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“No goats.”
Jonah turns to stare at me, his brows raised in shock. “You’re being serious.”
“Yes!”
“Goats. Those cute little farm animals.”
“With the creepy horizontal pupils. Yes.”
“How can you hate goats?” He sounds legitimately baffled.
“I have my reasons. So, what do you think about solar panels? Do they work in Alaska with the short—”
“Uh-uh.” Jonah shakes his head, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “No way, Barbie. Spill it or I’m gonna come home with ten cute little pygmy goats for your farm.”
Knowing Jonah, he will. I mean, we have an unofficial “pet” raccoon living under the porch.
I groan, already knowing how this will play out. “Fine! When I was six, I got mauled by a bunch of them on a school trip and ever since then …” My words are drowned out by Jonah’s burst of laughter.
“Mauled by goats?”
I elbow him. “It’s not funny!” Even though I’m struggling to suppress my smile.
“Okay, okay. You’re right. It’s not.” He holds his hands in the air in surrender. “Show me your scars.”
“Well, I don’t actually have any physical scars.”
“Because they’re all on the inside?” he asks with fake seriousness.
“Shut up! When you’re six and you’re surrounded by a herd of animals nipping at your clothes and fingers, and you get knocked into a fresh pile of shit, you never forget!” I shudder for emphasis.
He shakes his head, his laughter dying down to a soft chuckle. “Come here, my little goat hater.” He slaps my laptop shut and pushes it off to the side. In one smooth roll, his heavy body is pinning me down and his mouth is on mine.
Chapter Seven
February
“This is George’s friend?” I ask, huddled in the depths of my parka as Jonah steers Veronica toward a long, flat stretch of land, lined on either side by tapered evergreens. Two forest-green, metal-roofed buildings sit off to one side—both simple rectangles; one large structure, the second a small replica of the first. Next to the frozen lake is a log cabin. A plume of dark smoke curls from its chimney, dissipating into the murky sky. Elsewhere, tucked in among the trees, are several lean-tos and sheds. A staple for any home in Alaska, I’m learning, to shelter everything from chopped wood and propane and water jugs to ATVs and snow machines.
“Who, Phil? Yeah. They knew each other in the air force. I’ve met him a few times over the years. Good guy. He lost his wife to a stroke, back in the fall. Around the same time Wren passed.”
“Is he all alone out here?” There aren’t any other cabins on the lake, from what I can see.
“Yup. His son lives somewhere south. Oregon or Idaho, something like that.” Jonah nods toward the back, to the cooler of moose meat that George asked us to drop off on our way to Anchorage’s suburbs to check out open houses. “He’ll appreciate that.”
Our plane catches a wind current and jolts, and my hand shoots out to clutch Jonah’s forearm on instinct. He chuckles, offering me an easy, confident wink of reassurance that everything is fine, that we’re fine.
That’s how things have been between us since he rescued me from a Christmas alone over a month ago—easy. We’ve fallen seamlessly into our old rhythm, except without that once-persistent cloud of dread that lingered in the background as we watched my father deteriorate, day by day, and wished for more time.
Now our conversations are dominated by excitement about our future—of must-haves for the house we’re going to buy, of what we need to do ahead of launching the charter company, of which sunny, warm destination we’ll vacation at when we need a break from the long, dark winter. Our nights are filled with laughter as we lay tangled in sheets, talking and planning and teasing each other, our contentment palpable.
And now that Jonah is officially done at Aro—they had a farewell party for him yesterday—and the lawyers are working on paperwork for the sale of the houses to Barry, our life together is moving ahead, faster than I anticipated.
It’s everything I imagined being in love could feel like, back when I was trying to figure out what love is, when I couldn’t form a definition in my mind for it.
It’s this.
It’s us.
