“Well, she’s stunning, for one,” Jo says, tying on her apron. “I have a feeling those two young men staying with us are going to be drawing straws over who gets to sit next to her tonight.” Her dark eyes catch mine with a mischievous gleam I don’t like one bit. “That is, unless someone else gets to her first.”
Dad’s eyebrows rise nearly to his shock of silver hair. “That true, son? You holding out on your old man?”
The real question is why I even mentioned Margot to him in the first place. I focus on the garlic I start to slice like it can explain every mystery of the universe, including why the hell my dad and Jo feel the need to set me up with every unattached woman who passes under the roof of this lodge. After I nearly sank a multigenerational family business with one deeply regrettable fling with a guest and the soul-eviscerating Yelp review that followed, one would think they’d have stopped pushing me to pursue visitors. But apparently, their biological urge to embarrass me is stronger than logic.
“Didn’t realize I was supposed to report guest attractiveness to management,” I grumble.
“So you admit she’s a looker,” Dad goads, grinning from ear to ear. “Lemme guess:blond.” He looks at Jo and says matter-of-factly, “He’s always had a thing for blondes.”
“She is!” Jo confirms, beaming. “And when I asked if she’d already met Forrest, I swear her cheeks went pink as a sunset.”
“Well, just look at the boy. Spitting image of his father,” my dad says, laughing.
“Are you done yet?” I ask calmly, unwilling to show irritation. It would be like spraying kerosene on open flames, and I’m already sweating.
“We haven’t discussed my grandkids yet. Trapper Junior has a nice ring to it.”
Jo hoots with laughter, and my molars could leave impressions on a piece of steel.
“Okay,” I say. “Have your fun. But don’t be surprised when she packs her bags even faster than I predicted if you two keep sticking your noses where they don’t belong. She made it very clear she isn’t interested, and neither am I.”
Like a prosecutor, my mind unveils a high-definition mentalimage of her abandoned bra as evidence to the contrary. It’s one small step from remembering the baby-blue lace on the floor to imagining it against her golden skin and—Shit. Generally, I pride myself on not being the type of man who has inappropriate thoughts about women I’ve only just met. But I’m also not the type of man to lie to myself. My isolation plus her dimples to the power of six lonely months is an equation with one conclusion for my poor biology. But just because looking at her feels like being punched in the trachea and robbed of all oxygen doesn’t mean the situation has to be complicated. In fact, it’s the least complicated situation in the world, because she made it abundantly clear she’s not interested. Moreover, she’s aguest,and—
“You know, Trap, I think tonight might be the perfect night for that Beaujolais we’ve been saving,” Jo muses, intoning the word “Beaujolais” so suggestively that I may never recover.
“The Beaujolais is a fine idea,” my dad says thoughtfully. “Maybe with some of that rabbit.”
“And candlelight.” Jo sighs. “She’s a romance author, after all.”
My eyes have reached the apex of their roll when they freeze, and I cut them toward Jo. “Romance author?”
Her smirk makes me instantly regret showing even passing interest. “Oh, sure. She’s very well known. Surprised you haven’t heard of her, what with all you read.”
No, I haven’t heard of her. Becauseromance? It makes me think of those old paperbacks with busty women desperately clutching shirtless men on windswept cliffs. Somehow it doesn’t strike me as the genre she’d write in. Then again, I’ve known her for less than twelve hours and romance isn’t really something I’m familiar with—in books or in my own life. The word alone implies the sort of commitment I used to watch my colleagues get distracted by time and time again, to the detriment of their careers. I was never convinced the rewards were worth the risks. After all, I’d seen what had happened to my parents.
“So that’s why she’s here?” my dad guesses. “Writing a new manuscript?”
“That’s right,” Jo says, pulling the rabbit out of the fridge. “When her sister booked the trip, she mentioned that the story is set in remote Alaska. Guess she thought Margot needed some real-life inspiration.”
At this, my shoulders drop at least two inches as I finally understand why she’s here. Obviously, her sister thought Margot could handle staying at North Star. Well, I’m headed to Talkeetna tomorrow to pick up parts for the sauna I’ve been repairing. I’ll just make sure to grab a brochure for the closest luxury resort while I’m in town and slip it under her cabin door when I get back. Margot Bradley will be out of my hair so fast, I’ll feel a breeze over my ears.
With something like a plan forming to find a place that suits her better (and, more selfishly, to rid myself of an all too intriguing distraction), the unsettled feeling in my chest eases slightly.
“You said her sister booked the trip?” I ask, methodically tearing off and stacking sage leaves to chiffonade. I’ll need to refund the sister for the stay once Margot is gone.
Jo nods, already at work breaking down the rabbit carcasses. “She did. Very particular about a package that’s coming in tomorrow. Wants us to take extra good care of it.”
Huh. I suppose once I deliver that package, it won’t be a problem for Margot to pack up and leave North Star. I’ll dust off my hands, and that’ll be that. She’ll be gone, and I’ll be able to return my focus to what matters—helping my dad.
For the first time all night, I look up and smile. “Don’t worry. I’m happy to take care of it.”
4MARGOT
Walking through the Alaskan woods in the pitch dark with nothing but my phone flashlight is both the bravest and the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But after spending all day unpacking while subsisting on my dwindling snack stash, I’ve learned evenIcan only eat so many avocados. My choice had been simple but grim: get to the lodge for dinner or starve.
At first it seemed simple enough to follow the trail. Dark, ominous, and life-threatening, but still. Simple. Now, though, as I trip over another snow-covered log and my hair gets caught in brambles I definitely don’t remember from my walk earlier, I have to wonder if I’ve taken a wrong turn. My heartbeat becomes the only thing I can hear. I backtrack in the direction I came from (I think?), and the trees quickly become denser. When I realize I can no longer see either the light from my cabin or the lodge, I know I’m lost.
A stick snaps to my left, and I suck in a terrified breath. Is it just Bullwinkle or something with sharper teeth? Am I supposed to stay still and silent or wave my arms around to make myself more intimidating? I’m on the cusp of doing the latter when I see a light.
