Chapter 19 Margot
19 MARGOT
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, he is 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 is No 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 I should want. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do romance. 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 the best, 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 as disappointment 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.”
A faint snort leaves Ollie’s nose, and I’m fully aware that “complicated” is exactly what he offered to help me avoid.
“I guess I get it,” Ollie says, looking back over at me. “He’s got that whole ‘I know I look like an NFL quarterback, but I’m just a humble doctor genius’ thing going for him.” He uses air quotes and a mock baritone to imitate Forrest.
“It’s not that,” I say defensively. Or not only that . “He’s much closer to my age, and we…” I pause, thinking of how he dropped everything to go to Anchorage for his father. “We have a lot in common.”
“It’s fine,” Ollie says. “Am I bummed? Duh.” A corner of his mouth lifts ruefully. “But mostly, I just want you to be careful. I said I like you, and I meant it. Even if we can only be friends without benefits.”
“Careful?” I repeat, my eyebrows drawing together. “About Forrest?”
Ollie stops spinning the stone. He looks down at it but doesn’t say anything.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I ask, as the fine hairs of my arms raise.
Ollie lifts a hesitant shoulder. “I’m not one for spreading gossip,” he begins ominously. “But you should know you’re not the first guest at North Star Lodge who’s fallen for Forrest. I’d hate for you to get hurt, too, is all.”
The composure I’ve maintained ripples like a rock has been chucked into it. “What are you talking about?”
He looks at me with genuine remorse, which only makes my spine go stiffer.
“I only know because of Topher,” he says apologetically. “His family’s tight with Forrest’s, and I guess a few years ago, some travel influencer left a Yelp review after she stayed here. What she said about Forrest was not chill. She raked him over the coals for hooking up with guests and leading her on. It really impacted the lodge’s bookings for a while.”
Ollie’s words roll over me, slowly flattening out whatever tenuous hope had begun to grow. Is it true? Did this unknown woman open her heart to Forrest only to realize she was one of many? She was clearly hurt so badly that she felt justified in eliciting revenge. Am I setting myself up for the same injury? My mind isn’t so much jumping to conclusions as riding a heat-seeking missile toward them. And still I don’t want to believe it. I was just beginning to trust Forrest, and it felt… monumental. Like I could finally lay my armor down because he’d proved me wrong: that good, accountable men really do exist outside of novels. That somehow I’d done the impossible and found someone even better than a romance hero.
But as it turns out , I think bitterly, impossible is exactly what this fantasy ever was .
“I’m really sorry, Margot,” Ollie says, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. I feel so brittle, I’m surprised I don’t shatter. “Maybe talk to him first? Give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“Right,” I say through bloodless lips.
Ollie’s face falls. “Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I force a small smile as frost spreads throughout my chest. “It’s fine. I’m glad you told me.”
He frowns doubtfully. “Well, I’m here for another week. If you want company as just, you know, friends, I’m around.”
I nod as he releases my shoulder with a final squeeze. “Sure,” I say, my eyes flicking up to his. “Have a good hike.”
“Always do,” he says, smiling.
He slides off the desk, setting down the salmon stone with a gentle click against the wood.
“Hey, Ollie?” I say before I think better of it.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t happen to know the name of that influencer, do you?”
He looks at me, chewing his lip. After a moment, he nods. “Charlotte Bard.”
We say goodbye again, and I force myself to wait until the front door has closed behind him before waking up the old PC. My throat is tight, palms sweaty, as I type her name into Google. I’m almost hoping the Internet stops working, but naturally, the satellite signal is clear as a bell. The page loads, and I’m immediately assaulted with images of a stunning woman with platinum blond hair and dark roots, whose job is clearly to be as #aesthetic as possible.
I find her website and click. The homepage is trendy, with a banner reading Charlotte Uncharted and a huge photo of her licking gelato next to the Trevi Fountain in Rome. Ignoring the hot, prickly surge of jealousy this inspires, I find the search bar and type in “North Star Lodge.” It’s another second—why isn’t the Internet always this fast?—to pull up the review she wrote.
My gut takes another walloping as I see her in a photo at the top of the post, posing next to the big stone fireplace I currently sit ten feet away from. I glance up, half expecting her to be there, cackling at me between licks of gelato. I don’t want to read this woman’s words. I don’t want a new chapter of disillusionment in my life. But I have to know.
Hello Darlings!
I hope you’ve been warmer than me, and by that, I don’t just mean temps. For the last week, I’ve been in Middle of Nowhere, Alaska, trying to find out if the rising trend of remote adventure resorts is worth experiencing. So without further ado, here’s the Char Report for North Star Lodge:
0 out of 5 Chars
That’s right, folks. My first ever zero out of five. Trust me when I say I did not make this decision lightly, but in the face of what I experienced, zero Chars was my only option. For those with sensitivities to blatant unprofessionalism, TMI about my sex life, and world-class assholery, turn back now. You’ve been warned.
Stomach clenching, I scroll beyond another gorgeous photo of Charlotte posing on the snowy porch to get to the next paragraph.
Okay, friends, grab your popcorn. One week ago, Dr. Forrest Wakefield picked me up from Anchorage to drive me to his family’s lodge, and ladies and gentlemen, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was instantly smitten. For a girl who’s been around the world and seen it all, Forrest checked all the boxes. In fact, once we’d established that my interest wasn’t one-sided, he checked boxes I didn’t even know I had, okay? Every moment I spent with this man made me think I was living in a snow-dusted made-for-TV movie. He made me think he felt the same way. But that was until yesterday, when it was time for me to leave, and instead of accepting my phone number (like a decent human being), Forrest informed me that he thought a clean break would be best.
Now, maybe he assumed I’m the kind of girl who has a fling in every place I travel to (I’m not). Maybe he assumed I wouldn’t catch feelings for him or find out about the string of guests he’s left brokenhearted (wrong). Maybe he assumed there wouldn’t be repercussions for leading me on, or for his complete lack of professionalism (wrong again). And sure, maybe things between us started out casual. Maybe I could have been clearer about my growing feelings. But ultimately, I feel used. Heartbroken. One of who knows how many guests he’s hooked up with and discarded.
To add insult to injury, my experience at North Star has been not only subzero, but subpar as well. Between having to hike to the main lodge for every barely edible meal, and the overly rustic Lincoln Log accommodations, this trip has felt less like a cozy retreat and more like an exile from society. And maybe that’s what some people are looking for, but it certainly isn’t me.
Lastly, since I’m an influencer with a predominantly female readership, I want this to be a warning to any woman still thinking of booking a trip here. The proprietor’s son who seems too good to be true? He isn’t.
xx, Char
Quickly, I exit the browser and sit back in the office chair, heart pounding. I realize that up until now, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s all I’ve ever known from the men in my life. But even with my record-low expectations, having proof that Forrest is no better than the rest of them doesn’t hurt any less.
A small, desperate part of me is clinging to the inconsistent details she mentioned about the food and accommodations here at North Star, since my own experience has been so different. I want to believe she might have made everything else up too. But why on earth would she lie? What would she gain from being so malicious? And most painful of all, why didn’t Forrest tell me about this? My stomach curls around a knot of hurt at the question. After reading all my Happily Never Afters, he knows how hard it is for me to trust anyone. He should have known I’d want to hear about this from him first. But he didn’t tell me. And now, without his side of the story, I have to take Charlotte’s word for it.
I drop my face into my hands but tell myself I’m glad. That I’m better off finding out before my heart got even more involved. By the time he gets back in a few days, maybe I’ll believe it.