Chapter 5 Alaska Thor （Joy）
ALASKA THOR (JOY)
The bed is empty when I blink awake. Sheets gone cold, pillow dented, the faint trace of his cologne in the air. Watery light seeps around the curtains. My phone says eleven o’clock—Alaska winter, where the sun barely shows up and acts offended when it does.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The sound carries through the glass. Not city noise—something older. Primal.
I push back the covers, pad across the room, and lift the blinds with two fingers.
The yard stretches below, fresh snow glittering in thin, reluctant daylight. Down by the shed, a stack of fish totes turned wood bins, a chopping block, and a man with an axe.
Oh. Oh no.
Wesley Kane. Chopping wood.
A hot shiver roars down my spine. Every nerve ending in my body just woke up and started taking notes.
The sun barely skims the horizon, threadlike gold over endless blue. His breath lifts in steady halos. His boots are planted in snow, thermal clinging to his shoulders, flannel hanging open. He’s traded his suit for work gloves and a beanie, and the transformation is unfair.
Get your head out of the gutter, girl.
Set. Swing. Crack.
Chips fly. Sweat maps his back. Muscles bunch, release. Jaw clean enough to call pretty, edges sharp enough to deny it.
Tingles erupt all over my skin. My fingers move before my brain catches up.
I grab my phone, ease the blind higher, hit record.
Ten seconds. The caption writes itself: When your defenseman goes home for Christmas and turns into Alaska Thor.
Save. Another clip, close up. Save. One more in slow-mo because I’m not a monster. Save.
He looks up mid-swing. Catches me.
The smirk comes first—lazy, lethal. He tips his chin, balances the axe one-handed, then crooks two fingers: outside.
I set my phone down and obey.
My hands shake as I drag on a sweater. This is supposed to be pretend. A business arrangement. I am not supposed to salivate over the flex of his forearms or wonder how his weight would feel crushing me into the mattress.
Stop. Breathe. Shake it off.
When I step into the kitchen, it smells of coffee, eggs, bacon, and a whisper of cedar smoke. His parents sit at the table—dad with river-strong forearms, a knit cap shoved back; mom with a neat silver bun, slicing an apple. Two boys are at the counter.
“I’m Erik.” The younger pops off his stool brightly, hand already out.
“Joy,” I say, taking it. “Sorry to crash breakfast.”
“Crash away.” His mom’s gaze sweeps me once—soft, approving. “You must be Joy. I’m Anne.”
The older boy lifts a hand. “Lars.” He stiffens, then studies the jam jar like it’s urgent.
His dad rises, grip warm and sure. “Welcome. I’m Tom.”
Before I can even move, the back door slams open. A gust of cold and six feet of smug Alaskan lumberjack blow in. Wesley crosses the kitchen in three long strides, cheeks flushed from the cold, snow still clinging to his boots.
He doesn’t stop. Finds my waist. Then my mouth.
Not polite. Not posed. A slow, deep, ruin-your-day kind of kiss that short-circuits my frontal lobe.
He tastes of coffee and cold air. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I forget where we are. Forget his family is watching. Forget this is an act.
When he finally lets me breathe, I’m half draped against him, pulse sprinting and trying to set a record.
“Good morning, doll,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough from the cold.
The endearment is warm honey down my spine.
He looks up, grin devilish. “You’ve met?” Then to the room, casual, “Everyone, Joy Preston. My fiancée.”
The word hangs there. Fiancée. His mother lights up. His dad smirks into his coffee. The older brother groans into his toast. The younger scowls. “She was gonna sit by me.”
“Tragic,” Wesley deadpans, completely unrepentant. He pulls out a chair and drops into it, dragging me onto his lap. “Find your own girl, kid.”
“House rule,” Erik grumbles. “No kissing at the table.”
“Noted,” I manage, though it comes out more breath than words. Wesley’s arm is locked around my waist, and his thumb starts tracing lazy circles on my thigh that should not, under any circumstances, feel this good.
But his hand trembles slightly and his breathing is uneven. This doesn’t feel like acting at all.
Anne sets down plates. Wesley’s is a mountain—eggs, sweet potatoes, toast. Mine’s dainty by comparison.
“My boys eat,” she says, pride in every syllable.
I tip my head until my hair grazes his jaw. “Eat up, stud.”
Wesley’s hold tightens on my thigh—rough now, the warning kind. He shifts, just enough that I feel the shape of him against my hip. Heat licks under my skin; my spine goes liquid.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back. A private smile ghosts his lips. I steady my cup with both hands and take a slow sip. Tom coughs into what might be a laugh. Anne studies her eggs intensely.
Wesley’s breath skims my ear, low and dark. “I’ll show you ‘stud,’ doll.”
I nudge his ribs. “You already are.”
He grins—slow, satisfied, so smug I could throttle him.
His dad sets down his coffee.
“Good to have you home, son.” His tone is casual but weighted. “Been a while. Your mom was starting to think you forgot where you came from.”
The words are kind, but I feel Wesley tense. His palm stills on my thigh, the lazy circles stopping mid-trace.
“Just busy, Dad. Season’s been—”
“Busy. I know busy.” His dad sips his coffee. “We just closed a contract with three restaurants in Seattle. Good accounts. Your mom’s been running logistics till midnight.”
“That’s great, Dad.”
“Honest work.”
“Business good this year then?” Wesley’s tone has lost its playful edge.
“Can’t complain. Levi’s been running the second boat. Good kid. Reliable.” A pause, loaded. “He knows the operation inside and out now.”
The words are followed by terse silence. Then, “We saw you on that billboard in Anchorage. The sports drink one.” Another beat. “Your mom took a picture.”
Erik snorts into his orange juice. Levi stares at his plate.
Wesley’s jaw ticks. “It’s different work. Doesn’t make it less real.”
His dad lifts his hands in easy surrender. “Didn’t say it wasn’t real, son. Just different. Like you said.”
The quiet that follows is thin and sharp.
I squeeze Wesley’s knee under the table. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand finds mine and holds on firmly.
His mom clears her throat brightly. “So! Tonight’s the Harbor Bar. Whole town goes out Christmas Eve. It’s tradition.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, grateful for the redirect.
Wesley’s shoulders ease slightly. “We’ll be there.”
Anne beams. “Perfect. But first, Harbor Lights Festival this afternoon. Can’t miss that either.”
“More traditions.” Wesley glances at me. “You up for it?”
“Sure.”
The whole table moves around each other without thinking.
His mom topping off coffee, his dad passing the jam straight into Erik’s waiting hand, Lars pretending not to watch us but still pushing the toast rack closer to me as if I belong here.
It isn’t choreographed; nobody’s angling for credit. It’s just…easy. Warm. Claimed.
His mom clears her throat. “Well, you two should probably get ready. Wesley, show Joy where the extra scarves are?”
“Got it,” Wesley nods, pulling at me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tugging on thicker socks. Wesley stands by the window, staring out at the snow-covered yard.
His shoulders are stiff. The easy warmth from breakfast is gone.
“Your dad seemed proud of you this morning,” I say carefully.
Wesley huffs. “He was proud of the kid who lived here. Not sure he recognizes the guy who left. He thinks I sold out.”
“Do you think you sold out?”
A long pause. “Sometimes. When I’m here, yeah. But then I get back to the city, and I remember why I wanted to play hockey.” He exhales. “I just wish he could see it’s not either/ or.”
I stand, cross to him. “You don’t have to pick. You can be both.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
And I do. Because I want that for myself, and I don’t get it.
Right now I can either be Preston money—marble floors, board dinners, pretty smile—or I can be the girl running a dance class on 116th Street with a busted speaker and twenty kids who light up when the beat drops.
The trust is the only thing that lets those two versions of me exist in the same life without asking permission.
If I lose it, I don’t just lose a number in an account.
I lose the only future that actually feels like mine.
“It’s not fair,” I say, mostly to myself—that he has to defend wanting more than one home, that I have to buy my way into being mine—and I slip his hoodie off the chair. I pull it on, the Defenders logo stretching across my chest. It swallows me, warm and soft.
“Careful with that,” he says. “It looks good on you.”
My mouth quirks. “Wardrobe choice. Optics.”
“Those optics say you’re mine.”
My face is on fire. I tug the sleeves down, flustered.
He looks at me like he might just swallow me. Then he clears his throat. “Let’s go.”