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“Go sit at the bar, then. Chris should be there.”
My gaze wanders to the long, stately dark walnut counter—the fanciest thing in this place—and to the tall man with wiry gray hair. “Big, bushy mustache?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’ll talk your ear off all night. Ask him about his huskies. He’s got a dogsled team that their son races in the Iditarod every year. And get the burger. Andrea makes the patties herself.”
“With real beef?” I ask pointedly. I’ve l
earned my lesson.
Jonah chuckles. And doesn’t answer, I note. “Also, the butternut squash soup is good.”
I grimace. “I hate squash.”
“What? No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do. It makes me gag.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Why are you arguing with me about this? Yes, it does! Same with beets. They taste like dirt.”
Jonah groans. “Jesus. You’re as bad as Wren was.”
I feel a prick in my chest at the mention of my dad, who, in many ways, Jonah knew better than I ever will. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t eat a single vegetable. I only won’t eat squash and beets.” I add after a lengthy pause, “Or cabbage, or mushrooms. And I hate strawberries.”
“Strawberries? Man, what have I signed up for?” There’s a teasing note in his tone. “Okay, Barbie, give me the rundown. What else are you gonna be difficult about? Wait, wait … lemme get a notepad. I have a feeling this is gonna be a long list.”
I’m picturing him stretching out on his sectional in a pair of baggy jeans, a sinewy arm tucked under his head, a simple cotton shirt stretched across his broad chest, unintentionally showing off the many hard ridges that sculpt his muscular body.
I should have been lying on top of that body tonight, I think bitterly.
“Let me see …” I settle into my own seat, propping my hiking boots up on the chair opposite me, and grin. “For starters, hairy, obnoxious men and cheap beer.”
* * *
“Nooo!” I moan into my pillow as the news headline flashes across the bottom of the TV screen, claiming the worst snowfall in southwestern Alaska in nearly fifty years. The accompanying videos and pictures from yesterday—snow blowing sideways, four-foot drifts over roads, cars buried—do well to emphasize that statement.
Worse, the weatherman, dressed in a red, fur-lined parka, his face hidden within the cove of his hood, is promising that Anchorage is going to catch a ribbon of that inclement weather beginning this morning. I checked in on my flight and it’s already marked as delayed by an hour.
Dragging myself out of bed, I head for the window, the cool air chilling my bare legs, an odd comfort for the dull ache in my head. I took Jonah’s advice last night and shifted my pity party of one to the bar to strike up a conversation with Chris, who turned out to be as nice as Jonah promised, albeit a bit awkward, telling stale jokes about Canadian accents and our horse-riding Mounties. Andrea made an appearance around nine and proved to be nothing like I imagined the killing, trophy-stuffing woman to be, her pixie-like face framed by a pale blonde bob, her wide smile offering nothing but warmth and friendliness.
They fed me red wine—a few glasses on the house—and entertained me for hours with stories of her hunting exploits and the lodge’s crazy customers, until my body buzzed and my stomach hurt from laughing and I had earned myself an invitation to Christmas dinner, should I find myself stuck in Anchorage.
It was after eleven by the time I staggered to my room, but I forced myself to stay up, watching movies and plugging away at my computer until almost two a.m., trying to reset my internal clock against the four-hour time change.
I still woke up at six this morning.
I peel back the curtain and greet a sea of black nothing, the sun far from rising. The few dim streetlights that shine down over the parking lot show nothing of any falling snow. If clouds are rolling in above us, I won’t see them for a few more hours.
But, with the way my luck is going so far, I fear I’ll be spending Christmas dinner with strangers.
I stumble back to bed, dismayed, to check for a response to my “are you awake yet? How bad is it?” text that I sent to Jonah the moment my eyelids cracked open.
Jonah: It’s not looking good for today. Heading to Wild to help sort out the mess.
I sigh heavily. He refuses to call my dad’s charter company anything but, though the planes and small terminal have been sporting the shiny new crimson-and-blue “Aro” logo for weeks. That’s the only thing that’s visibly changed so far, from what he’s told me. The new owner has been focused on getting the business’s technology up to speed, with plans to freshen up the office and waiting area in the summer.
We will have left Bangor by then, if we can find the right place near Anchorage.
