A car door slams and I jolt awake so hard my neck cracks.
My head pounds with the vengeful fury of every whiskey shot from last night. My mouth tastes like regret and poor decisions, and for one disorienting moment I have absolutely no idea where I am.
Unfamiliar upholstery. Unfamiliar dashboard. Sunlight stabbing through a windshield I don't recognize.
The older woman from last night stands outside the car, gesturing for me to get out.
Right. The stranger I flagged down on the highway during my spectacular mental breakdown.
"End of the line, sweetheart." She offers an apologetic smile. "This is as far as I go."
I stumble out onto a dusty roadside, squinting against the harsh morning sun. My heels sink immediately into gravel and dirt, completely useless out here.
Wherever here is.
Rolling hills stretch endlessly in every direction. Farmhouses dot the landscape, connected by wooden fences and wandering cattle.
No city skyline. No familiar landmarks. Just endless countryside and the faint smell of hay baking in the heat.
"Where are we?" My voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw.
"About two hours outside the city." The woman shrugs, already climbing back into her car. "Little town called Stone Creek. You take care of yourself now, honey."
"Wait—"
But she's already pulling away, tires kicking up dust that settles on my designer dress. I stand there watching until her car disappears over a hill, leaving me completely alone on the side of an empty road.
No plan. No money beyond the few crumpled bills in my clutch. No change of clothes.
Panic sets in slowly, then all at once.
What have I done? I ran from my father's controlling grip straight into the middle of absolutely nowhere. My phone shows twelve percent battery and seventeen missed calls from dad.
Seventeen. He's probably already called every contact I have, every friend he's pre-approved, every colleague who owes him favors.
But I can't go back. The thought of facing him, of hearing "I told you so" wrapped in that cold, superior tone, makes my stomach lurch.
Yet I have nowhere to go forward either.
I walk until I find a bench outside a closed gas station. The wood is splintering and covered in carved initials, but it's the most beautiful seat I've ever seen. I sink onto it with my head in my hands, trying to remember how to breathe.
Think, Raven. Think!
I scroll through my contacts with shaking fingers. Every name connects back to my father somehow. Agents he introduced me to. Co-stars from his productions. Friends whose parents golf with him on Sundays.
Calling any of them would be like sending up a flare.
Then a name catches my eye and memory strikes with full force.
Weston Callahan.
My father's former business partner. The man who walked away from Hollywood years ago to run a ranch somewhere in—I wrack my brain—somewhere near this Stone Creek, yes!
My father had mentioned it once, dismissively and sneering. "Wasted potential. Foolish choices. Some men can't handle success."
If my geographic memory serves me right, then I'm saved.
That's close to here. Has to be.
My thumb hovers over his number. I haven't spoken to Weston in five years, not since I was sixteen and he attended one of my father's insufferable industry parties. He'd been so different from the polished men surrounding us.
Rougher. Realer. Storm-blue eyes that made me forget how to form sentences.
I'd had the most devastating teenage crush on an older man. The kind that makes high school girls write embarrassing journal entries and practice conversations in bathroom mirrors.
He probably doesn't even remember me.
I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
One ring. Two. Three. My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Who is this?" His voice is gruff, suspicious, and deeper than I remember.
"Weston?" I press the phone harder against my ear. "It's Raven. Raven Lockwood. Jonathan's daughter."
Silence stretches so long I check to make sure the call didn't drop.
"Raven," he repeats slowly, like he's testing the name. "What do you want?"
Not "how are you" or "it's been a long time." Just straight to the point. I shouldn't find that refreshing, but I do.
"I'm in trouble." The words tumble out in a rushed, humiliating stream. "I ran away from home last night. Got in a stranger's car. I woke up stranded in Stone Creek with no money, no plan, and no one I can call who won't immediately tell my father where I am."
I hear him exhale heavily. The sound of a man who did not need this complication today.
"I know it's a lot to ask," I continue quickly, desperation sharpening my voice. "But.. can you come get me? I can help around the ranch. I'll work, I promise. I just need somewhere to stay. Somewhere he can't find me."
Another long pause. I can almost hear him weighing the inconvenience against whatever shred of obligation he feels toward his former partner's daughter. Or maybe he's just trying to figure out how to say no politely.
"You're in Stone Creek?"
"Yes. Outside some gas station. Murphy's, I think the sign says."
"I know it." A beat of silence. "Fine. Stay where you are. I'll come get you."
Relief floods through me so fast my knees nearly buckle. I grip the edge of the bench to stay upright. "Thank you, Weston. Really. I'll work hard, I swear. You won't even know I'm there."
He grunts something noncommittal. "Be about thirty minutes."
The line goes dead and I clutch the phone to my chest, heart still racing from something other than panic now.
He said yes. He's coming to get me. I have somewhere to go.
And unbidden, a memory surfaces.
Weston at that party five years ago. His sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms tan and muscled in a way that made my sixteen-year-old brain short-circuit. He'd been laughing at something another guest said, his whole face transformed by it.
And I'd been staring so obviously that when he caught me, I nearly died on the spot.
But he hadn't looked away.
He'd held my gaze just a moment too long. One eyebrow raised in quiet amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
I blushed for an hour afterward. Replayed that three-second exchange for weeks. Written his name in my journal surrounded by embarrassing hearts.
Sixteen-year-old Raven had dreamed about Weston Callahan with the kind of intensity only teenage girls can muster.
Now I'm about to see him again. Older. Desperate. Hungover. Wearing yesterday's wrinkled dress and smeared makeup, smelling like whiskey and bad decisions. Nothing at all resembling the polished heiress he might remember.
Thirty minutes.
I use my phone's camera to assess the damage. It's worse than I thought. Mascara raccoon eyes, hair tangled beyond salvation, dress stained with something I don't want to identify.
I do what I can with a tissue and saliva, which isn't much.
The minutes crawl past and I watch the empty road, straining for any sign of an approaching vehicle. Every time the wind rustles the distant trees, my pulse spikes.
Then I hear it. An engine rumbling closer. A battered pickup truck crests the hill, trailing dust behind it. My stomach flips. My palms go slick.
The truck pulls up to the gas station and stops.
The door swings open and there he is. Weston Callahan in the flesh, stepping out of that truck with the kind of easy confidence that makes my mouth go dry.
He's broader than I remember, shoulders filling out a worn flannel shirt. He looks at me, and I forget how to breathe all over again.
I really hope he doesn't notice how fast my pulse is beating.