Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LENA
The fire sighs in the stone hearth—it sighs, like it's bored with sitting there burning—casting long, dancing shadows across the log walls of the great room.
Log walls. Sometimes it hits me that I live inside what resembles a Lincoln Log masterpiece.
It's the only sound besides the wind moaning around the eaves, doing its best ghost impression from a low-budget horror flick.
It speaks of the deep Alaskan fall settling in, stripping the aspens bare and whispering promises of snow. Promises I'm not sure I'm ready for.
Three months. It's been a lifetime—long enough for the LA gossip cycle to spin through three scandals and forget my name, thank God—and also the blink of an eye since Hank's float plane lifted off without me.
Left me standing on the Port Promise dock with Finn, hearts wide open, futures uncertain, and me wondering if I'd packed enough warm socks. Spoiler alert, I hadn't.
I trace the rim of my wineglass, admiring how the firelight makes the Cabernet look even more expensive and brooding.
Finn sits beside me on the worn leather sofa—a piece of furniture that looks as if it wrestled a bear and lost but is surprisingly comfortable.
His shoulder is pressed against mine, a solid, reassuring weight.
He's reading—an actual book, pages and everything, not scrolling doom on a tiny screen.
It's one of his quirks I find endearing, right up there with his ability to chop wood like a lumberjack superhero and his quiet wariness of anything involving kale.
His reading glasses are perched on his nose.
They're the ones that still make me do a double-take sometimes because really—him, being all Clark Kent!
The tension that seemed permanently etched around his eyes when I first met him has mostly dissolved, replaced by a quiet contentment that suits him.
Life had found its rhythm here, a beat marked by deer sightings and debates over the best way to stack firewood.
The frantic energy, questionable catering, and existential dread of the film crew are a distant, bizarre memory.
Elliott, bless his narrative-obsessed heart, spun the whole ordeal into a “Hollywood star finds her roots” masterpiece, milking my dubious “wilderness competence”—which meant Finn told me what to do and I didn't die—for all it was worth before vanishing back to LA.
The show aired two months ago, and Elliott's version of events actually worked.
Bookings started trickling in—people wanting the “true wilderness experience” they'd seen on television.
Finn's payment from the production covered the immediate bank crisis, buying us breathing room.
But the lodge needed more than breathing room.
It needed a future. Real investment in infrastructure, cabin upgrades, equipment that wouldn't break down every other Tuesday.
That's where I came in—Finn finally agreeing to a partnership after I explained that “angel investor” wasn't code for “hostile takeover.”
It's still a hustle, but the panic has receded, replaced by the more manageable stress of “Will the generator start?” and “Do we have enough coffee for the winter?”
He closes his book, marking his page with what looks like a folded napkin, and turns to me, his arm sliding around my shoulders. The casual intimacy still sends a little thrill through me. “Lost in thought, Mags?”
“Thinking,” I say, leaning into his warmth, which smells of wood smoke and competence. “About how different everything is.” And how okay I am with it.
“Different good? Or different 'Dear God, what have I done, I miss room service?'” His expression is steady, searching. Even after three months, he sometimes looks at me as if I might spontaneously combust into a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and demand a non-fat latte.
“Different good,” I assure him, meeting his eyes. “Mostly.” I give him a small smile. “Though I wouldn't kick room service out of bed.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the fire crackling—probably judging my life choices. The bear rug beneath our feet, once a terrifying reminder of nature’s indifference, now feels … fluffy. Soft. Surprisingly comforting.
“Do you ever regret it?” Finn asks, his voice low, almost hesitant. The familiar guard is back in his eyes for a moment, that fear of not being enough, and it makes my heart squeeze. He's still worried I'll bolt.
“Regret what? Agreeing to try your questionable 'mystery meat' stew last week? Slightly. Leaving my conditioner behind on the last supply run? Deeply.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Turning down that movie. The A-list director. David called it a career-making opportunity.” He looks down at our joined hands resting on my knee. “You gave up a lot to stay here, Mags.”
Ah, that regret. The memory of that phone call still makes my stomach clench.
David had sounded personally offended. “It was a tremendous opportunity,” I acknowledge honestly.
“The kind Lena Kensington spent years chasing.
Mostly for the awards season wardrobe budget, if I'm being honest.” I glance toward the man beside me, sturdy and real in his perpetually worn Henley.
“And the director? Let's say his reputation preceded him, and not in a good way.”
“But?” he asks.
"But..." I sigh, trying to articulate the tangle of feelings.
"It felt like choosing the costume—probably something uncomfortable involving Spanx—over the actual person.
Like agreeing to keep playing a role when I'd found out the character underneath was way more interesting, albeit less likely to get good table service.
" I look around the fire-lit room, at the worn wood, the slightly askew painting of a moose, the man beside me who still occasionally forgets where he put his keys.
"Staying here ... felt like choosing something real.
Messy and complicated and sometimes involving actual bears, but real.
" I poke his arm. "You're part of the 'real,' by the way. "
"So no more Hollywood?" Finn asks gently.
"Not right now. Maybe not ever. I'm taking a break from being Lena Kensington—could be temporary, could be the end of that chapter entirely. I'll know when I know."
Finn lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that's far too charming for a man who owns this much flannel. His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I never expected you to stay, you know. After our argument ... after I was such a prize-winning idiot...”
“You were impressively stubborn,” I agree, tracing the faint scar above his eyebrow with my fingertip.
“Reached new heights of stoic grumpiness. It was almost admirable,” I add with amusement.
“But I recall being fairly headstrong myself. Something about demanding answers and refusing to be intimidated by bears or bank managers?”
“Maybe,” he concedes, a small, reluctant smile touching his lips. That expression still gets me every time. “But Mags, I need you to know, if you had gotten back on that plane ... if you'd decided that movie, that life, was what you needed ... I wouldn't have stood here moping.”
My breath catches. Okay, shift in tone. “What do you mean?”
He turns toward me, cupping my face with his hands—hands that can fix a generator or be infinitely gentle.
His expression is serious. No trace of grumpy now.
“I meant what I said on the dock. Losing you isn't an option. I would have figured it out.” He takes a breath.
“Sold the lodge, rented it out, learned to navigate LA freeways—which frankly sounds more terrifying than any fjord—followed you, become a pool boy if I had to.
Whatever it took. I wouldn't have let pride, or fear, or this pile of admittedly beautiful logs keep us apart. Not again.”
Okay. Wow. His words—the raw conviction simmering beneath them—knock the air right out of me.
That's ... more than any grand gesture I've witnessed in my last five rom-coms combined.
This vulnerability, this willingness to uproot his whole life for us .
.. it crashes through all my usual defenses and lands straight in my chest. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Damn it.
“Oh, Finn,” I whisper, covering his hand on my cheek, feeling the rough, steady warmth of his skin.
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. Close enough to see the creases at the corners of his eyes.
“I know,” I say, my voice thick with unexpected emotion.
And I do. It's in the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention, the way he automatically makes me coffee first thing, the way he grudgingly agreed to let me attempt decorating the guest cabins.
Phase One—Operation Banish Beige is pending.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, the intensity softening. “So, no regrets? Not even about the distinct lack of decent Thai food within a 500-mile radius? ”
I laugh, wiping away a stray tear. “None,” I confirm, my voice soft but firm. “Not a single one. Though I reserve the right to complain about the Thai food situation. Loudly.”
The air between us crackles again, but this time, it's pure electricity.
The confession, the shared vulnerability, has cranked up the heat more effectively than tossing another log on the fire.
He leans closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that speaks volumes—shared history, inside jokes, quiet battles won, and the thrilling uncertainty of what comes next.
It's slow, deep, familiar, yet still sends a jolt right to my toes.
His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer on the sofa that has known better days.
My fingers tangle in his hair—still soft for a rugged mountain man.
The kiss deepens, urgency simmering, fueled by the confession, the isolation, the simple, overwhelming miracle of this.
He groans against my mouth, a low rumble that vibrates straight through me.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, eyes dark with a desire that mirrors my own. “This sofa”—he glances down at the long-suffering leather—”is not ideal for ... vigorous activities.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you blaming the furniture for what's about to happen? Bold move, Finn. Or are you suggesting a change of venue?” My breath hitches as his hand slides beneath my sweater, his calloused palm warm against the bare skin of my back. Goosebumps erupt.
“Thinking the floor might be more ... accommodating.” His eyes drop to the thick bear rug spread before the hearth. The one I swore I'd never get near.
A thrill shoots through me, sharp and immediate. Finally, putting those tracking skills to good use. “Leading the way, wilderness man?”
His answering smile is pure, unrestrained Finn—all rugged charm and wicked intent.
He stands, pulling me up with him, then draws me down onto the soft fur of the rug.
Apparently, Mr. Bear had excellent taste in conditioner.
The firelight is warm on our skin as clothes seem like a terrible, unnecessary invention.
Shedding them becomes a shared project, efficient and perhaps a little frantic, punctuated by kisses and muttered appreciations.
Skin against skin, firelight flickering, shadows dancing like exhibitionists on the walls.
The only sounds are the crackling flames putting on their show, the jealous-sounding sigh of the wind outside, and our ragged breaths.
His hands rediscover familiar territory, yet somehow it feels brand new, igniting sparks with every touch.
My hands map the solid geography of him, emboldened by the raw desire hardening his eyes.
This isn't the desperate, terrified coupling in the cave.
This is slow-burn turned wildfire, deliberate and deep, grounded in three months of shared mornings, arguments over who finished the coffee, and the quiet miracle of building a life together.
It's knowing and being known, flaws and flannel included.
It's choosing this, choosing each other, with emphasis.
He enters me with a sigh that tangles with my own, a perfect, breathtaking fit.
A coming home. The rhythm builds, slow and deep, then faster, more urgent, a frantic dance mirroring the pulse hammering beneath our skin.
Firelight paints us gold, shadows merging and writhing.
We move together, lost, found, until the world narrows to pure sensation, pure connection, cresting together in a shattering release that leaves us sprawled, breathless, tangled like poorly stored Christmas lights on the comfortable bear rug.
Later, wrapped together under the soft cashmere throw I definitely didn't order online during a moment of weakness, his arm is a warm, grounding weight around me.
My head rests on his chest, where the steady drumbeat of his heart anchors me more than anything ever has.
Peace settles over me—quiet, deep, and complete.
LA might as well be a different galaxy. A noisy, glittering planet I visited once.
This—the man currently breathing contentedly into my hair, the wild beauty outside these windows, the unexpected woman I'm becoming—this is what's real.
What fits. Even the rug burn, I think drowsily, is probably worth it.
“Mags?” Finn says, his voice sleepy, muffled by my hair.
“Hmm?”
“You're smiling. What's so funny?”
“Am I?” I snuggle closer, pressing a kiss to his warm chest. “Must be the excellent company.” I pause. “And the fact that I think the bear rug winked at me.”
He chuckles, a sleepy rumble, tightening his hold. “Yeah,” he sighs with contentment. “Must be.”
The fire burns low, casting a final, soft glow. Outside, the vast Alaskan night holds its breath. And here, tangled up with my grumpy mountain man on a possibly enchanted bear rug, I know without any doubt I've found where I belong.