Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FINN
My head feels like someone split it open with an axe, then filled the crack with sand and cheap whiskey.
A low groan escapes my lips as I try to shift position, but my ribs scream in protest. Where the hell am I?
The gentle rocking motion beneath me isn't the solid ground of the lodge or even the less-than-solid floor of Carlos's tent.
It's the rhythmic sway of water. Salt and diesel fumes assault my nostrils, mixed with the faint, familiar scent of fish. Kane's boat, Seas the Day .
Memory returns in jagged fragments. Driving the Polaris down from the lodge last night, the compass heavy as lead in my pocket, Nash's frustrated words echoing in my ears.
Reaching Port Promise well after dark. Stopping by the darkened General Store, banging until Rhys unlocked it, buying a bottle of the cheapest whiskey he had.
Heading for the docks after that, needing the cold bite of the salt air, the solitude of the harbor.
Kane's boat was tied up empty, and I climbed aboard with my bottle half gone already.
I remember settling into the wheelhouse, drinking alone, talking to myself—maybe yelling, cursing—about Hollywood actresses and bank notices and stubborn pride and the gut-deep knowing that I'd thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me.
Then nothing. Blackness. Must have passed out here on the bench seat.
A roar splits the morning quiet—the unmistakable sound of a float plane engine sputtering to life, then catching. Hank's plane. Lena's plane. Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the hangover haze, jerking me upright despite the protest from my ribs. What time is it?
I scramble up, ignoring the agony in my head, stumbling out of the wheelhouse onto the deck.
The sun is well above the horizon, glinting off the water.
Across the harbor, the plane is leaving the dock, its propeller churning spray as it taxis toward open water.
Nine AM. Nash warned me. Hank's plane leaves at nine. She's leaving.
“No!” The word rips from my throat, raw and desperate. “Wait!” I leap from the deck of Seas the Day onto the dock. Adrenaline surges, fueled by pure panic. I sprint down the planks, waving. “Lena! Mags! Wait!”
The plane doesn't stop. It turns, aligning itself with the open channel, the engine noise swelling to a deafening roar.
Too far away. She can't hear me. Can't see me.
I keep running, stumbling, shouting her name until my voice cracks, until my lungs burn with the effort and the cold morning air.
The plane lifts off the water, climbing, banking as it gains altitude, heading south.
Toward Anchorage. Toward LA. Toward the life she chose.
I skid to a halt at the end of the dock, watching the plane become smaller and smaller against the vast Alaskan sky until it disappears.
Gone. She's gone. Defeat hits me—cold, final—extinguishing the last of the adrenaline, leaving only pain and a gaping emptiness in my chest. I stand there gasping, leaning on the railing, the compass in my pocket dragging at me like dead weight.
Too late. Too damn late. Too proud. Too scared. Too stupid .
“Well, hell,” Nash's voice comes from behind me. “Looks like you missed the boat. Or the plane, in this case.”
I turn. He's standing there, leaning against a piling, holding two steaming mugs. He must have arrived from the diner, probably witnessed the whole pathetic display. His expression is sympathetic, but there's an underlying 'I told you so' in his eyes.
“She's gone, Nash,” I say, the words tasting like defeat.
“Yep. Saw her take off.” He holds out one mug. “May sent coffee. And probably some judgment, knowing her.”
I take the mug, the warmth seeping into my cold hands. “May's always right.”
“Usually.” Nash takes a sip from his mug. “So. What now?”
“What do you mean, what now?” I look out at the empty sky where the plane disappeared. “It's done. Over. She's gone back where she belongs.”
“Where she belongs? Or where you decided she belongs?” Nash raises an eyebrow, and his quiet challenge cuts deeper than I expect. “Are you gonna stand there feeling sorry for yourself, or are you gonna figure out what you want?”
I flinch, turning away from the sharp edge in his eyes. “Doesn't matter what I want. I heard her on the phone. She took the job. She left.”
“Maybe this one would have stayed,” Nash says, his voice low. “If you'd given her a reason to.” He sighs, shaking his head. “You know, for a guy who knows these mountains like the back of his hand, you're pretty damn lost when it comes to women, brother.”
“Tell me something I don't know.” I drain half the coffee in one gulp, the hot liquid burning my throat.
“Alright, I will.” Nash leans closer. “You love her.” It's not a question.
I stare at him, the blunt truth of it hitting me like an avalanche.
Love her? Mags? Lena? The woman who infuriated me, challenged me, saw through my bullshit, patched up my arm, faced down a grizzly, and somehow found her way past all my damn walls?
Yeah. Damn it, yeah. “Yeah,” I admit, the word rough, torn from somewhere deep inside. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” Nash demands, gesturing toward the empty sky. “Go after her!”
“Go after her? Where? How?” The absurdity of it hits me. “She's on a plane to Anchorage, then probably hopping a private jet back to LA to star in some movie with a sought-after director! I'm stuck here with a failing lodge and cracked ribs!”
“So fix it!” Nash slams his mug down on the railing. “Sell the damn lodge if you have to! Ask Dad for help! Ask me for help! Figure it out, Finn! Is this place,” he gestures back toward the mountains, “more important than her?”
Is it? The question hangs there, stark and unavoidable. The lodge is my mother's memory, my pride, my anchor. But Mags ... Mags felt like coming home in a way I hadn't known was possible.
“No,” I say, the answer solidifying with sudden clarity. “No, it's not.”
A slow smile spreads across Nash's face. “Well, alright then.”
“But she's gone,” I repeat, the despair returning. “How do I find her? What do I say?”
“You start by figuring out how to get to LA,” Nash says practically. “Then you show up on her doorstep. And you grovel. Like I told you. Flowers might help. Or maybe one of those fancy coffees she likes. Whatever it takes.”
LA. Hollywood. A world away from everything I know. Could I do that? Leave Crystal Creek, even for a time? The thought is terrifying. But the thought of never seeing Mags again ... that's worse. Unbearable .
Okay. I can do this. I'll call Hank, ask if he can fly me to Anchorage later today.
I'll figure out a flight to LA. I'll find her agent's number somehow.
I'll show up. I'll apologize. I'll tell her I love her—all of her, Lena and Mags.
That I was an idiot, scared and proud, but I know now what matters.
I'll sell the lodge, move to LA, whatever it takes, if she'll give us a chance.
It's a crazy, half-formed plan. But it's a plan. It's fighting.
As the resolve solidifies, a familiar sound breaks the morning quiet. A low drone, growing louder. Both Nash and I look up, squinting against the sun. It's a float plane. Banking low over the harbor. Heading toward the dock. Hank's plane.
My heart stops, then slams against my ribs with painful force. Is it ... could it be?
“No way,” Nash breathes beside me, his eyes wide.
The plane touches down on the water, taxiing toward us, engine sputtering as Hank cuts the power near the dock. The side door pushes open. And Lena climbs out.
She looks unsteady for a moment, gripping the strut for balance, her eyes scanning the dock.
Then she sees me. Her expression is impossible to read—relief, uncertainty, maybe lingering hurt.
She takes a hesitant step onto the dock, then another, walking toward me.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Is this real? Did she come back?
She stops a few feet away, the same distance as yesterday on the deck, but the space feels different now, charged with possibility instead of finality.
“Did you forget something?” I manage, my voice hoarse.
A shaky smile touches her lips. It melts away the last of Lena Kensington, revealing the Mags I fell for.
“Yes,” she says softly, her eyes locking with mine, clear and blue and holding everything I thought I'd lost. “Everything important.”
And then she's closing the distance, rushing toward me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her face burying against my chest. I react instinctively, pulling her tight against me, my arms locking around her waist, ignoring the protest of my ribs, breathing in the scent of her hair, the faint trace of expensive soap mixed with something wild—something purely Mags. In this moment, holding her, nothing else matters—not the pain, not the lodge, nothing but her.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispers against my shirt. “I almost ran. I almost let fear win.”
“No, I'm sorry,” I say, my voice thick, pulling back enough to look down at her face. “Mags, I was an idiot. Scared. Proud. I pushed you away when all I wanted was to pull you closer. I heard you on the phone, and I assumed the worst. I didn't trust you. Didn't trust … this.” I gesture between us.
“I said yes to the job,” she admits, tears welling in her eyes. “Because you hurt me. Because I thought ... I thought you were right, that our worlds were too different. That I didn't belong here.”
“You belong wherever you want to belong,” I tell her fiercely, cupping her face with my good hand. “And I want you to belong here. With me. If you'll have me.”
“But the lodge ... the money...”
“Forget the lodge,” I say, meaning it with everything I've got.
The truth hits me, sudden and clear. “It's wood and stone.
It's not worth losing you. I'll sell it.
I'll follow you to Hollywood. I'll learn to drink those kale smoothies.
Whatever it takes, Mags. Because losing you .
.. that's the only failure I can't face.”
Tears spill over, tracking paths down her cheeks, but she's smiling now, a watery, brilliant expression that lights up her entire face. “You'd do that?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“You don't have to sell the lodge, Finn.” She reaches up, her hand covering mine on her cheek.
“May explained things. About partnership. About pride. About Hollywood solutions versus Alaskan problems.” Her thumb brushes my cheekbone.
“I don't want you to give up your home for me.
I want to be part of your home. If ... if you'll still have me.”
“Still have you?” I laugh, the sound rough with emotion. “Mags, I love you. All of you. Lena, Mags, the woman who knows plants and faces down bears and somehow worries about moisturizer. I love every complicated, surprising, terrifying part of you.”
“Oh, Finn,” she breathes, her eyes shining. “I love you too.”
And then I'm kissing her, right there on the dock in the bright morning sun, pouring every ounce of regret and hope and love into it.
She meets me with equal fervor, her arms tightening around my neck, her body pressing against mine.
It's not like the desperate, exploratory kisses in the cave.
This is a kiss of arrival, of recognition, of choosing each other despite the odds, despite the different worlds.
It seals a promise, feels like a new beginning.
We break apart, breathless, foreheads resting together.
The world comes back into focus—the lapping water, the cry of a gull, the faint sound of Nash clearing his throat from somewhere behind us.
Hank leans out his window, gives a thumbs-up, then starts unloading Lena's mountain of luggage onto the dock before preparing for takeoff again.
Nash walks over, grinning. “Guess Hank figured he wasn't needed for the return flight after all.” He nods toward the pile of expensive-looking suitcases now sitting on the dock. “You planning on setting up shop here permanently, Hollywood?”
I look down at Mags, seeing her, maybe for the first time, without fear clouding my vision. Her expression is wide, full of a future I thought was lost.
“So,” I say, my smile spreading across my face, the ache in my ribs momentarily forgotten. “Does this mean you're staying? ”
She laughs, the sound of pure joy echoing over the water as Hank's plane engine roars back to life. “Try and make me leave.”
I pull her close again, my heart full. “Right, then,” I say against her hair, watching Hank's plane taxi away empty. “Let's get your things and go home.”