“Welcome to the lodge, Margot. I’m Trapper,” Forrest’s dad says, confirming my guess with a warm smile beneath his retro mustache. “And this handsome boy is Scout,” he says, ruffling the fluffy head of the placid, blue-eyed giant sitting beside him. “I think you’ve met everyone else.”
I smile back. “Great to meet you both.” Scout is more focused on panting at the spread of food on the table than paying attention to the guests, and I can’t blame him. “Dinner looks amazing,” I say.
I’m ogling a platter of glistening roasted carrots covered in chopped pistachios and herbs when Forrest finally brings himself to sit down, sandwiching me between him and Ollie. His weight makes the wood creak, and as he settles with his forearms on the table, I have an almost vibrating awareness of the empty spaces between us.
“We’re so glad to have you,” Trapper says as everyone begins serving themselves. “Especially Forrest, I think. He’s a real bookworm.”
At this less than subtle overture, Forrest remains silent as a stone, serving himself salad.
“I love books!” Ollie chimes in brightly from my right side, and I get the strong impression that he’d profess his love for maggots if they happened to be my area of expertise. “Do you work in publishing or something?”
I take a swig from my water glass, wishing someone would hurry up with the wine. “I’m an author. But you probably haven’t heard of me,” I demur, hoping it’ll kill the conversation. The last thing I want is a cozy fireside chat about the swift and brutal death of my career.
Ollie smiles. “Try me.”
Internally, I sigh. “Um, have you ever heard ofFirst to Fall?” It’s my least popular book and therefore my best chance at stopping this conversation before it starts.
“Oh, he probably won’t know that one, Margot,” Jo chides playfully. “But I’ll bet anything he’s heard ofBetween Two Worlds.”
When a barely audible curse slips from my mouth, I feel rather than see Forrest glance down at me.Between Two Worldshas become my best-known novel after it was adapted for the big screen a couple of years ago.
“Between Two Worlds? You mean the movie?” Ollie says, grabbing the bottle of wine and pouring my glass with the finesse of someone used to waiting tables.
“Thanks,” I say, immediately gulping some down. “And yes, but it was a book first.” I serve myself a beautiful piece of meat that vaguely resembles chicken beneath a velvety burgundy sauce.
“Wait. So you wrote a book that got turned into amovie?” Topher asks, leaning forward to stare at me. “That’s dope.”
Ollie, Alice, and Yoon all gape at me like I’ve announced that I once swam across the English Channel with my legs tied together. Heat rises to my cheeks as both pride and embarrassment surface within me, and I can’t help stealing a glance at Forrest. After our run-in earlier today, I know he thinks I’m an incompetent airhead. But his laser focus on serving himself vegetables doesn’t waver, and I remind myself it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I need to impress him or anything.
“I, for one, am a huge fan, and I just can’t believe you’re going to write your next book right here at North Star,” Jo says, passing a basket of warm rolls around. “Is it another romance?”
I shake my head a little too vehemently and have to check myself. “No. I’m trying my hand at a murder mystery, actually.”
“Oh, now, that’s my favorite genre,” says Trapper. “Ever since my accident, all I really do is read, and there’s nothing better than a good whodunit.” He holds up his glass. “Cheers, everyone.”
We all lift our glasses and drink the surprisingly excellent wine.
“I’m so sorry you had an accident,” I say, wondering if thiswas what Alice was about to mention as her and Yoon’s reason for visiting.
Trapper’s smile becomes a little forlorn as he nods. “I was leading a hike up on Talkeetna Glacier about six months ago and fell right into a crevasse hidden in the snow. Dropped about twenty feet and hit my head pretty good.”
My hand comes up to cover my mouth as Trapper goes on. “I’ve been hiking that glacier for over forty years now. Thought I knew all her secrets.” He shakes his head. “Foolish. Thankfully, I was the only one hurt. My hikers called in help, and I was transported to Anchorage right away. But I haven’t really used the left side of my body since.”
Sympathy makes my chest feel like it’s being crumpled. “And that’s why you’re…” I say quietly, glancing at his wheelchair.
“In this little dune buggy here?” he says, patting the arm of the chair with his working hand while Jo cuts his food into bite-size pieces. “You got it. But according to my brilliant son, I’m not going to be sitting down forever, am I?”
I turn my head to Forrest, who lifts serious eyes to his father. “Not forever.”
Yoon makes a closed-mouth sound like “Aw!” But while the sentiment is sweet, I find myself annoyed by such a hopeless promise. I personally would never say something like that to my sister, whose autoimmune disorders are never going to be cured by wishful thinking or false platitudes. It’s one thing for a doctor to deliver an optimistic prognosis and wholly another for a glorified groundskeeper to do so.
“Do you mean your doctors are hopeful?” I ask Trapper, taking a bite of meat. It’s absolutely delicious but definitely not chicken. I think of Bullwinkle and decide not to ask.
“I suppose so,” Trapper says with an amused glint in his eyes. “Seeing as Forrest’s my doctor.”
The bite of food I’m on the very cusp of swallowing goesdown the wrong way, and I cough, my eyes watering. I drop my fork and knife with a clatter, and there’s immediately a warm hand rubbing my upper back. For a hot lighting-in-my-stomach second, I think it’s Forrest—who is apparentlya doctor?
On top of his romance hero good looks, his woodchopping habits, and the perfect meet-cute I accidentally had with him, the revelation that he’s also a doctor is one trope too far. What the hell is going on? Was my plane sucked through some kind of Alaskan Bermuda Triangle? Am I not actually here, but passed out and drooling on my keyboard, lucid-dreaming a new romance novel plot? If I weren’t busy hacking up a lung, I’d be laughing. Or crying. Probably crying. I came here to turn over a new leaf, but here I am, sitting next to a man who seems to embody the entire genre I’m trying to put behind me. Ollie leans into my field of vision with a worried expression, and I realize it’s his hand on my back. “You okay?” he asks, passing my water.
