Chapter 1 #2
I eye the plate May’s brought me uncertainly.
“That’s wild-caught salmon with dill,” May explains, noting my hesitation.
“Wild rice pilaf with local cranberries, and that’s venison sausage from a deer Finn got last season.
All Alaskan fare. Go on, try it.” I’ve never been a fish person—the smell, the texture, all of it has always turned my stomach.
But I’m hungry enough to at least try a bite.
I brace myself, but the salmon is delicate and smoky, a world away from the heavy fish dishes I’ve endured at Hollywood charity dinners where chefs try too hard to impress.
I take another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous.
“I see you found your appetite,” comes Finn’s voice as he appears beside our table, holding a pair of rubber boots. “May suggested you might need something more suitable. These are my sister-in-law, Timber’s—the bride.”
I stare at the boots with undisguised disgust. They’re practical, sturdy, and possibly the ugliest things I’ve ever been asked to put on my feet. “I can’t wear those.”
Finn gives me a dubious expression. “Would you rather keep stumbling around until the reception ends? We’ll be heading to the lodge on the Polaris afterward, and trust me, you don’t want to climb onto a four-wheeler with one usable shoe.”
The memory of him having to pull my foot from the dock earlier makes my face flush. With a deep sigh of surrender, I take the boots. “Fine. But if anyone takes a picture of me in these, I will sue for defamation of character.”
Finn’s mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a reluctant smile. “Your secret’s safe with us. Now eat up. Reception goes for at least another three hours, and I’d like to enjoy my brother’s wedding without babysitting duties. We’ll head to the lodge when things wrap up here.”
“I’m not asking you to babysit me,” I snap, my patience finally fraying. “I can entertain myself.”
Three more hours? My feet are already killing me, I’m exhausted from traveling, and now I’m expected to hang around a stranger’s wedding until midnight. A headache is brewing behind my eyes, but what choice do I have? I’m literally stranded here.
“Don’t mind Finn,” May says as he walks away. “He’s got a chip on his shoulder when it comes to outsiders, especially the celebrity kind.”
“What’s his problem?” I ask, taking a cautious sip of the homebrew, which burns pleasantly down my throat.
“About eight years ago, some reality TV fishing crew came up here, made a mess of things, nearly got themselves killed, and then tried to sue Finn when he rescued them,” May explains.
“They didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, but it left him with a healthy distrust of cameras and the people who follow them. ”
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say defensively. “This is a job for me. A few weeks at a scenic lodge, some staged videos for social media and a wilderness special, then back to real life.”
May regards me over her glass. “Honey, everyone who comes to Alaska says they’re passing through. This place often changes plans and people.”
As the evening progresses, I gradually relax, the homebrew helping to loosen the knot of tension between my shoulders.
I even laugh at the locals’ stories, especially when they involve Finn’s apparent tendency to rescue tourists from their poor decisions.
“Remember when he had to save that family who tried to kayak to the glacier without life jackets during a storm warning?” someone recalls, setting off a round of laughter.
“Or the hikers who decided bear spray was optional?” adds another.
At the mention of bears, a chill prickles my skin. “Are there really bears around here?”
The table falls silent, and then everyone bursts into renewed laughter.
“Oh. honey,” May says, patting my hand. “Bears are practically our neighbors. Then there are the wolves who think they’re the local welcoming committee, deer that’ll empty your garden faster than tourists clear out the general store before a storm, and if you’re exceptionally lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you view it—you might catch sight of a lynx.
They’re like oversized barn cats with murder mittens. ”
Eventually, the crowd thins as the night wears on.
Finn makes his way back to my table, where May has been keeping me company with stories about Port Promise that alternate between fascinating and terrifying.
“The reception’s winding down,” Finn says.
“We should get you to the lodge. It’s been a long day. ”
May rises from her seat and gives me a warm expression. “It was lovely meeting you, Lena. Come by the diner tomorrow for breakfast. My sourdough pancakes will change your life.”
“I’d like that,” I say, surprised to find I actually mean it. “Thank you for everything tonight. You made this accidental wedding crash much less mortifying than it could have been.”
May laughs and pats my arm. “That’s what we do here in Port Promise.
Care for each other—even the fancy Hollywood types who catch our bouquets.
” She turns to Finn, her expression shifting to stern.
“You take good care of her, you hear? Don’t go showing her your Alaskan hospitality by driving through every mud puddle on the way. ”
Finn raises an eyebrow. “Would I do that?”
“In a heartbeat,” May says, but there’s affection in her voice. She gives me a quick hug. “Remember, diner tomorrow. Don’t let this grump make you think all Alaskans are as charming as he is.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
With last goodbyes exchanged, I follow Finn out of the community center, carefully navigating in my borrowed boots.
The night air grows chillier, and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d brought a jacket more appropriate than my flimsy designer wrap.
Finn catches my shiver. Without a word, he shrugs out of his flannel overshirt and hands it to me, leaving himself in a simple black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the impressive muscles of his arms and chest.
“I’m fine,” I protest weakly.
“You’re shivering,” he counters. “Take it. I’m used to the cold.”
Too tired to argue, I slip the shirt on over my dress. It’s warm from his body and smells like pine and something uniquely masculine that I refuse to acknowledge as pleasant.
“Your luggage is already loaded in the trailer,” Finn says, leading me to where a rugged four-wheeler is parked at the edge of the property. “It’s about a thirty-minute ride.”
As he helps me climb onto the back seat of the Polaris, I gather my courage to ask, “So, what exactly should I expect at your place? My agent was vague on the details. ”
Finn gives me a sideways assessment, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “From what I understand, you’ll be staying at my lodge while they take some publicity photos and videos of you pretending to enjoy nature. The production company booked it for the rest of the summer.”
I nod, relieved. This is exactly what I signed up for—a comfortable stay at a scenic retreat with occasional forays outside. Nothing too strenuous or authentic. Just enough to convince my fans I’ve gone “back to nature” and rehabilitate my image.
“Sounds perfect,” I say, settling onto the seat. “The place has all the amenities, right? Wi-Fi, hot water, decent cell reception?”
Something that might be humor flickers across Finn’s face as he swings his leg over the front seat. “We have hot water. Most days.” Before I can demand clarification on that unsettling answer, he starts the engine.
The ride up is an adventure in itself. My luggage follows behind us in a small trailer, bouncing precariously with every rut and bump in the rugged trail.
I cling to the seat, grateful for the borrowed boots as we splash through puddles and navigate around fallen branches.
The engine’s roar makes conversation impossible, leaving me to my thoughts as the Alaskan wilderness rushes past, dark and shadowed in the moonlight.
As we round a last bend in the trail, a sprawling log structure nestled among towering pines comes into view, warm light spilling from its windows.
Finn cuts the engine of the Polaris, and the abrupt silence is almost startling after the constant roar.
“Welcome to Crystal Creek Retreat,” he says, a clear note of pride in his voice. “Home for the duration of your stay.”
The building is impressive, a perfect blend of rugged charm and modern comfort. “It’s beautiful,” I say honestly, momentarily forgetting my exhaustion .
Finn appears surprised by my sincerity, but nods in acknowledgment. “Built it myself, with all my brothers’ help. Took nearly two years. Named it after the creek that runs behind the retreat.”
As we dismount from the Polaris, I spot several smaller structures scattered around the main building, barely visible in the moonlight. “What are those used for?” I ask, gesturing toward the shadows.
“Seven of them, used for guests,” Finn says, unloading my luggage from the trailer. “The retreat has common areas—dining room, great room, kitchen. Guests stay in the cabins for privacy.”
“I’ll be in one of those?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment. I’d been picturing myself in a cozy room inside the main building, not isolated in a separate cabin.
“Cabin Three is yours,” Finn confirms, hefting two of my suitcases. “We call it Stargazer’s Retreat. It’s got a great view of the night sky from the bedroom skylights.”
“How far is it from the main lodge?” I ask, already picturing the long, dark walks between buildings.
“About fifty yards,” he says. “Cabin One is closer, but it’s being renovated right now.”
Fifty yards seems like a mile as I peer nervously at the dark woods surrounding us. “I’ve already heard about the local wildlife from May. Is there any chance of those bears or wolves deciding my cabin seems like a good place to visit tonight?”
Finn actually laughs at this. “Just use common sense. Don’t leave food outside. Make noise if you’re walking around after dark. You’re in their home, not the other way around.”
That’s not exactly the reassurance I hoped for.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, perhaps seeing the real fear on my face. “The path to your cabin is well-lit, and I’ve never had a guest eaten by wildlife yet. ”
“Yet,” I mutter under my breath as Finn unlocks the cabin door. “Very comforting.”
Finn flips on the lights, revealing a cozy but decidedly basic interior.
A river rock fireplace dominates one wall of the main room, with a worn leather couch and armchair arranged in front of it.
The kitchen area is little more than a corner with a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and minimal counter space.
A round wooden table with four mismatched chairs sits between the living and kitchen areas.
The walls are decorated with what appear to be local landscape photographs and, alarmingly, the mounted head of some antlered creature I don’t want to identify.
This is a far cry from the luxury accommodations my agent promised. Where’s the high-speed internet workstation? The jetted tub? The king-sized bed with premium linens?
Finn drops my suitcases unceremoniously inside the bedroom door, then gives me a perfunctory tour. “Bathroom’s through there,” he says, gesturing to another door. “Hot water’s limited, so keep your showers short. The kitchen’s stocked with basics.”
I look around, searching for any sign of modern amenities. “Is there Wi-Fi?”
“Sometimes,” Finn says with a shrug. “Signal’s spotty out here. Cell reception too.”
Great. I’m stranded in the wilderness with unreliable communication to the outside world. My agent is going to hear about this, assuming I can get enough bars to make a call.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Finn says, already heading for the door. “I’m over in the lodge if you need anything.” He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Breakfast is served between six and eight, up at the big hall.”
I blink. “In the morning?”
A hint of amusement touches his mouth. “That’s when breakfast usually is. ”
I swallow my horror—mostly—and simply nod, pretending the concept of willingly being vertical before eight in the morning isn’t fundamentally offensive.
Before I can protest or ask any of the dozen questions forming in my mind, he’s gone, the door closing with a decisive click that echoes in the now-silent cabin.
I stand in the middle of the room, feeling abandoned.
A quick inspection of the bedroom reveals a full-sized bed—not the king I’m used to, but at least it appears comfortable. The bathroom is functional but spartan, with a shower stall that’s going to make shaving my legs a contortionist’s challenge.
After unpacking enough for the night, I realize I’m hungry. Again. Apparently, stress burns through snacks at an alarming rate, because despite all the food at the reception, my stomach is staging a full-blown protest.
As I settle onto the couch with a cup of tea and some crackers with peanut butter, I’m struck by the absurdity of my situation.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was in a luxury spa, panic-packing after indulging in treatments I was convinced I needed before facing Alaska.
Now I’m sitting in a remote cabin, wearing borrowed boots after crashing a wedding, surviving on crackers, and worrying about becoming bear food.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls—a long, mournful sound—and I nearly drop my tea.
I came to Alaska to save my career, but judging by how things are going, I might have to survive it first.