Page 93 of Tempting Wyatt

I don’t miss Los Angeles even a little. But I know I’ll miss this ranch every day for the rest of my life.

I think about the smaller barn near my cabin. The one with the chipped paint and a sliver of sunlight pouring through the rafters. That’s where I want to sit with my laptop and work today.

That’s where my real story starts.

“I don’t care about Malcolm,” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”

Devyn is silent on the other end.

“I mean it,” I go on, firmer now. “Heidi can have him. And the part inCaptive, which she doesn’t have yet becauseit’s in my contract that I have final casting approval, thanks to you. And I haven’t approved shit. But I need to go, Dev. I’m writing something else. Something new. And it’s—God, Dev—it’salive. It’s honest. It’s messy and real and it’smine.”

Malcolm will never touch this, never taint it with his bullshit.

She exhales audibly over the line. “So you’re okay and you’re definitely writing? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m okay and I’m writing,” I say. “But I need another week.”

“And you’ll have something for me then? For sure? I’ve got your back, Ivy, you know that. But I need you to be straight with me on this, so I don’t hang us out to dry at these meetings.”

“I know I will. You can tell the network it’s going to be amazing. Life changing.”

“Life changing? You’re sure?”

I look out at the mountains, glowing soft and gold under the morning sun. Somewhere Wyatt’s probably on a horse, working, grumbling about Jasper being loose again. The thought makes me smile.

“I’m sure.”

Because it already is.

THE RESTOF THE WORLD FALLS AWAY the second I step into the barn.

Sunlight streams in through the battered roof and I position my laptop out of the direct rays to avoid possible blindness.

I grab a rough blue blanket from the work bench and drape it over the bales I plan to sit on.

I’d only meant to take a break from the cabin. Let my brain air out. But before I know it, I’m knee-deep in plot threads and pacing issues, nestled beneath the ladder to the hayloft like some kind of feral goblin.

My thermos is down to the dregs—strong, black, jitter-inducing—and I don’t think I’ve blinked in twenty minutes.

My wrists ache and my hands cramp, but the words flow uncontrollably.

Until his voice cuts through the barn.

“Hollywood, you planning on eating today or just typing ‘til your hands fall off?”

I nearly drop my MacBook. “Wyatt. Jesus.”

He stands in the doorway like something straight out of a cowboy thirst trap. The weathered navy trucker hat with the ranch’s logo on it is forward today, flannel shirt rolled up his forearms.

“Been called worse.”

“You should probably burn that hat,” I offer, closing my computer so he doesn’t see what I’m working on. That’s a difficult conversation for a different day.

He takes a few steps toward me in the deliberate self-assured way he has.

“Why? What’s wrong with my hat?”

“For your own safety.” I push my glasses up suddenly painfully aware of the fact that I haven’t looked in a mirror all day. My sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder, my bun is coming loose, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure I have sticks of straw or hay or whatever it is in my bra somehow. Probably from pacing around talking to myself and acting out scenes like a lunatic. All part of my process. But if anyonesaw, they’d have me committed. Luckily none of my livestock audience can talk.