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BLAZE

My first thought, waking up in the back seat of Jensen's pickup truck, is that I'm dying. My second thought is that death might be preferable to whatever fresh hell awaits me at the end of this dirt road.

"Rise and shine, superstar." Jensen's deep voice cuts through my hangover like a chainsaw. "We're almost there."

I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as the Montana sunshine assaults my eyes. The truck bounces over another pothole, sending a fresh wave of nausea through my already fragile system.

"Could you find more bumps?" I mutter, pulling my designer sunglasses from my jacket pocket. "I don't think my head's quite split open yet."

Jensen chuckles, the sound grating against my eardrums. "City folk. Always so delicate."

The truck crests a hill, and suddenly there it is--the ranch I've been banished to sprawling across the valley like something from a tourism brochure. Rolling pastures, weathered wooden fences, mountains jutting up in the background like they've got somewhere important to be.

"That's it?" I ask, unable to keep the disdain from my voice.

"That's it," Jensen confirms, sounding way too cheerful. "Home sweet home for the next three months."

Three months. Ninety days of exile, courtesy of my management team. They decided that after my third tabloid scandal in as many weeks, what I really needed was "perspective" and "manual labor" and all the other bullshit euphemisms for punishment they could dream up.

The truck pulls up to a rustic log cabin that I assume passes for a main house out here. A man about my age with dark hair, in worn jeans and boots, stands waiting on the porch with his arm wrapped around a curvy brunette.

"That's Shane," Jensen says. "Owner of this slice of paradise and his wife, Caitlin."

"Paradise," I repeat flatly. "No VIP passes. No after-parties. Just cow shit and empty space."

"You'll learn to love it," Jensen says, clearly not picking up on my sarcasm.

I grab my duffel. It’s the only bag my team allowed me to bring, another part of my "rehabilitation.” When I slide out of the truck, my designer boots hit dirt, and I swear I can hear them crying.

"You must be Blaze," Shane calls out, descending the porch steps. He's wearing a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. "Orville's told me a lot about you."

"All lies," I say automatically. "Especially the true parts."

Shane's laugh is genuine but brief. "He said you had a mouth on you. I'm Shane and this is Caitlin. This is our spread." He gestures to the vast emptiness around us like he's showing off a penthouse suite.

"Thrilled to be here," I deadpan. "Really. Can't you tell by my face?"

"You look like you went three rounds with a bottle of whiskey and lost," Shane observes.

"Four rounds. And it was tequila."

Shane nods, unimpressed. "Well, once you've settled in, we can talk about your duties."

I nearly choke. "Duties? I was promised a quiet break. Not forced labor."

"Nobody sits around eating bonbons in Mustang Mountain," Shane says, his tone hardening slightly. "You can sulk, or you can work. Up here, we pull our weight."

I'm about to unleash a carefully crafted retort when a phone rings. Shane pulls a cell from his pocket, frowning at the screen before answering.

"Yeah?" His expression shifts immediately, brow furrowing. "When? How bad? Anyone hurt?" A pause. "I'll be right there."

He hangs up, turning to me with a grim expression. "Change of plans. A concrete truck just wiped out on the main road into town. Full blockage, supplies scattered everywhere."

"Tragic," I say, already thinking about which of the buildings might house a decent Wi-Fi connection. "I'll just get unpacked while you--"

"Grab those work gloves on the porch," Shane interrupts, already striding toward a mud-splattered pickup. "You're coming with me."

"I'm what now?"

"Time to get your hands dirty, rock star." Shane's tone makes it clear this isn't a request.

"I literally just got here," I protest. "I haven't even seen my room."

"I'll take your stuff in and get it settled. Then Paisley and I will get dinner going," Caitlin says with a smile, like I have any idea who the hell Paisley even is.

"Want to see some real-life stakes instead of the kind you're used to playing for?" Shane tosses back, already climbing into the driver's seat.

I stand there, duffel bag still in hand, contemplating my options.

Jensen is already back in his truck and heading down the driveway.

Lucky bastard able to tuck tail and run.

I could refuse. What's he going to do, drag me?

But then I'd be stuck here alone with Miss Sunshine and my hangover for company.

Plus, I know Orville will be out there, and I have yet to see him.

Jensen drove me out as a favor to him because of some meeting Orville had to be at.

"Fine," I mutter, dropping my bag on the porch and snatching up the gloves. "But I'm not promising to be useful."

"Wouldn't expect miracles on day one," Shane replies as I climb into the passenger seat.

The truck roars to life, and we're bouncing down a dirt road before I can even get my seat belt fastened. My stomach lurches in protest.

"If I throw up in your truck, that's on you," I warn.

"Bucket behind the seat," Shane says without missing a beat. "Wouldn't be the first time."

The drive takes less than fifteen minutes, but it's enough time for me to regret every life choice that led me here. When we round a bend and the crash site comes into view, I'm momentarily distracted from my self-pity.

A massive concrete truck lies half in the ditch beside the road.

All the concrete that was once inside of it spilled over the road and seeped into the ditches on both sides.

There is a semi-truck on the other side, its contents all over the road, and in the now drying concrete.

As we get closer, I can tell it's all building supplies, everything from wood, tiles, metal, and even power tools.

There is even yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze, trying to keep people back from the crash.

"Jesus," I mutter.

"Could've been worse," Shane says, parking on the shoulder. "The driver walked away with just a broken arm."

We exit the truck, and immediately the sounds of organized chaos wash over us. People are shouting directions, engines are rumbling, and the crackle of radios adds to the chaos. I stand awkwardly by the truck, feeling as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Shane, meanwhile, immediately gets pulled into a conversation with a sheriff's deputy and what looks like a town official. I catch fragments--"road closed for at least a week," "supply trucks can't get through," "need to coordinate alternate routes."

A group of locals gives me curious glances as they pass. One does a double-take, nudging his buddy.

"Is that…?"

"Later," his friend cuts him off. "We got work."

Shane returns, handing me a reflective vest. "Put this on. Start learning names, and start being useful."

"I don't know what I'm supposed to--"

"Figure it out," Shane says, already turning away to help a group trying to move a fallen tree.

Standing there, with my vest in hand, I feel like the new kid at school. Everyone else is actually doing important things while I'm just taking up space. I reluctantly slip on the vest, which probably costs less than my socks.

"You! Vest guy!" a voice calls out. "Make yourself useful and help with this lumber!"

When I turn toward the voice, I feel something shift in the universe.

She stands in the bed of a pickup truck with her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and there's a smudge of dirt across one cheek. She wears work boots, jeans with actual wear, and a t-shirt, revealing tanned, toned arms.

"Today would be nice!" she calls again when I don't immediately move.

Without consciously thinking about it, I find myself walking toward her truck. She's already turning away, directing an elderly couple to take water to the workers clearing debris.

Up close, she's even more striking. Not in the contoured, filtered way I'm used to from LA, but in a raw way that makes everything else seem artificial by comparison. She’s not even trying to look good, but hell, if she doesn't steal the whole damn scene.

"Here," she says, thrusting a case of water into my arms without really looking at me. "Take these to the guys working on the drainage ditch and pass it out."

"Where's the drainage ditch?" I ask.

This gets her attention. She looks at me fully for the first time, and I watch as recognition flickers across her face. Though it’s not the usual excitement or awe, but something like suspicion.

"You're not from around here," she says. It's not a question.

"What gave it away? The fact that I don't know where the drainage ditch is, or the fact that my sunglasses cost more than that truck?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. "The drainage ditch is over there," she says, pointing. "And I don't care what your sunglasses cost."

Before I can respond, Shane appears beside us.

"Grace," he says. "This is Orville's cousin's kid. Blaze. He's helping."

"Blaze?" she repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Like the sports team?"

"Like the verb," I counter. "To burn intensely."

She looks unimpressed. "We don't need a celebrity. We need workers. If you can't carry it, do something else."

For possibly the first time since I was sixteen, I find myself speechless. No one's talked to me like that in years. Everyone either wants something from me or is paid to agree with me.

Grace has already turned away, calling out to someone about chainsaws and fallen branches.

"She always this friendly?" I ask Shane.

"Grace Hartman works with Ruby running groceries from the Merc, coordinates emergency response volunteers for the town, and coaches Little League," Shane replies. "She doesn't have time to stroke your ego, especially not today."

"Grace," I repeat. "Fitting."

"Those waters aren't going to deliver themselves," Shane points out.

I consider dropping the case right there and walking back to the truck. But something about the dismissive way Grace looked at me, as if I was just useless baggage, lights a fire under my ass.

When I carry the water to the drainage ditch, mud-covered men gratefully grab bottles. I return for another case and am given two and a new location to deliver, and another. By the third trip, my arms are burning, and my head is screaming, but I keep going.

An hour passes in a blur of manual labor. I help move debris, pass out supplies, and even hold a first aid kit while a paramedic bandages a volunteer's cut hand. No one asks for my autograph. No one takes selfies. They just nod thanks and keep working.

At some point, I find myself working alongside Grace, both of us loading salvaged tools into a pickup. We work in tense silence, with me sneaking glances at her focused profile.

"You missed one," she says suddenly, nodding toward a box of nails I overlooked.

I grab it, adding it to my stack. "You know, a 'please' wouldn't kill you."

"Neither will actual work, apparently," she replies, but there's the faintest hint of something less hostile in her tone. "You're not completely useless."

From Grace, I suspect this qualifies as high praise.

"Don't sound so surprised," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. "I contain many layers."

"What you contain is an ego the size of Montana," she returns, but there's almost a smile threatening the corner of her mouth.

As the sun starts to dip toward the mountains, I realize my headache has faded to a dull throb, replaced by muscle aches from actual physical labor. My designer clothes are filthy, my hands are blistered despite the gloves, and my nose is probably sunburned.

And strangely, I don't hate it as much as I should.

I watch Grace directing the final cleanup efforts, completely in her element amid the chaos. Something tugs in my chest. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity. Or something else entirely.

Maybe this isn't going to be the vacation from hell. Maybe it's exactly what I need.

Not that I'd admit that to anyone. Especially not to Grace Hartman.