Page 6 of Tempting Wyatt

ivy

Somewhere just outside of Salt Lake City, Utah

AFTER MY LIFE IN LA FALLS APART, I do what any girl would.

I consult my good friend, Google, to determine my next steps. I learn that the Internet’s answer to what to do when you walk in on your fiancé and your closest friend having sweaty sex on your living room floor, is to get away and regroup for a bit.

I drive almost to Salt Lake City before stopping to rest and formulate an actual plan.

In a cheap hotel room, lying in bed in the dark with the light from my phone glowing on my face, I click on an Airbnb ad that saysWelcome to Paradise. With that tagline, I’m expecting beaches. But there are no palm trees or piña coladas. Only rustic rental cabins in the mountains of Montana.

According to the listing with the cutest cabin, Triple Creek Ranch is a stunning working ranch and host Laurel Logan has excellent reviews. Well, one review. But it’s agood one, so the probability of getting murdered seems low. Ish.

Her profile picture shows an attractive woman, probably mid-fifties, brunette with a tinge of gray framing her face. Next to her is a large chestnut-colored horse. Seems legit. She has a trustworthy look about her—though as my current circumstances demonstrate, I’m not an excellent judge of character.

And just like that, the memory of Heidi’s bare chest sliding against Malcolm’s sweat-drenched flesh plants itself behind my eyes. I wonder if the image will ever fade.

Maybe one day.

Hence why it’s time to change my view.

Immediately.

IF ANYONE HAD ASKED,I COULDN’T have pointed out Paradise Valley, Montana on a map before today.

I’m still not certain if it’s one separate city or a mountain valley made up of multiple towns.

It’s late Saturday afternoon when I arrive.

The air is different here.

Not just ten or more degrees cooler than I’m used to at this time of day, but cleaner, crisper somehow, as if there is simply more of it.

Rolling the windows down, I inhale the breeze as deeply as my lungs will allow.

Lying alone in that hotel room last night, it occurred to me that while there will always be some hurt about my relationship ending the way it did, it’s better that I found out sooner rather than later.

Life with Malcolm, while financially stable, was stifling. He’s controlling and temperamental, both at home and at work. Constantly berating me and causing me to second-guess myself. I hadn’t written a single word since moving in with him, and he reminded me of it daily. Working together was going to make my professional life increasingly difficult over the next few months, as production onCaptivewas set to start soon.

But I realize something as I’m driving. Something I needed space to find the clarity to see clearly.

It’s not Malcolm I miss. It’s the parts of myself I gave him and the ones I erased entirely to try to keep him happy.

I want them back more than I ever wanted Malcolm.

Truthfully, I miss the hair products I left behind more than my life in LA. Having a headful of curly hair is no joke and takes serious effort and several small miracles to keep under control.

An acute pinch of pain, as I think about what Heidi did, tries to worm its way into my chest, but I shake it off. Heidi is a twenty-three-year-old reality star, trying to become a serious actress. She’s had so much plastic surgery that she doesn’t even resemble the same human being I met two years ago when she was cast in the third season of my first scripted series.

Working in the entertainment industry has ground her down into a fraction of who she used to be—the same way Malcolm was doing to me. She isn’t a bad person, just a young girl looking for constant validation. Heidi told me she’d slept with every director and most of the producers she’d worked with, which should’ve set off alarms when she said she wanted to audition for Malcolm for the lead inCaptive. But I listened and didn’t judge, so I didn’t connect the dots until they were connected for me.

With each passing mile, my overactive mind wants to dwell on every moment of my time with Malcolm to see if I missed the obvious signs he was cheating.

Pushing the impending obsessive overthinking session out of my mind, I vow to focus on the present as I reach my destination. It’s not too difficult with the breathtaking mountain range before me.

When I find a gas station that looks like it may have a relatively clean restroom, I pull into the parking lot, step out of my car and stretch my legs. This place looks Photoshopped—literally too beautiful and majestic to be real. Embracing the tourist vibe, I snap a quick picture of the quaint downtown area with the barest hints of fall foliage and mountains in the background.

My phone screen resembles a postcard. But the picture still doesn’t do the actual view justice.