Chapter 5
Piper
The "Alaska Morning Routine" video I'm editing looks perfect. Golden hour lighting through my cabin window, steam rising from my coffee mug, me looking contemplatively at the mountains while wearing coordinated loungewear that cost more than most people's monthly car payments.
What the camera doesn't show: I've reshot this "candid" moment twelve times because my eyes keep drifting to Ryder's cabin.
Watching for movement. Waiting for him to emerge so I can.
.. what? Wave? Pretend last night didn't happen?
Apologize for trying to kiss a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me beyond neighborly fire-starting tutorials?
My phone buzzes with a text from Jax.
Jax: Game Friday at 7. You should come. Town tradition. Plus Dotty makes hot chocolate that could end wars.
A hockey game. Where Ryder will be. Where I'll be the city girl sitting in the stands watching him skate while he pretends I don't exist.
Perfect.
My thumbs move before my brain can stop them.
Me: I don't know anything about hockey.
Jax: Even better. Your reactions will be genuine. Great content.
Me: Sold.
I set my phone down and return to editing, but my mind's already racing.
What does one wear to a small-town hockey game?
My usual influencer aesthetic feels wrong here—too polished, too manufactured.
These people want authentic, and after three days in Ashwood Falls, I'm starting to understand the difference between content and connection.
The Ashwood Café is packed when I arrive an hour later, my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my "Casual Alaska Chic" outfit carefully assembled to look effortless. Dotty spots me immediately, her rainbow scarf today featuring penguins in sunglasses.
"There's my favorite influencer!" She's already pulling shots before I reach the counter. "Regular mocha or are we feeling adventurous?"
"Surprise me."
"Dangerous words in a coffee shop, honey." But her eyes twinkle as she starts creating something that involves way more syrups than seems structurally sound.
I settle into the same window spot from yesterday, where the morning sun hits perfectly for filming, and pull out my equipment.
The morning crowd flows around me—a mix of flannel-clad locals and what Dotty calls "ice fishing tourists.
" Everyone seems to know everyone else—names called across tables, inside jokes I don't get yet, the kind of easy familiarity I've only ever performed for content.
"You're coming Friday, right?"
I look up to find an older woman with silver hair styled in what can only be described as a weaponized bouffant. She's wearing a Wolves jersey that's been modified with rhinestones.
"I'm Diane," she announces, sliding into the seat across from me without invitation. "Team grandmother. Also town gossip, church organist, retired schoolteacher, café regular, and winner of last year's chili cook-off despite Frank's accusations of foul play."
"Piper. And yes, I'm coming Friday. Jax invited me."
"Jax invites everyone. I'm the one who makes sure you sit in the right section." She leans in conspiratorially. "You're going to want to be near the glass for the first period. That's when Ryder does his thing."
"His thing?"
"You'll see." She winks. "That boy's been carrying a lot of pressure lately. Scouts in the building, future on the line, and now there's a pretty girl next door who he can't seem to stop rescuing." Her gaze sharpens. "You are pretty, aren't you? Not just the camera angles?"
I blink. "I... thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet. Small towns are tricky for outsiders. We've got our ways, our people. But Dotty likes you, and Dotty's judgment is better than most." She stands, adjusting her bedazzled jersey. "Friday. Section C, row 4. I'll save you a seat. Don't be late—parking fills up fast."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me staring after her and wondering what exactly I've agreed to.
Dotty appears with my drink—some kind of mocha situation topped with whipped cream and what appears to be edible glitter. "Diane ambush you?"
"Is that what that was?"
"That's love in Diane-speak. She's claimed you." Dotty sets down the mug painted with what looks like a bedazzled hockey stick. "Fair warning: once Diane claims you, you're part of the town whether you like it or not. There's no escape."
"I'm only here temporarily," I say, the words automatic. "Just until I figure out my next move. Get some content, reboot my brand—"
"Uh huh." Dotty's expression suggests she's heard this before. "That's what Tessa said when she moved here three years ago to 'escape Florida temporarily.' Now she runs the town's social media and is married to Gage Bennett. Sometimes temporary becomes permanent when you're not paying attention."
Before I can process that, the door jingles and my stomach drops.
Ryder walks in with two other firefighters, all of them in department t-shirts and carrying the exhaustion of a long shift. His hair's damp like he just showered, and there's a new bruise along his jaw that definitely wasn't there last night.
Our eyes meet across the crowded shop.
He freezes mid-step, something unreadable crossing his face. Then one of his companions—a stocky guy with a impressive mustache—notices me and grins.
"That's her, isn't it? The neighbor?"
"Thompson, don't—" Ryder starts, but it's too late.
Thompson's already heading over, hand extended and smile wide. "Bob Thompson, engineer on Engine 3. You're the one who helped with blankets at the Timber & Tap call."
"Piper." I shake his hand, hyperaware of Ryder standing ten feet away pretending to study the menu board he's probably memorized. "Just trying to help however I could."
"We appreciate it. Not everyone thinks to bring comfort items." He glances back at Ryder. "Captain here said you've been settling in well. Learning the ropes of cabin life."
Ryder's jaw tightens, and his expression clearly says he never said anything of the sort.
"He's been very... educational," I say carefully. "I now know at least a dozen different ways I was doing fire-starting wrong."
Tommy laughs. "Sounds about right. Lockwood's thorough. Saved my ass more times than I can count." He claps Ryder on the shoulder as he passes. "Your mocha's getting cold, Cap."
Ryder approaches my table with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to a dental appointment. He doesn't sit, just stands there looking uncomfortable while holding his to-go cup.
"About last night—" he starts.
"It's fine," I cut in, waving him off with a brightness that sounds fake even to my own ears. "Completely understood. You were tired, I was grateful, crossed wires happen. No big deal."
"Piper—"
"Seriously, Ryder. We're neighbors. That's all. I get it." I turn back to my laptop, fingers poised over keys I'm not actually typing on. "I should probably finish this edit anyway. Big deadline. Very important content about... coffee mugs."
The silence stretches long enough that I risk a glance up. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—something between frustration and regret with a dash of what might be longing.
"I'm coming to your game Friday," I blurt out, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain. "Diane is saving me a seat. Said you do a 'thing' in the first period that I need to see."
His eyes widen slightly. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. "I mean, for content. Small-town sports culture. Very authentic Alaskan experience."
"Right. Content." His voice is flat. "Of course."
He starts to leave, then pauses. Without looking at me, he says quietly, "Section C has the best view of the ice. Diane knows what she's doing."
Then he's gone, following Tommy out into the cold, and I'm left staring at my untouched glitter mocha while something twists in my chest.
Dotty appears beside my table with a knowing look. "You know what I think?"
"Do I want to?"
"That boy hasn't looked at anyone the way he looks at you in years." She picks up my mug, wipes a non-existent ring from the table, then sets the mug back down. "And you don't look at him like you're just here for content."
"I barely know him."
"Sometimes that's when it matters most—before you build up all the walls and excuses." She heads back to the counter, calling over her shoulder, "Friday night. Wear layers. The arena gets cold."
I stare after her, my mind caught on what she just said. The pieces feel important, but I don't have enough of them to see the full picture. And the fact that I want to know—that I'm already cataloging these thoughts like they matter—tells me I'm in deeper trouble than I thought.
The rest of the week passes in a blur of content creation and carefully orchestrated avoidance.
I see Ryder twice—once leaving for a morning run, once returning from a shift at the firehouse.
Both times we exchange awkward waves from safe distances, like neighbors who barely know each other instead of two people who almost kissed three days ago.
My followers are eating up the Alaska content.
The "Learning to Start a Fire" video got 1.
8 million views. The "Small Town Coffee Shop Culture" post sparked a whole thread about supporting local businesses.
Brands are sliding into my DMs with collaboration offers that actually feel authentic instead of desperate.
I should be thrilled. This is exactly the rebrand I needed after the viral breakup disaster. Piper Meadows, wilderness content creator. Authentic Alaska living.
But late at night, staring at Ryder's cabin through my window, watching his shadow move past the curtains, I can't shake the feeling that I'm documenting someone else's life instead of actually living my own.