“Losing Mom is exactly why I’m here,” I say too sharply. “I’m not making the wrong choice again.”
Dad’s mustache bristles as his mouth hardens into a thin line.
“But what about Margot?” Jo says, interrupting whatever argument my dad was about to unleash.
I take a breath. “She’s going back to her sister in three weeks.” I make my voice as neutral as I can. “And I’m staying here. Margot understands why.” I pause. “She understands better than anyone.”
At this, all three of us go silent, sifting for any sliver of hope, when the door eases open behind me. I turn, and there she is, holding a bottle of champagne and smiling like the goddamn sun. Her eyes lock with mine, burning me from the inside out, but I can’t look away. Despite all logic, I look at her and feel the shape of my future, the same way I know the warm taste of her skin without touching her.
“Forrest?” she says hesitantly, her smile falling slightly.
Before I can think better of it, the words “Come here, sweetheart” escape me in a low voice.
Because the future is a slippery thing. And even when your plans are cast in stone, and every piece of data points to one bleak conclusion, reckless hope is the last ember to fade into darkness.
19MARGOT
Sitting at the desk in the lodge, staring at my computer, I probably look like I’m working. I am not working. In fact, “work” has become a word that technically exists in my vocabulary but has about the same level of personal relevance as the word “bumfuzzled.” Although scratch that. Bumfuzzled is pretty much exactly how I feel right now.
I exhale and drop the pen I realize I’ve been pressing between my eyes, probably leaving an attractive indentation that will be there for hours. Lovely. I check the little desk calendar, hoping I’ve somehow zoned out long enough for it to be Friday, but no. It’s still Tuesday and still three days before Forrest and Trapper return. After his dad’s hard-won mobility gain, Forrest took him to Anchorage for a week of testing and physical therapy.
At first I told myself that after we nearly burned down the sauna together, space was exactly what I needed to get control over these feelings that, frankly, make me suspect I’ve been body-snatched. In my hubris, I even had visions of knocking out the next quarter of my manuscript while he’s away. But it’s been three days of peace and quiet, and every sentence I’ve managed to eke out has felt like giving birth through a straw.
I roll out my nine millionth frustrated exhale of the day (it’s eight a.m.), and my eyes drag toward the slow Internet-wielding PC that has made me her little bitch. On the screen is a respectable, work-related search results page. But behind this front are twenty-two tabs of shameful Internet stalking.
Before I know it, my hand is on the mouse, cursor hovering over the tabs. I click one at random and immediately recognize it as the article about targeting RCD (regulated cell death) in early stage TNBC (triple negative breast cancer) that Forrest wrote in 2019. Apparently, it was groundbreaking. Apparently,heis groundbreaking.
In the three days that I was supposed to write nine thousand words, I’ve instead spent my time fangirling over Google Scholar articles that I have no hope of comprehending. But my lack of understanding does nothing to dim the awe I feel as I read his articles anyway, silently mouthing words like “clinicopathologic” or “immunohistochemical.” Or when I discover that his sudden departure is the sole topic of medical-nerd Reddit.
I sit back in the squeaky leather chair and let out my nine millionth and one exhale of the day, thinking of what he told me the other night: “There’s… pressure. The organization behind the grant is very eager to make an announcement.” Given everything I’ve read about the situation, my only response isNo shit. They’d be heroes for bringing him back. And unfortunately for me, learning how valued he is makes me… feel things. Terrifying things like admiration. Yearning. The urge to sedate him and drag him back to California with me.
Except we both know that’s not happening. After leaving Trapper’s room, it couldn’t have been more clear that Forrest’s not leaving Alaska any time soon. But an expiration date is exactly what Ishouldwant. I don’tdorelationships. I don’tdoromance. In fact, I’m pretty confident a Google search of the words “frigid bitch” would yield my face as the first suggested image.
But that was before he’d admitted to reading all my books. Before he’d held me and called me sweetheart. Now I’m just screwed, and not in the fun way. Because despite my best efforts not to, I miss him already.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at his article and low-key (okay, high-key) pining, but a soft ping from my email snaps me out of it. I feel a small zing of excitement and nerves at the sight of an email from my agent. I click it at once and find her response to my manuscript. As usual, she opens with what she loved, but as I get to the meat of the email, my eyes catch on the word “However.”
However, I feel that the romantic through line of the story is currently stealing the show. And while I’m absolutely trash for your characters’ chemistry, after everything that’s happened since the HNA leak, I worry no publisher is going to take a risk on another Margot Bradley romance. I realize this would be a significant edit (and I am truly having to force myself to type this out), but I strongly suggest making their relationship completely platonic. Maybe your detective’s handsome partner could be happily married?
I reread her words, but they don’t get any better the second time. All at once, I feel like I’ve been dropped right back into the dunk tank of despair I was drowning in before escaping to Alaska. The magnitude of what I’ve lost hits me anew, coming in flashbacks of everything I used to take for granted. Namely, my fans. Ever since Forrest called them out for not supporting me, I’ve only felt guiltier for hurting them in the first place.
A swell of shame rolls through my stomach. I think of Jenny Lin_Librarian, who I recognized at my last fateful event because she attended all the others. I remember how I used to come home from every book tour with pockets full of friendship bracelets,cookies with my book covers iced onto them, and countless other thoughtful gifts. How once, there was a tornado warning at a book signing in Austin, Texas, but despite this, I signed books for three straight hours. Would murder-mystery fans brave a tornado for me? I have no idea, but the simple fact is, the romance community is thebest,and I’ve lost their trust forever.
I cover my hands with my face. All the hurt and bitterness that fueled my Happily Never After file feels like a poison slowly leeching away, leaving me sick and hollow. There’s no sense of self-righteousness to bolster me now, and in my heart, I know why. It’s the same reason my cold, hard-ass heroine has been slowly falling for a steadfast Alaskan detective she has no business wanting. For the first time since I stopped believing in Happily Ever Afters, I’m secretly hoping my readers are right, and I’ve been wrong all along.
A tentative “Hey” in the silence jerks me out of my wallowing, and I look up to see Ollie coming toward me, his usual easy smile slightly tense. Guilt squirms through me. In the last week, I’ve become an expert in nonanswers and excuses, avoiding him at every turn.
“Hey,” I say as he perches on the edge of the desk beside me. “Aren’t you and Topher supposed to be climbing… something?”
“We’re heading out in a bit,” he confirms, grabbing a small stone paperweight painted like a salmon to fiddle with. “Wanted to catch you before we left, though.” He gestures at the computer with the salmon rock. “I know the inspiration’s been flowing, but I thought maybe tonight after dinner, you’d want to hang?”
I take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what I should have said days ago. He’s been nothing but kind and patient with me and doesn’t deserve to be strung along.
“Ollie, look. I really like you, and your offer was flattering… but I can’t.” I force myself to maintain eye contact and watch asdisappointment passes over his features. “It’s not because I don’t like you or—”
“It’s Forrest,” he interrupts, looking down at the paperweight. “You don’t have to explain.”
I stare at his profile, a jolt going through me at his frankness. I hesitate, then decide on honesty. “Partly, yes. But we’re only—”Friends with questionable boundaries? Mutually consenting adults with a newly discovered sauna fetish?I flush, struggling to complete my sentence because I honestly don’t know the answer. Eventually, I settle on a lame “It’s complicated.”
