Chapter 3
Chapter Three
LENA
“This is casual,” I assure my reflection, running fingers through my hair.
God, what I wouldn’t give for my stylist right now.
The humidity here is staging a full-on rebellion against my flat iron, leaving my usually sleek strands to erupt in frizz at the ends. “Appropriate for a small Alaskan town.”
My skincare routine has taken twenty minutes—moisturizer, primer, tinted sunscreen, concealer, cream blush, brow gel, and mascara.
The bare minimum to seem “natural” while covering up the evidence of last night’s restless sleep, interrupted by what I’m convinced was a wolf lurking outside my window.
A honk sends me scrambling for my handbag. I step outside to find Finn waiting on the Polaris. His expression shifts from impatience to an amused glint as he takes in the effort I’ve put into looking effortless. “What?” I say, picking my way down the path.
“Nothing,” he says. “Nice boots.”
“They’re designer,” I say defensively, lifting one foot. “Limited edition.”
“And completely useless for what we’re about to do.”
“They’re fine for a photo shoot at a lodge, which is what I was expecting when I came here,” I reply, climbing onto the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible.
The ride into town is a good thirty minutes.
Finn handles the uneven ground with ease, the Polaris bouncing over roots and rocks that have me instinctively wrapping my arms around his waist. His body is solid beneath my fingers—all hard muscles radiating heat through his jacket.
Each bump shoves me against his back, and my stomach does this ridiculous little lurch I refuse to acknowledge.
“Hold on tighter through this next section,” Finn calls over his shoulder, his voice vibrating through his back. “It gets rough.”
I tighten my grip, my fingers splaying across the firm plane of his abdomen.
I tell myself it’s practical, but I can’t deny the awareness that is sparking at the contact.
The man thinks I’m a pampered princess who can’t handle Alaska.
I shouldn’t be noticing how perfectly my hands fit against his stomach or how his back tenses against my chest with each turn of the vehicle.
Port Promise comes into view—a haphazard collection of old buildings huddled around a grey harbor, fishing boats looking like discarded toys on the water.
“First stop,” Finn announces as he pulls up in front of a building with a hand-painted sign reading “Second Chance Consignment.”
“Where exactly are we going for proper gear?” I ask, trying to ignore the lingering warmth on my palms. “I know you said consignment, but isn’t there an REI around here? Or perhaps a North Face store?”
Finn makes a sound that might be a choked laugh. “The closest REI is about 300 miles from here. We’re going to Second Chance.”
“That’s the place you mentioned?” I ask, eyeing the storefront with hesitation.
Finn nods. “Don’t worry, they wash everything.”
A thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair lifts her head from behind the counter as we enter. Her eyes widen when they land on me.
“Well, I’ll be. You must be the Hollywood girl staying at Finn’s place. May told me you caught the bouquet. I hear you’re heading into the mountains.”
My cheeks warm. “Word travels fast.”
“Town of less than two hundred people,” Finn says, already rifling through a rack of jackets. “News moves quicker than salmon during spawning season.” He steps up to the counter, voice low. “She’ll need boots, layers, thermals—the whole kit.”
The woman extends a hand marked by time and labor. “Agnes Wilcox. Welcome to Second Chance.”
While Agnes pulls items from various shelves, Finn disappears into a back corner of the shop.
He returns with a stack of alarmingly practical clothing—bulky hiking boots with thick treads, wool socks rough enough to exfoliate skin, and what appears to be long underwear with a button-up flap in the back.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing at the peculiar garment.
“Thermal underwear,” he replies, adding it to the growing pile. “With a convenient back flap for bathroom breaks in the wilderness.”
“You can’t be serious. ”
“Deadly serious.” His expression doesn’t waver. “Unless you want to strip down completely every time nature calls. In thirty-degree weather. With mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds.”
I stare at the offending garment, sheer horror clawing its way up my throat. “It has a butt flap .”
“You’ll thank me later,” he says, turning back to the shelves.
“Highly doubtful,” I mutter, but don’t remove it from the pile.
Agnes ushers me toward a cramped dressing room at the back of the store. “Try these on, dear. We need to make sure everything fits before you head into those mountains.”
The tiny space has a flimsy curtain instead of a door and smells of mothballs. Agnes hands me a stack of clothing—faded flannel shirts, thermal layers in various thicknesses, and pants with more pockets than I can count. “Start with these,” she instructs, pulling the curtain closed.
I shed my expensive clothes and reach for the first item—a pair of thick cargo pants in a muddy olive color. The fabric is rough against my skin, nothing like the soft cashmere I’ve been wearing. As I pull them on, the sensation triggers something unexpected.
The smell of the small space, the scratchy fabric, the sound of distant voices beyond the curtain—I’m not in an Alaskan consignment shop anymore.
I’m ten years old, in a church donation center, my mother digging through bins of castoffs while I try on clothes in a makeshift changing area, the smell of dust and old fabric thick in my nostrils.
“It’ll fit fine, baby. You’ll grow into it.
” My mother’s voice echoes in my memory, her tired expression as she holds up pants three sizes too big, secured with safety pins because we can’t afford a belt.
Shame burns hot. I can still hear them—the snickers, the pointing—when my too-big jeans, the ones with the rip Momma patched with a different color denim, showed up on Sarah Miller two weeks after I’d outgrown them.
My chest seizes. The dressing room walls press in, crushing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe, can’t escape the memories flooding back—hunger, the power shut off, nights in the car when the rent ran out. I clutch at my throat, vision tunneling. Panic slams in a suffocating wave.
“Everything alright in there?” Agnes calls through the curtain.
I force myself to take a deep breath. Then another. “Fine,” I manage, my voice strangled. “Just ... these pants are too big.”
“I’ve got other sizes,” she replies cheerfully. “Let me know what works.”
I press my palms against my eyes, willing away the memories.
This isn’t then. I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m Lena Kensington, actress. The girl who escaped.
The woman who never has to wear hand-me-downs again.
When my chest stops heaving, I finally look at myself in the mirror—smudged, streaked, and honest.
My face has paled, eyes too bright with unshed tears. I blink them away furiously. No one here will witness that vulnerability—especially not Finn Hollister, who already thinks I’m some spoiled princess.
Anger replaces the fear—anger at this whole mess, anger at myself, anger at the stain of poverty I can’t wash off.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, but it’s better than the damn tears.
Anger is easier. Safer. I yank on the remaining clothes with savage efficiency, ignoring how they scratch against my skin.
Each item reinforces my determination. I will endure this.
I will excel at it. And when I return to Hollywood, my career resurrected, I will burn every piece of this clothing.
When I emerge from the dressing room, my expression is locked in cool indifference. Finn raises his head from the counter, his eyebrows rising slightly at my transformation.
“What?” I snap, daring him to comment.
“Nothing,” he says, regarding me with unexpected intensity. “Those actually fit you well.”
Agnes circles me, tugging at sleeves and checking pant lengths with professional assessment. “Not bad. You’ve got a good frame for outdoor wear.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of the compliment. After years of stylists praising my body for appearing good in couture, I’m now being complimented on how I fill out cargo pants.
Finn disappears midway through, leaving me to Agnes’s tender mercies.
An hour later, a substantial pile of clothing and equipment sits on the counter.
The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—dressed in cargo pants, a thermal Henley, and a burgundy flannel shirt.
The woman in the mirror isn’t Hollywood’s Lena Kensington.
She looks like she could’ve grown up here.
I turn away from the reflection, unsettled. “Ring it all up,” I say finally, pulling out my credit card. “Whatever you think I’ll need. I’ll expense it to the production later.”
As we exit the shop, I notice Finn across the street, standing outside a timeworn building with a sign reading May’s Café. “My brother Nash is meeting us at May’s,” he announces. “He’s bringing the camping gear.”
The rich smells from the diner cut through my misery. May emerges from behind the counter, her face lighting up. “Well, if it isn’t our reluctant bouquet-catcher and our resident grump! I was thinking you weren’t coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss your pancakes,” I reply, surprised by how pleased I am to be here.
A burst of laughter from the corner booth catches my attention. A man who can only be Finn’s brother waves us over—the family resemblance is unmistakable, though where Finn is all controlled strength and stoic reserve, Nash Hollister is all easy smiles and charm.
“If it isn’t our Hollywood guest,” he says as we approach his booth. “Out shopping for your survival starter pack?”