Chapter 19 #2
"People who could both benefit from strategic partnership visibility.
" He leans in, conspiratorial. "Look, I get it.
You want to pretend this is all organic and real.
But you came to Alaska to rebrand after a public breakup.
Ryder needed a girlfriend to improve his image.
You both got what you needed. Why pretend it's more than that? "
"Because it is more than that," I say, surprised by how fierce my voice sounds. "And if you can't see the difference between strategic content and actual human connection, that's your problem, not mine."
I walk away before he can respond, pulse pounding in my ears.
Everything's content. You both got what you needed.
Chad's voice echoes: Everything with you is a performance.
What if Preston's right? What if this whole thing—the coffee dates, the snowball fights, the almost-kisses—what if it's all just another show I didn't realize I was putting on?
"Hey."
I look up to find Ryder standing there, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat.
"Hey yourself," I manage.
"You okay? You look..." He trails off.
"Preston cornered me."
His jaw tightens. "What did he say?"
"Doesn't matter." I force a smile. "How was practice?"
"Long. Tiring. Coach is in playoff mode already." He hesitates. "Want to go skating? The outdoor rink should be empty."
"Isn't that what you just spent two hours doing?"
"That was hockey skating. This would be..." He shrugs, almost shy. "Just skating. With you."
My pulse stutters, then races. "Yeah. Okay."
The outdoor rink sits behind the community center empty, smaller than the arena but somehow more intimate. Ryder laces up my borrowed skates with careful precision, his fingers warm against my frozen ankles.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As I'll ever be."
He takes my hand and pulls me onto the ice. It's smoother than I expected it to be, easier. Or maybe I'm just more comfortable with his hand in mine.
We circle the rink in silence, the scrape of blades and our breathing the only sounds. No phones. No cameras. No performance.
Just us.
"One more game," I say finally.
"One more game," he agrees. "Then we figure out what this is."
"What if we already know?"
He stops skating, pulls me to a halt beside him. We're in the center of the ice, face to face, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Piper—"
"I turned down a reality show," I blurt out. "This morning. I called Devon, my manager, and said no."
His eyes darken. "You did? Wait, you were offered a reality show?"
I nod, "I was but I turned it down. I'm staying here. In Ashwood Falls. Creating something new for myself called Grizzly Girl—real Alaska content, not the filtered, perfect version. Authentic and messy and probably a terrible business decision, but it's mine."
"That's..." He searches for words. "That's incredible."
"I didn't do it for you," I say quickly. "I need you to know that. I did it for me."
"I know." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "That's what makes it incredible."
We're inches apart. His breath fogs between us. One of his hands finds my waist, and my free hand lands on his chest, feeling his heart race under my palm.
"We said we'd wait," he murmurs. "Until after the final game."
"We did say that."
"One more game."
"Yeah."
We just stand there staring at each othe.
Then he steps back, breaking the moment. "We should get you inside before you freeze."
Right. Because we have rules. Boundaries. A plan.
Even if every part of me wants to break it.
Sunday morning, I walk past the firehouse on my way to get coffee. There's a flyer taped to the window: NOW HIRING — COMMUNITY OUTREACH COORDINATOR.
I stop. Read it again.
Position involves coordinating educational programs, managing social media presence, organizing community events. Must be comfortable with public speaking and have experience with digital content creation. Salary: $52,000 annually plus benefits.
Chief mentioned this job a few weeks ago when I talked to him about volunteering. Said it was perfect for someone with my skills. I thought he was just being nice.
But standing here, reading the description—educational programs, social media, events—it sounds like everything I'm good at, minus the soul-crushing need to perform.
My phone's in my hand before I can overthink it.
"Town Hall, this is Angie."
"Hi, this is Piper Meadows. I'm calling about the community outreach coordinator position?"
"Oh wonderful! We haven't gotten many applicants. Are you interested?"
"Yes. Very."
"I'll email you the application right now. Just get it back to us by Friday with your resume and cover letter and we'll schedule interviews next week."
I give her my email address and then hang up, staring at the flyer.
A job. In Ashwood Falls. With benefits and a salary and the kind of stability I haven't had since I was twenty-two and thought brand deals would last forever. Granted, it’s not the kind of money I’m used to, but I don’t need that anymore; not at the cost of my soul.
Back at the cabin, Sage is still asleep. I make coffee and pull up a blank document on my laptop.
Dear Hiring Committee,
I'm writing to apply for the Community Outreach Coordinator position...
Two hours later, I hit send. The application disappears into the void, and I sit back, heart pounding.
Ashwood Falls isn't temporary anymore.
The cabin that was supposed to be a three-month escape has become home. The people I was supposed to keep at professional distance have become friends. The town I came to hide in has become the place I want to stay.
And the man I was supposed to fake date for four games?
He's twenty-three feet away, probably just waking up, making coffee in that methodical way he does everything. He now knows I turned down the reality show. But doesn't know I applied for a permanent job and doesn't know that when I think about leaving Alaska, every part of me screams wrong.
He’s standing at his own crossroads, making decisions that will determine whether he stays or ends up three thousand miles away with nothing but a fake dating arrangement to show for it.
One more game. We promised we'd wait until after the final game to talk about what's real.
But standing here in this cabin that's become home, in this town that's become mine, wanting this man who's become everything—waiting feels impossible.