“Do you have everything you need?” he asks like the world’s hottest butler.
“In life?” I take a piece of bacon. “I guess that depends on if you’d consider a private jet back to L.A. a need or a want.”
“I’d consider it a gross misuse of fossil fuels, but I actually meant breakfast. Do you have everything you need?” he repeats, and my mind hops right on an escalator descending into the gutter.
“The breakfast is fine,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Just fine?”
“Yes, fine, unless you’re hiding a platter of lightly salted avocado slices behind your back. In which case, it would be perfect.”
He snorts, loading the tray with empty plates. “Avocados? Here? Are they being shipped on the private jet?”
I grab a piece of toast and glare up at him. “You’re telling me there isn’t something you desperately crave from California?”
His gaze lifts to mine, and as I replay my words, something like a crank turns slowly in my lower abdomen, tightening everything. I swallow, his eyes go dark, and I’m brought right back tohis cabin, one warm inch away from knowing if his full, sulky mouth feels as soft as it looks. Therein lies the other reason for needing to avoid him at all costs. Ever since we nearly fell into the Just One Time trope, my body has been like a light switch. Perpetually and safely in the off position until the second he’s brushing my elbow at dinner or looking at me like this. And then I’mon. Lit up and hot enough to melt the filament in a light bulb.
A greenhouse strawberry rolls off the plate that has gone slack in my hand and lands with a small thud on the table. Hastily, I look down to pick it up. “Like food, I mean,” I clarify.
Forrest makes a dry sound in the back of his throat and continues stacking glasses on his tray. “Good coffee. That’s what I miss.”
“Right. That,” I say, like I’ve never heard of coffee before or, frankly, liquids in general. My libido is too busy doing a choreographed cheer complete with pom-poms and high kicks for my brain to process words. Instead, I try to remember everything I’ve been telling myself for the last week. That he lost his chance at a fling with me forgood. That thick waves the precise shade of my favorite 72% dark chocolate and eyes the color of sun-dappled evergreens aren’t eventhatattractive. But then his lashes lift to look at me again, and my libido lands a perfect back handspring.
“Anyway, I’ve got to get writing,” I say, ducking my head in case my libido also somehow manages to clap out the letters H-O-R-N-Y! across my face.
“Right,” he rumbles like a semi, picking up the loaded tray. “Good luck today.”
“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder as I hightail it to the desk. If I’m actually lucky today, I won’t have to see him again until dinner.
I sit down at the desk while cramming my mouth with a conciliatory bite of blueberry muffin, ready to brush off my run-in withForrest and get to work. Finally being able to do book research has been like attaching jumper cables to my manuscript, and I’m already flying through chapter five. I take a sip of coffee as I wake up the old desktop PC. But instead of the usual desktop photo of Denali, a browser is open.
My coffee mug pauses on the way to my lips as I realize someone has left an email open. I don’t mean to read it, but it’s short, and by the time my eyes have skimmed the first line, curiosity makes it impossible to stop.
Dear Dr. Wakefield,
A more formal letter will be reaching you soon, but I wanted to be the first to inform you that the Bauer-Hinckley Grant has been awarded to you in the amount of $2.5 million. You and your team have been selected to continue your visionary work on detecting changes in precancerous lesions in TNBC patients at the molecular level. On behalf of the Bauer-Hinckley Grant Selection Committee, I want to congratulate you and your entire team. I look forward to speaking with you soon.
Warmly,
Amy Kohanski, DrPH, MD
I stare at the email after reading it again to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. I haven’t. My coffee remains suspended in midmotion, and I finally take a sip before carefully placing the mug down. Forrest has just been awarded a $2.5 million research grant.Two and a half million dollars.He knows this, and yet he’s spending his morning clearing jam-smeared plates in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, thousands of miles away from where he should be—popping champagne with his research team in California.
I sit back in the chair as a wave of dizziness spirals throughme. I can only imagine how Forrest must be feeling, but nothing in his behavior this morning hinted at the life-altering decision he’s facing. As always, he keeps everything locked beneath that sculpted surface, and I can’t help but wonder—what the hell does lie beneath?
Will he consider going back to California? Could he leave if he wanted to? In the past week, I’ve witnessed his unwavering dedication to his father’s health. Trapper lives in the rooms above where I currently sit, and Forrest is constantly going up and down the stairs, bringing meals, helping with his physical therapy exercises, and administering medication. As someone who takes care of a sometimes physically disabled family member, I know that Trapper wouldn’t be able to live as comfortably without Forrest.
Unexpectedly, my heart aches for him. Despite our awkwardness, tension, and constant bickering, I understand how impossible the choice must feel for him. Whenever Savannah goes through one of her flare-ups, my world comes to a standstill. Work takes a back seat, and all my energy focuses on my sister. But Savannah also has stretches of good days, and the nature of my job allows me to work from home and drop everything if need be. Forrest doesn’t have such luxuries.
The motorized sound of Trapper’s chairlift interrupts my thoughts, and I quickly close Forrest’s email. Not that I need to rush—Trapper often jokes that he used to climb mountains faster than his lift takes to traverse a single flight of stairs. Scout reaches the bottom of the steps first and beelines for me, his bushy tail wagging.
“Hey, boy,” I say when he reaches me, ruffling his fluffy black and white fur before sneaking him a thick piece of bacon off my breakfast sandwich. He swallows it whole, then puts his heavy head in my lap like he’d be happy to melt there.
“Thought it might be Forrest who’d miss you the most when you leave, but now I’m not so sure.”
I look up to see a smiling Jo, who’s waiting for Trapper at the bottom of the stairs. I take another sip of coffee and try not to look like I’ve been reading someone else’s highly sensitive private messages. “Morning!”
“Good morning, Margot,” she says, chuckling a little. “How’s the book coming?”
