Page 54 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ivy

I’M COZY AND WARM IN THE DEEPEST sleep of my life, when the knocking begins. I decide to ignore it. Until it gets so loud it sounds like it’s hammering directly into my skull.

Rousing myself from a deep sleep in Wyatt’s bed, I note that I’m naked and it’s not the best idea to open the door this way.

The knocking increases in intensity as I yank on Wyatt’s flannel from the floor, buttoning it over my thoroughly sated body as I pad barefoot to the front door, the cold wood creaking under my feet.

When I open the door, Isaac’s standing there, arms crossed, looking far too alarmed at this early hour.

“You have a visitor. Up at the house,” he says simply, jerking his head toward where his truck his idling. “Maybe, uh, put some pants on. Wyatt’s already about to blow a gasket.”

I’m not awake enough for whatever this is. “Isaac, if this is your idea of a prank, I’m really not—”

“Some straitlaced fucker in a suit is here, asking for you,” he bites out. “Says he’s your fiancé.”

I wince. Oh God.

It hits me instantly that this is my fault. I used my debt card for the cabin reservation and Malcolm insisted on having a joint account when we moved in together. He must’ve used it to track me down.

He has obviously lost his mind. And now Wyatt is going to lose his. I should’ve told him—about my job, about my broken engagement. I should have come completely clean before we slept together. But it’s too late, and now it will all be out there in the worst way possible.

I throw on some jeans, use the bathroom, brush my teeth, and splash water on my face at warp speed. My hair looks exactly like Wyatt spent the night tangling his fingers in it—because he did. I tie it up in a messy bun and practically sprint to where Isaac is waiting in the truck.

We bounce along the trail at high speeds until we reach the driveway to the main house. I don’t wait for Isaac to open my truck door. I bolt from it as soon as he parks.

A Bentley is in the driveway. Malcolm must’ve flown here and rented it. He leans against the sleek black car, eyeing someone warily across the yard, looking self-important in his tailored suit, like he has any damn right to be here.

And then I see him.

Not Malcolm.

Wyatt.

Standing at the edge of the driveway, arms crossed, jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking like he’s one breath away from losing his shit. I don’t make eye contact, but I can feel his rage from here.

I turn toward my ex in the hopes of getting him gone as quickly as possible.

“What are you doing here?”

Malcolm glares at me. “What am I doing here? Ivy, what the fuck?” He waves his hand toward the landscape beside us. “You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts because you ran off to the middle of nowhere to screw a bunch of hillbillies? Really?”

His eyes cut to where Isaac and Wyatt stand a few feet away. He snorts as if he finds them lacking somehow, but I know him. He’s intimidated and can’t stand it.

The back of my neck heats as my blood pressure rises to a dangerous level. “No hillbillies here, Malcolm. Just hardworking men. Not that you’d recognize a real man if you saw one.”

He snorts loudly. “Well, considering I see one in the mirror every day—”

I can’t help it; I laugh. Watching him peacock around, poking his chest out, stomping his feet like a child, and parading around in a designer suit as if he was going to show up here in a rented Bentley and tell me how it was—and even more hilarious, tell Wyatt’s six-foot-four self how it was going to be—it’s too much.

This guy.

“Look, I realize you pay everyone in LA enough money to pretend you’re the man, Malcolm. I’m glad that’s working out for you. But out here, a measure of a man is much more than how much cash he can throw around or who he can fire.”

“The measure of a man?” Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Please. Out here, everyone is inbred and illiterate.”

The memory of Wyatt sitting at his kitchen table at three in the morning, going over the ranch’s expenses, trying his best to figure out how not to let anyone go, hits me suddenly.

It kept him up at night, the thought of their families suffering. The knowledge of how difficult their lives would be without that income kept him from sleeping and had him scribbling dozens of math problems in the margins of all the bills.

Because he’s a good man. An amazing man. The most amazing man I’ve ever known.

How I could have ever mistaken Malcolm for a man is beyond me. A real man wouldn’t make a blood sport of firing people publicly to “keep everyone else in line” every chance he got. My frame of reference was severely lacking.

“Out here, people are hardworking and loyal. Honest. And they have more integrity and intelligence in their little fingers than you will possess in your entire lifetime.”

Malcolm folds his arms across his chest and leans into my personal space. “Jesus. Here we go again. I can’t believe you, Ivy. I mean, really? What happened is in the past, and you need to let it go. You’re going to throw everything we had away over a dumb whore like Heidi? It wasn’t like I was—”

The hand-stinging slap I deliver to his face cuts off whatever else he planned to say.

Isaac whistles his approval.

“That was for Heidi,” I tell him. “And you are the one who threw away what we had, you narcissistic jackass. But looking back, I know now that we didn’t have much of anything.

So, get in your pretentious prick mobile and go right back to LA, where people think you’re somebody.

Because you don’t have any power or control over anyone here. And you never will.”

He narrows his snake-like eyes on me. “I have plenty of control, sweetheart. I already found a work around and cast Heidi as the lead in Captive.”

It dawns on me then why he’s fighting so hard for Heidi—who he just disrespectfully referred to as a dumb whore—to get the lead in Captive over an experienced, more talented actress.

He can control Heidi.

She’s young, inexperienced, and screwing him.

The actress I had been been begging the casting director to choose as the main character, Elena Ortega, would tell Malcolm to go fuck himself and probably sue his ass for harassment if he tried to pull any nonsense with her.

“Call me all the names you want. I’m not leaving until you sign this paperwork,” Malcolm says, glaring daggers at me while still rubbing his cheek. “And if you don’t sign it, you’ll be hearing from my attorney for breach of contract and for assaulting me just now.”

Better me than Wyatt. If Malcolm keeps this up much longer, Wyatt will be the one taking a swing. After seeing this ranch, Malcolm won’t hesitate to sue him for everything he’s worth.

“Don’t kid yourself,” I say evenly. “You’ll leave when that pissed-off rancher over there decides you’re leaving.” I nod to where Wyatt leans on the side of Isaac’s truck with murder in his eyes.

I hold out my hand. “Let’s see this paperwork then.”

Malcolm smirks like the smug bastard he is, then reaches into his car. He pulls out an iPad and opens it to a twenty-six-page eSign contract.

Of course he wouldn’t bring me a paper copy or email me one I could have my attorney look over.

I take the tablet and scroll through the legalese. Most of it is ridiculous demands about relinquishing complete control of casting, final script changes, and the production timeline. The fine print has some confusing language about ratings and renewal.

But upon further inspection, I realize Malcolm has modified the original agreement for a thirteen-episode streaming series into a full-length feature film.

That’s a mistake. There’s too much backstory in the beginning and too many multiple perspectives for a movie.

I wrote it intentionally to be a series, and they’re set up differently.

There’s also a caveat about me not being present on set.

Everything in this contract is about me signing over the rights to the series completely—with the exception of the original payment, which I already received when the network purchased the screenplay.

I wouldn’t receive any further compensation.

Nor would I have any input on casting, directing, or script changes.

Expecting this to anger me, I’m pleasantly surprised that it feels more like a weight has been lifted from my chest. If I sign this, I’m free of this project. And subsequently free of Malcolm.

I’ve worked with him enough to know that he’ll twist and manipulate my work until it’s unrecognizable. He’ll remove the emotional components, amp up the sex scenes, degrade the female lead, and lower the language to a second grade reading level.

Just like he did with Elena, he’ll overlook the qualified and valuable possibilities for actors and production staff and hire only yes people who bow to him. He can’t stand not to be the smartest person in the room, and that lowers the selection pool considerably.

When he’s done, Captive won’t even resemble the screenplay I wrote. The final product will be a gross distortion of what I created.

“I’ll sign,” I tell him.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

I continue quickly, “On one condition.”

He scrunches his face like he smells something sour. “You’re not getting any more money.”

“I don’t want more money,” I assure him. “I want my name removed completely. As in nowhere on anything related to this project. Ever. Not even in conversation.”

He frowns. “Why would you want that?”

I choose my words carefully. This is not the time to be petty.

It’s time to be professional.

As much as it stings—remembering the research, the long nights working, the migraines, and the lost sleep from pouring everything I had into writing Captive—I know that holding on to any part of this project will give Malcolm strings to control me.

“I think a clean break is best for everyone involved. Update this agreement with that stipulation and email it to me. Do not come back here if you know what’s good for you.”

Malcolm narrows his beady eyes, thinking it over. Then he huffs out a heavy breath. “Just fucking sign this one, Ivy. I came all this way. I’ll take your name off the shit when I get back to LA.”

Shit is exactly what it will be when he’s done grinding it down to what he wants. Just like he tried to do to me.

A week ago, I would’ve fought to the death for this and held on to this project for dear life, clawing and clinging until my fingernails were bloody. But if I’ve learned anything from Wyatt, from my time at Triple Creek Ranch, I’ve learned that, sometimes, letting go is necessary.

It makes room for new growth.

And sometimes, you can’t just prune the shrubs back a little; you have to burn the entire field to ash.

Mentally, I imagine myself conducting a controlled burn of all the time and energy I put into Captive, into my relationship with Malcolm, and into my friendship with Heidi.

My mother always says, “Leave the past where it belongs,” and she’s right.

I’m realizing, that as much pain as both she and Malcolm have caused me, no relationship is ever a waste because you learn valuable lessons you get to take with you.

I’ve learned more in almost two weeks on this ranch than in a year with Malcolm—more about life, love, loss, family, and myself.

I’ve learned that home isn’t a place, it’s a person. And my person is standing a few feet away with his brother trying to keep him from coming unhinged.

My agent’s advice rings in my ears. Devyn is always telling me that one project isn’t the be-all and end-all any more than Malcolm was. The capacity to create, to write, and to love lives in me. This project wasn’t even my best work because I wasn’t the best version of myself when I wrote it.

I shove the iPad back at him. “Update it. Then I’ll sign.”

Instead of grabbing the device, Malcolm fails to read the room and grabs my wrist.

“You’ve wasted enough of my time already. I’m not leaving until you sign.”

Before I can respond, a blur of denim and flannel passes between us, and instantly my wrist is free.

“Probably best to keep your hands to yourself, slick,” Wyatt growls, moving Malcolm backward with a hand on his chest. “Let me help you to your car.”

Isaac is close behind, but Malcolm is a moron who doesn’t see the danger he’s in.

“I don’t need help. I’m not leaving until she—”

“Oh, you’re leaving. Question is, are you going home or to the hospital?”

Wyatt’s voice is eerily calm, neutral, like it doesn’t matter to him either way. But his eyes are wild. His neck veins throb like they’ve developed a life of their own, and I half expect him to Hulk out any second.

I see the threat register in Malcolm’s expression. He shrinks back toward his car. Wyatt grips his upper arm and practically drags him to the driver’s door.

“Get your damn hands off me. This isn’t the Wild West, you fucking lunatic.”

Isaac grins. “You sure about that, pal? Might want to check your GPS.”

Wyatt is still radiating rage as he all but shoves Malcolm into his car. I watch as he leans down and says something low and indecipherable directly into his face. Malcolm flinches and slams his car door shut before tearing off down the driveway.

When Wyatt stalks toward me, I keep my gaze on his.

He has some anger to work off, and I’m hoping he plans to do it with me in his bed. Or anywhere really. It might get awkward for Isaac, but this man could have me here and now in the driveway if he wanted.

He reaches me and touches my wrist gently. The tenderness in his eyes is a stark contrast to how he looked at my ex only a moment ago. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” I meet his concerned gaze. “But you’re showing all your cards, rancher.”