Page 68 of Resisting Isaac

A figure walks toward the table, petite but poised, a fresh pitcher of margaritas in her hand.

Brooklyn, I think Isaac said her name was. The beautiful young bartender from the night we met. I remember her name because I didn’t expect anyone in Montana to be named after a city in New York.

I brace myself for her to out me here and now. But if she remembers me from that night, she doesn’t let on—just smiles warmly at the entire group.

“Here you go, ladies. Courtesy of that handsome gentleman in the corner.”

My head whips around, half hoping to see my cowboy. Even though I’m still mad that he acted like a caveman, I miss him. I didn’t realize how much I appreciated the comfort of his presence beside me in social situations until he was gone.

But he’s not the one who bought the drinks.

Instead, we get an eyeful of Eli, who gives us a discreet wave.

Willow coughs and excuses herself to the ladies room.

When my salad arrives, I pick at it, still struggling to find my appetite.

But as the night continues, I’m filled with gratitude.

For the women at this table. For the anonymity this town offers. For the secrecy Brooklyn offered me. For the way Sutton reaches for my arm when we’re leaving, and the noise of the bar gets too loud, and the room spins just a little too fast.

I don’t know what’s happening with my body. Why I feel off. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.

And that counts for something.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

isaac

Wild Canyon, Montana

The second I pull onto the dusty stretch of highway that leads to Canyon county, the knot in my chest eases. Not all the way, but enough that I don’t feel like I’m going to implode from the tension sitting behind my ribs.

I tell myself I’m here for the space. For the quiet. For a break between the chaos of cowboy training and the even bigger circus of filming.

But I know the truth.

I’m here because the only thing worse than being around Elena Ortega every damn day is not being around her.

There was no way in hell I could’ve remained on the ranch and avoided her.

So now I’m here, dragging my heart and my confusion and my unresolved sexual frustration into Wilder territory, hoping a drink with old friends will fix what’s broken in me.

I texted Noah on my way but he’s much like Wyatt and said he’s busy working and will catch up with me later. Elijah doesn’t respond to my messages, but Liam does, letting meknow he’ll be at The Branding Iron if I want to stop in and grab a drink.

As soon as I walk into the saloon-style tavern, I spot Elijah Wilder behind the bar, flipping a rag over his shoulder while chatting up some female patrons like some kind of whiskey-slinging showman. Guess that’s why he didn’t answer.

“Holy shit,” he grins. “Triple Creek’s golden boy made the trek to the boonies. They kick you out of town or what?”

“Something like that.”

“What’ll it be? Whiskey? Beer? Or advice you won’t take?”

“I’ll take whatever he’s having,” I mutter, jerking my chin toward Liam as he approaches while dragging a stool back with my boot. “And I’d be open to any advice at the moment.”

“Then you came to the right bar,” he smirks. “Ask Liam. He’s the king of loving and losing.”

“Elijah,” a familiar voice groans as Liam Wilder slides onto the stool beside me, already holding a beer. “Maybe don’t welcome our guest with the greatest hits of my personal failure.”