Chapter 3
Piper
My camera's already rolling because this place is pure gold.
Mismatched chairs that look like they've hosted decades of conversations, hand-painted mugs lining shelves, each telling its own story, and a bulletin board so chaotically organized it might actually be the town's central nervous system.
There's a notice for "Lost: One chicken, answers to Henrietta," right next to "NHL Scouts arriving Sunday—GO WOLVES! "
"You must be the influencer girl staying next to that handsome Ryder Lockwood."
I nearly drop my phone. A petite woman with silver curls and a rainbow scarf has materialized behind the counter like some kind of coffee-shop fairy godmother. Her eyes sparkle with the specific gleam of someone who knows my coffee order before I do.
"I'm Dotty," she says, eyeing me with the assessing gaze of someone who's perfected the art of reading people.
"And you're Piper Meadows, here from Anchorage after that unfortunate business with your ex and best friend.
" She tsks sympathetically while moving to the espresso machine.
"Viral breakups are the worst, honey. But you're in the right place to heal.
Now, you look like a mocha girl to me. Extra shot? "
"I—yes, actually."
"Thirty years behind this counter, I can tell." She winks, already pulling shots and steaming milk with the efficiency of someone who could do this blindfolded. "Besides, we knew about you before your rental car hit town limits. Small town, big gossip network."
A minute later, she slides a mug across the counter—a hand-painted one with a grumpy-looking moose on it—along with a plate holding a massive blueberry muffin. "On the house. Welcome to Ashwood Falls."
The mocha hits my tongue and I actually moan. Out loud. Like this coffee has discovered taste buds I didn't know existed. "This is—"
"Life-changing? Divine? Better than anything in Anchorage?" Dotty winks. "I know, dear. Now, you planning to film in here? Because the morning crowd's about to arrive and they do love a camera."
I set up my ring light near the window, adjusting angles to catch the steam curling from mugs and the way morning light makes everything look impossibly cozy and inviting. "Small Town Coffee Culture: Why Your Starbucks Could Never" seems like a solid title.
"So, Ryder's... famous?" I ask Dotty, trying for casual while framing a shot of the bulletin board. Next to the lost chicken notice, there's a hand-drawn poster: "SUPPORT OUR WOLVES - NHL SCOUTS SUNDAY!" with a crude drawing of what might be Ryder's jersey number.
"That boy's our golden ticket," she says, arranging pastries that look homemade enough to make angels weep. "Captain of the Wolves, firefighter like his daddy was, and five games away from the NHL if he plays his cards right. Shame he's been alone so long. A man needs—"
The door explodes open with the force of an athletic avalanche.
Hockey players pour in, all post-practice energy and competing conversations about someone's "dirty dangle" and whether something called "sauce" was "crispy.
" They move like a pack, commandeering tables, calling out orders Dotty has memorized.
"You're the neighbor!"
One player breaks from the pack immediately—lean, dark-haired, with a grin that probably should come with a warning label. He drops into the chair across from me without invitation, stealing my moose mug for a sip.
"That's mine—"
"Jax Moretti," he announces, returning my mug with zero shame.
"Defenseman, social media coordinator, and best friend of the grumpiest captain in semi-pro hockey.
" His eyes scan my setup with obvious delight.
"You're the influencer, right? Living next to Ryder?
Please tell me you've got content of him being his usual charming self. "
"Just the moose incident so far." I adjust my ring light to include him because honestly, his face was made for Instagram engagement. "I'm documenting authentic Alaskan life, and your captain happens to be... geographically convenient."
Jax laughs loud enough that half the team looks over.
"Geographically convenient. That's what we're calling it?
" He leans back, clearly settling in for a prolonged interruption.
"Did he do the thing where he stares at you like you're personally responsible for climate change?
Or wait—did you get the grunt-and-walk-away special? "
"Both, actually."
I glance around the coffee shop, half-expecting to see my grumpy neighbor scowling at me from a corner booth. But there's no sign of him.
"Classic Ryder." Jax steals a piece of my untouched blueberry muffin, following my gaze.
"Don't worry, he never comes in after practice.
Goes straight to the firehouse. Man's got the emotional range of a hockey puck lately.
Coach has him doing double practices, extra video review, plus his firefighter shifts.
Scouts are coming Sunday to watch the next five games that'll determine if he gets called up or stays here forever. "
"That's a lot of pressure."
"That's not even half of it." Jax waves at my camera. "This thing on? Because I've got stories. Like last week, he saved Mrs. Yamamoto's cat from a tree during a structure fire, still in full gear, because she was crying about Rutherford more than her kitchen."
"He saved a cat?"
"Hates cats," Jax confirms cheerfully. "Allergic, actually. But Mrs. Y was crying, so..." He shrugs. "That's Ryder. Grumpy as hell but physically incapable of not helping. Which is why him being extra growly since you moved in is hilarious."
"Extra growly?"
"Oh yeah. Yesterday at practice he called me an 'animated disaster' for suggesting we should have a team TikTok." Jax grins wider. "Usually, I'm just a regular disaster. The 'animated' means something's got him worked up."
Before I can process that, Dotty appears with a plate of something that smells like heaven took baking lessons. "Jackson Moretti, stop harassing our guest and go bother your teammates."
"Can't. They're boring." But he stands anyway, snagging another piece of my muffin. "Hey, you should come to our game Friday. Watch Ryder pretend he doesn't know you're there while playing better because you are."
"That doesn't even make sense—"
He's already rejoining his team, shouting something about "Captain's got a groupie" that makes several heads turn my way.
I am not a groupie. I'm a professional content creator who happens to live next door to a hockey player. There's a difference. Although why Jax feels the need to announce my existence to the entire coffee shop is beyond me. Small towns are weird.
By the time I escape The Ashwood Café, I've got two hours of footage, four new Instagram followers from the team, and a disturbing amount of information about Ryder Lockwood. Firefighter. Team captain. Allergic to cats but saves them anyway. Five games from his dream of joining the NHL.
The local waterfall seems like perfect content to process all this. Dotty gave me directions that seemed simple enough: "Follow the marked trail from the parking area, can't miss it, dear." My phone shows a clear path on the GPS. How hard can it be?
Two hours later, I'm ready to admit it can be very hard.
The marked trail became three trails about an hour ago, none of which my GPS acknowledges exist. My phone's showing one bar of signal that flickers like it's mocking me.
The trees—which looked charming and authentic from my car—now seem identical and possibly sentient, definitely smirking at my expensive boots slipping on ice-covered rocks.
"Follow the marked trail," I mutter, spinning in a circle that definitely doesn't help. "Can't miss it. Except apparently, I can miss it. I can miss it so hard it's like the waterfall never existed."
A rustling in the bushes makes me freeze. My bear spray's in my hand before I remember I never learned how to use it. Do I spray toward the bear? Away from the bear? What if it's not a bear? What if it's a moose? Can you pepper spray a moose?
The rustling gets closer.
"I'm armed!" I shout at the bushes. "With... chemicals! And poor decision-making skills!"
A fox pops out, looks at me with obvious disappointment, and trots away.
"Yeah, well, same to you, buddy!" I call after it, then immediately feel stupid for arguing with wildlife.
My phone dies with a cheerful chime, as if mocking my desperate attempts to refresh Google Maps. The sun's getting lower, painting everything golden in a way that would be beautiful if I wasn't potentially about to become a cautionary tale.
Then—an engine sound, growing closer through the trees.
The snowmobile appears like redemption wearing snow pants, and of course it's him. Ryder. Because apparently the universe has decided my humiliation needs a witness with storm-grey eyes and shoulders that look unfairly good in winter gear.
Ryder kills the engine, pulling off his helmet to reveal hair messily perfect in that way that takes normal humans forty-five minutes to achieve. His expression cycles through relief, exasperation, and something that might be "I knew this would happen" resignation.
"The waterfall's two miles that way." He points in the exact opposite direction from where I was heading. Of course it is.
"I was just—" I start, then give up. "How did you know?"
"Dotty called the firehouse. Said you'd been gone too long."
"I’m not lost—" The look he gives me suggests otherwise. "Fine. I got lost. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." His tone suggests otherwise, but there's something around his eyes that might be amusement. Or pity. Hard to tell. "Come on."
He extends a hand to help me onto the snowmobile, and his grip is firm, warm even through gloves. I settle behind him, trying to figure out where to put my hands until he reaches back, grabs my arms, and wraps them around his waist with the efficiency of someone who's rescued too many tourists.
"Hold on."
Sweet mother of North Face, he's solid. Like, unreasonably solid. My arms barely make it around him, and through his jacket I can feel muscle that definitely didn't come from just skating. He smells like pine and something clean and male that makes my brain static.
The engine roars to life and we're moving, trees blurring past while I try to focus on not falling off and not on how every bump presses me closer against his back. He's muttering something I can't quite hear over the engine—probably about city girls and their inability to read basic trail markers.
"I can hear you judging me!" I shout near his ear.
He turns his head slightly. "Good!"
But I feel more than hear the rumble of what might be laughter in his chest, and somehow that's worse than judgment. That's him being entertained by my disaster capabilities, and I absolutely don't want to know why that makes my stomach flip.
The trees open up to reveal the parking area where my rental sits alone, its passenger-side mirror still missing thanks to Morris's day-one snack break.
He pulls up beside it, kills the engine, and waits while I ungracefully dismount, nearly falling when my legs refuse to remember how standing works.
His hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow. "You good?"
"Perfect. Great. Living my best life." I fumble for my keys, dropping them twice before managing to unlock the car. "Thanks for the... rescue. Again."
"Maybe stick to locations with cell service."
"Maybe invest in better trail markers."
That almost-smile appears again, there and gone before I can properly document it. "Follow me back. Try not to discover any more ways to get lost between here and the cabins."
He waits until I start my car, then leads the way back on his snowmobile, checking his mirror periodically like he expects me to somehow take a wrong turn on a straight road.
When we reach our cabins, he parks and turns back to me before I can escape inside. "The waterfall's frozen this time of year anyway. Not much to see."
"Now you tell me."
"Would've told you earlier if you'd asked instead of trusting GPS in Alaska." He's already walking to his door, but calls back, "There's a map in Dotty's shop. The paper kind. Technology-resistant."
My door closes on his potential smirk, and I lean against it, still feeling the phantom pressure of his back against my chest.
I plug my dead phone into the charger and wait for it to come back to life. When it finally boots up, tons of messages from Dotty appear, along with one from an unknown number.
Unknown: Next time you want to find the waterfall, just ask. -Jax (got your number from Dotty, don't be mad)
I pull up my footage from today, scrolling through coffee shop warmth and hockey player chaos and Dotty's knowing smiles. But my mind keeps circling back to solid warmth and the rumble of maybe-laughter, to someone who keeps rescuing me while complaining about it.
I open a new post, staring at the blank caption space. Usually words flow like water, but tonight I can't seem to find the right ones for almost getting lost forever but being found by someone who smells like pine and sounds like safety, even when he's annoyed.
Finally, I type: "Day 3 in Ashwood Falls: Got lost finding a frozen waterfall, but discovered something better—the kind of community where people notice when you've been gone too long. Also, their coffee could make angels weep. 10/10 would get lost again."
I don't mention the rescue. Somehow, that feels like his story to tell or not tell.
Through my window, I can see smoke rising from his chimney, steady and sure in the darkening sky. Tomorrow I'll get that paper map. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to exist here without needing constant rescue.
Tonight, I archive the coffee shop footage of Jax gushing about Ryder to a private folder. Some stories feel too personal to share.
Through my window, his cabin glows warm against the darkness, and I'm the neighbor who can't even read a trail map.