He looks away to glance around at the heavily wooded terrain with a literal moose standing nearby. “Could be worse. Could’ve been named after my godfather.”
“Who is?”
“The guy who just dropped you off.”
I snort, which makes him smile. His perfect teeth are a brilliant contrast to his dense stubble-verging-on-beard. I become increasingly aware of my legs wrapped around his granite waist, and of the fact that I’ve just used the word “granite” to describe his body to myself, like he’s the real-life version of every romance hero ever written. I notice with growing alarm how warm he is from his exertions, and how long it’s been since I’ve been this physically close to anyone with a penis. Which isexactlythe last word I want in my mind right now and therefore becomes the only word I can think.
Until, finally, I recognize him.
My smile slides off my face as a sense of unreality grips me. Because he’s not the embodiment of every romance hero ever written—just all of mine. For the record, I’ve written plenty of men into existence. Six, to be precise. To all of them, I graciously bestowed a single favorite feature, teasing out my own personal preferences across multiple characters because giving them all to one man seemed gratuitous. But now, as I stare at Forrest, I’m confronted with all of them at once. My eyes roam his features,recognizing Caleb’s coarse, chocolatey waves. Brandon’s green eyes. Levi’s sculpted bone structure. Anders’s superhero physique. Harrison’s height. And though I’ll never know for certain, probably Dax’s—
“Did you want to climb down,” he asks uncertainly, “or are you still in fight-or-flight mode?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at him like a psychopath for the better part of a minute. “Right. Yes. Down,” I say eloquently.
Forrest helps me clamber off his 10/10 Would Recommend body, and I take a clumsy, snow-crunching step back from him. I begin to understand that I ran flailing from something completely harmless and straight into the arms of the actual threat.
I came to Alaska to escape everything I knew. To leave behind my identity as a romance author and write a grisly murder-mystery novel. Instead, I’m having a picture-perfect meet-cute with a man who seems ripped straight out of one of my own romance novels. A man I’ve known for less time than it’ll take me to have a muchneeded cold shower, but who somehow registered as a beacon of safety in my moment of life-or-death panic.
But Forrest from the forest?Really?Even I’m not that corny.
I put a mitten to my forehead as a pulsing tension headache starts right above my left eyebrow. It’s been the longest day in existence, I haven’t eaten anything in hours, and I probably smell like Uncle Bear’s irritable bowel syndrome. Forrest’s eyebrows draw together, making him look like one of those hotly troubled men in a cologne ad. “You okay?”
At the genuine concern in his voice, anxiety ripples through me. And yet my gaze locks with his in a reflexive search for reassurance and comfort. It’s a questionable instinct, considering he’s a very large stranger who happens to be wielding an ax. But he’s not looking at me like I’d be perfect for his human taxidermy hobby or even like I’m just another resort guest. His gaze, like his question, is soft and a little bit wary as it surveys my features—like I’m notthe only person here who feels like I’ve met a piece of my own imagination come to life.
God, I need a nap.Or better yet, a ride straight back to the airport. I shake my head a little to clear it. He asked if I’m okay, and the truth is, I’m not. I haven’t been this attracted to someone in a long time, and the last time I was, it cost me my dignity, my faith in love, and several nonrefundable wedding security deposits. At the thought, panic skitters up my spine, and suddenly, I feel like a cactus in a time-lapse video, speed-growing its spikes. For better or for worse, making myself unlikable has always been my default defense mechanism.
“I’m freezing,” I announce. “I’d like to be taken to my cabin, if you don’t mind. And I need someone to collect my bags.”
At my frosty tone, Forrest’s expression and posture instantly become more guarded, and I regret my coldness. But I’m in full damage-control mode, and if I’m going to be stuck here with him for the next six weeks, establishing some distance is the only way I’ll survive.
“Right,” he says, all traces of warmth vanishing like he’s hastily rebuilding his own toppled boundaries. “Follow me.”
He picks up his ax and starts walking, but I hesitate to move. The bear-moose is standing next to the path, and even though it doesn’t seem particularly interested in rampaging, it’s still an enormous fucking wild animal. Forrest sees my hesitation and sighs. Apparently, his patience for outsiders has been exhausted. “Don’t worry about Bullwinkle,” he says. “He’s just begging for carrots. Come on.”
“Bullwinkle? As in…is he yourpet?”
“No, he’s a five-hundred-dollar penalty waiting to happen. It’s illegal to feed moose, but my dad started it, and now he’s practically domesticated. Just ignore him.”
I can imagine how Savannah would react to depriving any animal of a “wittle tweat,” illegal or not, and I’m hit by my first realwave of homesickness. I make a silent vow to work up the nerve to sneak Bullwinkle a carrot before I leave, but as we pass by the towering mountain of brown fur, I can’t help sidling closer to Forrest. He might be a little grumpy, but at leasthedoesn’t have the giant horn things. Antlers. Whatever.
Instead of leading me back to the main lodge to collect my bags, Forrest takes me on a new path through the woods to find one of the surrounding cabins that I’ll call home for the next six weeks. When I start to lose feeling in my stumbling feet, I discover that sneakers were the wrong footwear choice. I remember the subzero boots (and all the other gear) Savannah purchased and insisted I bring, and I feel a burst of appreciation for my sister. I may not want to be here, but at least she made sure I wouldn’t lose my toes.
“Not much farther now,” Forrest calls out, moving ahead of me like he was born and bred to withstand arctic temperatures in form-fitting base layers.
Meanwhile, I barely repress a shriek when a wet clump of snow falls from an overhead branch and lands on my head. I’m just about to turn back and tell him I’m fine sleeping on an animal pelt back at the lodge when our destination finally comes into view. The cabin is tiny, snowcapped, and surrounded by trees. A cozy beacon of warmth and comfort.A place with a toilet. When we reach the door and he unlocks it, I push my way past him, desperate to be inside. Forrest comes in at the pace of someone who doesn’t physically register temperature changes.
“Close the door!” I hiss. “You’re letting all the warmth out!”
He obliges me, stomping his snowy boots on the welcome mat while I rip my mittens off and practically shove my fingers in my mouth to warm them up. As my face begins to thaw, so does my nose.
“Here,” Forrest says, handing me a box of tissues from the entryway table.
I note with annoyance that his own nose is miraculously dry and adorably rosy. I blow mine with an embarrassing honk before removing my coat. My travel clothes are comfortable but not nearly comfortable enough. I need to be swaddled in the cashmere sweatsuit I recently splurged on—my consolation prize for agreeing to this trip.
I look up at Forrest and realize he’s staring at me. Probably because, thanks to the pound of snow melting in my hair, I resemble a wet jet-lagged cat. On top of feeling unnerved by him in general, his gaze makes me feel uncharacteristically self-conscious, which is probably why I blurt out, “Were you going to give me a tour or something?”
He blinks at my rude tone, and even though I can taste the word “sorry” on the tip of my tongue, I hold it in. I realize I have no legitimate reason to be annoyed with him, but the slightly panicky self-preservation part of me is searching high and low for one.
