Chapter 1
Piper
The GPS lies with the confidence of someone who's never actually been to Alaska. "You have arrived at your destination!" it chirps, like we've just pulled up to a boutique hotel instead of what appears to be two cabins locked in an architectural disagreement about what "straight" means.
I kill the engine and stare through the windshield at my new temporary home.
The January cold seeps through the glass, making the rental car creak in protest. The cabin on the left stands pristine and level, all clean lines and practical angles—the kind of structure that screams "I understand basic physics.
" Mine—the right one, of course—tilts slightly, like it got into the whiskey stash and decided to lean against its neighbor for support.
Between them, the "Twin Pine Cabins" sign swings in the bitter wind, metal grinding against metal with all the enthusiasm of a funeral dirge.
Outside, the thermometer on the porch reads minus eighteen.
Minus. Eighteen. I'm from Seattle originally, where forty degrees counts as "Arctic conditions" and the city shuts down if three snowflakes fall.
Even after living in Anchorage the last few years, I'm pretty sure humans aren't supposed to survive in temperatures where your breath crystallizes mid-exhale.
Out here, three hours from civilization, it feels like the air itself wants me dead.
"Perfect," I tell the steering wheel. "Just perfect."
My phone buzzes with notifications I've been ignoring since leaving the city.
Twelve missed calls from Mom. Forty-two texts from various friends who saw The Video.
Three hundred and forty-seven Instagram DMs that I'm absolutely not ready to face.
The only message I open is from my booking confirmation: Experience authentic Alaskan living in our rustic wilderness retreat!
Rustic. Right. That's real estate speak for "you'll be lucky if the toilet flushes and the roof stays attached."
But I'm here for authentic content, and nothing says authentic like hauling seventeen color-coordinated suitcases through snow that's apparently been accumulating since the Paleolithic era.
I check my appearance in the rearview mirror—my "Frozen Femme Fatale" nail polish still pristine, my carefully tousled waves still camera-ready despite traffic infused five-hour drive from hell.
My new Alaska Adventure outfit cost more than most people's monthly rent: designer snow boots with decorative buckles that definitely aren't rated for actual Arctic conditions or snow, a parka that screams "I shop at Nordstrom, not REI," and mittens that match my nails because God forbid I clash while freezing to death.
The first step out of the car teaches me that decorative boots have the traction of buttered skates on an ice rink. One foot shoots forward, I grab the car door, and manage to stay upright through sheer determination and core strength built from three years of yoga influencer challenges.
"Okay, Piper. You've got this. It's just snow. Frozen water. You've dealt with worse." Like finding your boyfriend in bed with your supposed best friend. Like having your breakdown go viral with two million views. Like—
No. Not thinking about that. I'm here for a fresh start, and fresh starts begin with hauling the Ring Light of Doom from the trunk.
The ring light weighs approximately as much as a small caribou—which I only know from hastily googled "Alaska wildlife facts" while sitting in traffic.
It's my most expensive piece of equipment, the one that makes me look ethereal instead of exhausted, angelic instead of anxious.
Without it, my content looks like everyone else's.
With it, I'm Piper Meadows, lifestyle influencer with 487,000 followers who think my life is aspirational instead of falling apart.
Dragging it through knee-deep snow while pulling my first suitcase—the rose gold one with my skincare essentials—proves that whoever designed these boots has never actually encountered winter.
Each step sinks deeper, snow creeping over the decorative tops and straight into my supposedly waterproof socks.
My parka, which looked so cute in the boutique, offers about as much insulation as tissue paper.
The expensive kind that fancy stores use to wrap purchases, but still.
"This is fine," I pant, hauling my life across the frozen tundra one expensive bag at a time. "This is character building. This is content. 'City Girl Survives First Hour in Alaska.' People will eat this up."
By suitcase number three—the turquoise one with my ring light's backup batteries and charging station—I'm reconsidering every life choice that led me here.
The mittens, while coordinated and adorable, make gripping anything impossible.
Snow finds gaps in my clothing I didn't know existed.
I've developed a sort of penguin-waddle technique that probably looks ridiculous but keeps me mostly vertical.
That's when I hear it. A sound like someone chewing celery amplified through a Marshall stack, mixed with aggressive snuffling.
I turn, still clutching my suitcase, and freeze.
Not freeze like "oh wow, what a surprise." Freeze like every muscle in my body has suddenly forgotten its job description. Freeze like someone hit pause on my entire existence.
Because standing in my driveway—my driveway—munching on my rental car's side mirror like it's an appetizer at an all-you-can-eat buffet, is a moose.
An actual moose.
Not a large deer. Not a weirdly shaped cow. A moose. With antlers that could double as satellite dishes and a body that makes my rental car look like a Hot Wheels toy. Its massive head turns toward me, jaw still working on what used to be my passenger-side mirror, and we make eye contact.
I've never felt so judged by an herbivore in my life.
"Oh shit," I whisper.
The moose continues eating my car with the casual indifference of someone who definitely owns this property and I'm the trespasser.
"Oh shit, oh shit."
My phone is in my hand before conscious thought kicks in, because even faced with a literal ton of wildlife, I'm still an influencer at heart.
Muscle memory takes over—open camera app, try to frame the shot—but my hands are shaking so hard the image won't focus.
All I can think is this is not the majestic wildlife encounter I had planned.
Where's the golden hour lighting? Where's the safe distance? Where's the FENCE?
The moose takes a step toward me, and a sound tears from my throat that definitely violates several noise ordinances. It's high-pitched, panicked, and probably audible from the neighboring cabin because—
"OH SHIT!"
My shriek escalates as the moose advances another step, a strip of mirror dangling from its mouth like the world's most expensive dental floss.
The sound I'm making could shatter glass or summon wildlife from three counties over—neither option feels helpful right now.
I scramble backward, designer boots betraying me immediately.
My arms windmill, my phone goes flying in a perfect arc, and I land ass-first in a snowbank with enough force to trigger a small avalanche from the nearest pine tree.
Snow dumps over my head in a cascading wave, sliding down my collar, filling my boots, and I'm gasping and flailing like a turtle flipped on its back when the door to the left cabin—the straight one, the sober one—explodes open.
A man emerges like some kind of lumberjack superhero, wielding a hockey stick and scanning for threats with the intensity of someone who's done this before.
He's tall—easily six-two—with dark hair sticking up in about seven different directions like he just rolled out of bed to save tourists from themselves. He’s wearing worn jeans that fit like a second skin, a flannel shirt hanging open over a thermal that clings to what I can only describe as hockey player geometry—all angles and strength and barely contained power.
His eyes—a shade of grey that reminds me of storm clouds—sweep the scene in approximately two seconds: me, buried in snow like a designer scarecrow. The moose, still chewing contemplatively on my car's mirror. My phone, recording everything from its landing spot three feet away.
Sweet baby Jesus in a snowsuit.
"Don't move," he commands, and his voice—rough and low, like whiskey poured over gravel—makes my stomach do something complicated that has nothing to do with moose terror.
He approaches the moose with the kind of calm authority I've only seen in nature documentaries, the ones with British narrators where everything works out fine.
The moose—let's call him Morris because he needs a name if he's going to be eating my rental car—regards Hockey Stick Hero with the bored expression of a regular at a bar who's seen it all before.
My rescuer makes a shooing motion that somehow conveys both respect and "please leave the nice lady's vehicle alone." Morris considers this, takes one last contemplative chew of the mirror, then ambles away into the forest with the dignity of someone who definitely won this encounter.
I scramble to my feet, which takes three tries because designer boots aren't meant for snow gymnastics.
Snow cascades from my parka in chunks. My carefully styled hair is now a disaster zone, and I'm pretty sure my mascara has migrated to my cheeks.
But I've spent three years as a lifestyle influencer, and if there's one thing I know, it's how to pivot.
"Hi!" My voice comes out about two octaves higher than normal. "I'm Piper, your new neighbor, and this is actually perfect—would you mind being in my 'Alaska Rescue Hero' content? The lighting is amazing right now."
I gesture at the late afternoon sun filtering through the pine trees, which actually is creating this gorgeous golden glow that would make for incredible thumbnails.
My ring light could never compete with this natural perfection, and the way the light hits his cheekbones—sharp enough to cut glass—is basically a crime against other men's self-esteem.
His expression cycles through about seven hundred different emotions in three seconds.
First, the protective concern of someone who thought he was preventing a mauling.
Then confusion, like he's trying to figure out if I hit my head in the fall.
Then incredulous disbelief as he takes in my camera, still recording from the snow.
Finally, his jaw tightens with deep, soul-weary annoyance that suggests he's dealt with tourists before and found them severely wanting.
His eyes—and wow, they're even more devastating up close, like winter storm clouds with silver linings—scan my complete disaster of an outfit.
The boots with their decorative buckles now caked in snow.
The parka that cost a mortgage payment but provides the insulation of a paper bag.
My mittens that coordinate with everything but provide zero actual grip.
Everything about me screams "tourist with a death wish and a ring light. "
He grunts something that sounds suspiciously like "Fucking tourists" under his breath, though it might have been "trucking tourists" if I'm being generous. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks back to his cabin, each step deliberate and dismissive.
I stand there, mouth open, snow melting in places snow shouldn't be, watching him retreat.
And okay, I'm a feminist and I don't objectify men, but the way he walks—all controlled power and barely leashed irritation—makes my brain short-circuit just a little.
Those shoulders could probably carry a moose.
Those jeans should be illegal in at least three states.
That flannel shirt swaying with each step is basically assault with a deadly weapon.
His cabin door closes with a decisive thud that somehow manages to convey "stay on your side of the property line and we'll both survive this."
"Okay," I tell the empty driveway, my voice small in the sudden silence. "So the grumpy mountain man thing is apparently a real personality trait, not just a regional aesthetic choice. Good to know."
Morris the Moose has left moose-sized tracks leading into the forest, along with my side mirror and what's left of my dignity. My suitcases sit scattered across the snow like expensive casualties of war. My ring light lies on its side, looking as defeated as I feel.
I pick up my phone, which miraculously survived the fall and captured everything.
"Well, Piper Pack," I say to my followers, forcing my trademark smile despite the snow melting down my spine, "welcome to Alaska, where the wildlife eats your car and the neighbors hate you on sight. This is going to be... interesting."
The word "interesting" comes out like a question, because honestly?
I have no idea what I've gotten myself into.
I came here to escape humiliation, to rebuild my brand, to find content that doesn't involve my ex's betrayal.
Instead, I've found a moose named Morris, a neighbor who looks like he stepped out of a "Hot Men Who Hate You" calendar, and a tilted cabin that's probably going to collapse the moment I plug in my ring light.
I gather my suitcases, beginning the long trudge to my tilted refuge. Fourteen more to go. The sun is already starting to dip toward the mountains, painting everything in shades of gold and pink that would be breathtaking if I wasn't slowly freezing to death in designer outerwear.
Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement in Hockey Stick Hero's window.
He's watching, probably making sure I don't attract any more wildlife with my city girl pheromones.
I wave cheerfully, because killing them with kindness is basically my brand, and I swear I see him shake his head before disappearing into the shadows of his perfectly level, mortifyingly practical looking cabin.
"Day one in Alaska," I mutter, dragging my ring light through the snow like a cross I've chosen to bear. "Going great. Just great."
But as I finally reach my cabin's crooked porch and fumble with frozen fingers for the key, I catch sight of the view—mountains painted in alpenglow, pine trees heavy with snow, the kind of untouched wilderness that makes you understand why people write poetry about Alaska.
My phone buzzes with notifications, probably my video already getting views from people who witnessed my spectacular moose encounter.
Maybe interesting is exactly what I need.