked incredibly hard.”

“And we understand this is the final part of the trilogy? Can you tell us what to expect from you next?”

I relax slightly, grateful for the focus on the creativity in my work. “ The Devil’s Lake trilogy had a layer of mystery I aim to pull from in my next screenplay. Think, psychological thriller that explores a hidden darkness beneath seemingly perfect individuals.”

The interview continues smoothly, and I begin to find my rhythm. Beau remains a constant presence, his gaze scanning the crowd in a way that I desperately want to know what he thinks of all this. Is it too much for him?

Three interviews in, I spot Jack Turner farther down the carpet with a group of reporters. Our eyes meet briefly, and he makes his way toward me. “Callie,” he calls, approaching with his trademark, camera-ready smile. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I say, aware of the cameras swiveling to capture our interaction.

He leans in for an air kiss, his hand finding my waist in a gesture that looks friendly to observers, but feels possessive. Behind me, the heat of Beau creeps forward. My heart rate kicks up a notch.

“The reviews are already coming in,” Jack says. “They’re calling it your best work yet.”

“It was a team effort,” I deflect. Just keep smiling .

“Always so modest,” he says with a laugh that’s a touch too familiar. “We should take some photos together for the press. The director and her leading man.”

Before I can respond, Ellen appears at my side. “Callie, the studio heads are waiting to speak with you,” she says smoothly. “Jack, I believe Entertainment Tonight is looking for you at position five.”

Jack beams, his chest and ego inflating in tandem. “Of course. Catch up at the after-party, Cal?”

“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally. “Enjoy the screening.”

As he moves away, I mouth a silent thank you to Ellen, who gives me a subtle nod before guiding me toward the next interview.

The rest of the press line goes smoothly until we reach the final section, where fans have gathered behind barricades. My anxiety spikes again—the unpredictability of fan crowds has always been a trigger for me.

“You don’t have to stop,” Beau says quietly. “We can go straight inside.”

I shake my head. “No, these people have been waiting for hours. I can do this.”

I approach the barricade, smiling and signing the posters and photos thrust toward me. Most of the fans are respectful, excited to share their enthusiasm for my previous work.

“I loved Midnight Echo ,” one young woman gushes. “It inspired me to apply to film school!”

“That’s wonderful,” I tell her sincerely. “What’s your name?”

“Amber,” she says, beaming as I sign her DVD cover.

I’m just turning to the next fan when a commotion erupts farther down the line. A man vaults over the barricade, shoving past security and running straight toward me.

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

“Callie! Callie, I’ve been trying to reach you,” he shouts, his eyes wild.

Time slows. My body freezes. The memory of another man, another crowd, another moment when control was ripped away from me surges to the surface. The panic rises, choking me, paralyzing my limbs.

But before I can fully process what’s happening, Beau is there.

In one fluid motion, he steps between me and the approaching man, his stance protective. The security team converges, but it’s Beau who makes first contact.

“That’s far enough,” he says, his voice calm but with an unmistakable authority that stops the man in his tracks.

I take a step closer to Beau, needing to touch him. To keep myself grounded. To breathe. My shaking hand finds his and the other rests on his lower back. Breathe .

“I just need to talk to her,” the man insists, trying to look around Beau to me. “I sent scripts—dozens of them. She needs to read them. We’re meant to work together!”

“Miss Ryan isn’t accepting unsolicited materials,” Beau replies evenly with an edge of heat that has my insides coiling. He doesn’t move an inch. “You need to step back. Now .”

The security team reaches us, flanking the man who continues to protest as they roughly escort him back behind the barricade. Beau turns to me, his back to the cameras, creating a small pocket of privacy in the chaos. “You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Breathe with me.”

I follow his lead, focusing on his steady gaze rather than the commotion around us. Ellen and Shea have rushed over, forming a protective circle around me. “We can go in through the side entrance,” Ellen suggests. “Skip the rest of the line.”

“No, I… Give me a minute,” I say, still holding Beau’s gaze like a lifeline. The panic is receding, slowly but surely. I inhale deeply. “I can do this.”

Concern flashes across Beau’s face. “Baby, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” I cut him off gently. I’m so tired of letting my success drown me rather than lift me. Fear is a tool, a means for survival. It’s not meant to control me. Not forever. “I need to.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods, understanding what this means to me. “I’m right here.”

I smile, small but genuine. “I know.” You’re the reason I’m still standing here .

The security team has removed the man, and the crowd is watching anxiously. The mood shifted. If I leave now, this incident becomes the story—not the film, not all my hard work, but my fear. Another headline about Callie Ryan’s breakdown.

I straighten my shoulders and turn to the crowd with a smile that costs me everything to maintain. “I’m so sorry about the interruption,” I say to the waiting fans. “Where were we?”

A collective breath of relief seems to pass through the crowd. I sign a few more autographs, pose for a couple of selfies, then allow Ellen to guide me toward the theater entrance where the studio executives wait.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Shea whispers as we approach the doors.

“I will be,” I tell her, and I mean it.

Inside the theater lobby, away from the cameras, I finally let myself lean against Beau for a moment. “Thank you,” I murmur as his mass of muscle and warmth and everything that is him closes around me.

His arm circles my waist, securing me to him. “I’m proud of you,” he says, voice low.

I peer up at him, his heated gaze staring down at me. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” he grumbles. “But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

Ellen approaches with a water bottle and a concerned expression. “The incident has already hit social media, but our team is controlling the narrative—focusing on how professionally it was handled and how graciously you continued afterward.”

“Good,” I say, taking a sip of water. “What’s next?”

“Brief remarks before the screening,” she says, checking her second phone. “Then you can relax and watch the film. The hard part is over.”

We both know that’s not entirely true. The screening means sitting in darkness, surrounded by hundreds of people reacting to my work in real time.

The after-party means hours of networking disguised as celebration.

Then, as she mentioned, there’s all the social media that will come over the next few weeks.

“Miss Ryan.” One of the studio executives approaches, hand extended. “Remarkable job. The film is getting tremendous buzz already. The entire trilogy is, actually.”

I slip into a professional blur of shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the line of executives and investors waiting to speak with me. Beau steps back to a respectful distance, but still close enough that his solid, unyielding presence grounds me.

As I’m ushered toward the theater entrance to give my opening remarks, I catch his eye one last time. He gives me a small nod that carries the weight of everything we’ve shared—petty arguments, helpless moments, sunsets, and three words that have changed everything.

I take a deep breath and step onto the stage, facing the audience gathered here to see my vision come to life. The lights are bright. The crowd quiet. Excitement radiates throughout the room. And I feel it, too.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” I begin, my voice steady with only a slightly shaky hand as I adjust the microphone stand in front of me.

“Creating The Devil’s Lake has been a heck of a journey for me.

I faced a lot of fears and found strength in a few…

unexpected places.” I glance to my right at the man standing off stage with his hands clasped in front of him, as handsome and stoic as ever.

He grins. “In the end, I found what I was looking for. My final piece. My home.” I turn to the audience.

“I’d like to thank the incredible cast and crew who poured their hearts into making this vision a reality.

And finally, I want to thank someone who told me that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do isn’t facing our fears, but allowing others to stand beside us when we do.

” My voice softens. “And that true strength comes from connection, not isolation.”

The audience is silent in a way that tells me they’re truly listening, not just waiting for the movie to begin.

I smile and end with, “I hope this final chapter resonates with you tonight. I hope it reminds you that we all have depths worth exploring, fears worth facing, and connections worth fighting for. Thank you.”

Applause washes over me as I step away from the mic. Beau offers me his hand when I walk down the side of the stage and into his arms. He pulls me in and kisses me as if we’re the only two in the room.

His lips are warm and firm against mine, one hand cradling the back of my neck while the other rests possessively at my waist. I taste the faint hint of mint on his breath, relish the gentle scratch of his stubble against my skin.

My body melts into his as the noise of the crowd fades to a distant hum and the lights lower for the film to begin.

“Nice speech,” he whispers against my lips.

I smile, peppering his lips with mine. “Nice lipstick.”

“Glad you like it,” he says, smug. “Took me years to find the right one.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

He slides his hands down the curve of my waist to settle low on my hips. “Yeah,” he breathes, leaning in close. “She’s perfect.”