Chapter 11
Piper
The notification sound on my phone has become Pavlovian at this point. Every ping sends a jolt of dopamine straight to my brain, which is probably concerning from a psychological standpoint, but I'm too busy watching my analytics climb to care.
I'm curled up in my cabin's reading nook—which is really just a chair I've dragged near the window for best light for photos—scrolling through brand deal emails that started trickling in yesterday and turned into a flood overnight.
Subject: Partnership Opportunity - Arctic Outerwear
Subject: Collaboration Inquiry - Wilderness Survival Gear
Subject: Sponsored Content Request - Dating App for Outdoorsy Singles
That last one makes me snort coffee through my nose. Two weeks ago, I couldn't get a hiking boot company to return my emails. Now dating apps think I'm some kind of wilderness romance expert because I fake-dated a hockey player and went viral with a moose.
My phone buzzes with a text from my former manager, Devon, who dropped me faster than Chad did after the breakup livestream.
Devon: Saw your numbers. We should talk.
I delete it without responding. Some bridges look better burned.
The Instagram post from The Ashwood Café has 127,000 likes and counting. My follower count jumped by 15,000 in thirty-six hours. Brand deals are rolling in. My Q1 revenue projections just went from "maybe I can afford ramen" to "maybe I can afford the fancy ramen."
I should be ecstatic. This is exactly what I needed. Proof that my career isn't over, that I can rebuild, that Chad and Melissa didn't destroy everything I worked for.
I pull up the Instagram post again. 127,000 likes. Fifteen brand deals. Enough validation to prove I'm still marketable.
I close the app without responding to any of them.
Through my window, smoke rises from Ryder's chimney. Steady. Real. Nothing like the performance I've built my life around.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text in a group chat I don't recognize.
Patrice: So the new girl IS real. Tessa owes me twenty bucks.
Tessa: I never said she wasn't real! I said she might be a figment of Dotty's imagination because Dotty kept talking about her like she was a character in a romance novel.
Patrice: Fair point. Dotty does that.
Tessa: Anyway, Piper—yes, we added you to this chat without asking because that's how we do things here. Girls' night at my place Thursday. 7pm. Bring wine and your best Ryder stories.
I stare at my phone, a weird flutter in my chest. Tessa and Patrice. After the ice fishing intervention where they called me out on my rage-posting tree photos, I wasn't sure they'd want to hang out with me again. Apparently I was wrong.
They're inviting me to girls' night. Like I actually belong here.
Me: I don't have any good Ryder stories. We've only been dating for like five minutes.
Patrice: Girl, you deleted an entire day's worth of content because watching him play hockey felt too personal to post. That's a STORY.
Tessa: How does Patrice know that?
Patrice: Jax told Trace who told me. Small town, big gossip network. Keep up.
Tessa: Remind me why we're friends with you again?
Patrice: Because I'm delightful and I bring the good wine. Speaking of which, Piper, you're coming Thursday. No arguments.
Tessa: Fair warning, I haven't slept more than three hours straight since Grayson was born. If I fall asleep mid-gossip, just keep talking. I'll catch up.
I find myself smiling at my phone like an idiot. These women don't know me. Don't know about my past, my failures, the spectacular public humiliation that sent me running to Alaska. They just... invited me anyway.
Me: I'll be there.
My laptop pings with a new notification. I switch tabs to find my analytics dashboard showing another spike. Someone's sharing the coffee shop post again, and I click through to see—
Oh.
Oh no.
It's Chad. My ex. The one who dumped me on a livestream and immediately started dating my former best friend. He's posted an Instagram story, and someone's screenshotted it and tagged me.
The image loads slowly, probably because my cabin's internet runs on hope and prayer, but when it does, my stomach drops.
Chad and Melissa. Professionally photographed, her hand extended to show off a massive diamond ring. The caption reads: "She said yes! Can't wait to spend forever with my best friend. #Engaged #LoveWins #NewBeginnings"
The screenshot has 47,000 shares. It's trending on three different platforms. Entertainment blogs are already running stories: "Influencer Chad Announces Engagement to Ex-Best Friend After Viral Breakup."
My phone explodes with notifications. DMs from people I haven't talked to in months, all wanting to know if I'm okay, if I've seen it, what I think. Like my opinion on my ex's engagement matters. Like I'm supposed to have some public reaction to his happiness.
The worst part? I don't even care. Three months ago, this would have destroyed me. I would've posted some cryptic story about moving on, maybe cried into my phone camera for sympathy engagement. Classic influencer breakup playbook.
Now? I'm just annoyed that his engagement is trending when my brand recovery was going so well.
Also, that ring is gaudy as hell, and someone should tell Melissa that princess cuts went out of style in 2015.
My phone buzzes with a call. Ryder.
"Hey," I answer, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
"I saw." His voice is rough, protective. "Jax sent me the screenshot. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Genuinely fine, which is weird." I stare at Chad's stupid engagement photo. "I think I'm more annoyed than hurt."
"That's progress."
"Is it though? Shouldn't I feel... something?" I close my laptop, cutting off Chad's gleaming smile. "We were together for three years. He proposed to someone else three months after we broke up, and all I can think is that his timing is terrible for my rebrand."
Ryder's quiet for a moment, then asks, "Want to learn how to skate?"
"What?"
"You asked to practice being a couple in public. Team practice is in an hour. Come to the rink, I'll teach you to skate, and we'll give people something new to talk about besides your ex's engagement."
"Ryder, you don't have to—"
"I know. But it'll be fun. Plus, you can't live in Ashwood Falls and not know how to skate. It's like a law or something."
"Pretty sure that's not a real law."
"Come anyway." There's a smile in his voice now. "Unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared. I'm survival-conscious. There's a difference."
"So that's a yes?"
Three months ago, that would've sent me spiraling. Now it's just background noise.
"Yeah," I say. "That's a yes."
An hour later, I'm standing at the edge of the ice rink in borrowed skates that smell faintly of disinfectant, watching the Ashwood Falls Wolves run drills that look like choreographed chaos.
"Look who showed up!" Jax skates over, stopping in a spray of ice that would be impressive if it didn't nearly soak my jeans. "First time skating?"
"First time admitting I can't skate." I grip the boards like they're the only thing between me and certain death. "There's a difference."
"Ryder!" Jax calls across the ice. "Your girl needs lessons!"
Several players look over, and I fight the urge to clarify that I'm not actually "his girl" in any official capacity beyond a mutually beneficial arrangement with clear boundaries.
Ryder glides toward us, making it look effortless, and stops right in front of me.
Up close, in full gear, my mouth goes dry.
The helmet should make him look ridiculous.
It doesn't. Neither does the padding that makes his shoulders impossibly broad or the way he's looking at me like teaching me to skate is the only thing on his schedule today.
I grip the boards tighter.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Absolutely not."
"Perfect. Come on." He offers his hand, and I stare at it like it might bite.
My fingers tighten on the boards until my knuckles go white. "Ryder, I'm going to fall."
"Yep."
"And embarrass myself."
"Probably."
"And possibly break something important."
"The ice or your dignity?" He's grinning now, and it transforms his entire face. "Either way, I've got you."
His hand is warm even through the glove. I take it, and my pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with the fear of falling.
The moment my skates hit the ice, gravity apparently hates me. My ankles wobble, my arms flail, and I'm pretty sure I just invented a new sport called "interpretive falling."
"Relax," Ryder says, skating backward while holding both my hands. "Bend your knees slightly. Small pushes, don't try to go fast."
"I'm not trying to go at all. I'm trying to survive."
"Same thing in hockey."
We make it maybe ten feet before my skates betray me completely. I pitch forward, Ryder catches me against his chest, and suddenly we're standing very close in the middle of the ice while his entire team watches.
"Hi," I manage.
"Hi." His hands are steady on my waist, keeping me upright. "You good?"
"Define good."
"Not falling?"
"Then no. Definitely not good."
He's smiling, though. We both are. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I register that this is content gold—the clumsy city girl learning to skate from her hockey player boyfriend—but I don't reach for my phone.
"Again?" Ryder asks.
I nod. "Again."
We spend the next hour with me falling multiple times while Ryder patiently teaches me the basics. By the end, I can sort of glide in a straight line without flailing, which feels like a Olympic-level achievement.
"You're a natural," Jax announces, skating circles around us. "By natural, I mean you only fell fourteen times that last round. New record."
"It was seventeen times," I correct. "I'm keeping count."
"Even better. Next week, we'll get you to fifteen."
"There's not going to be a next week. This was a one-time torture session."
"Sure it was," Jax says, winking at Ryder. "Hey, team's hitting The Grizzly later for karaoke. You two should come."