Chapter 7
Alec
Trudy’s Treasures smells like lemon polish. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen where you can buy a taxidermied beaver, a vintage typewriter, and restored light fixtures.
I’m crouched in a narrow row of metal shelves, scanning for anything to fix a godforsaken bare bulb. Ever since Clementine Lennox pointed it out yesterday, I haven’t been able to unsee the problem.
What am I even looking for?
Wedged between a wicker lampshade and a lava lamp, I spot a tarnished pendant light. Under this dim store lighting, brass and copper look the same. The pendant is gritty with dust, but it may work.
“Hey, there you are!”
I don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice rushing toward me. This town is suffocatingly small. Three days in Misthaven, and Clementine seems to be everywhere. I let myself steal a glance.
She parts the cluttered aisles like she owns the shop. Denim jacket, wide-leg pants, and a slick bun that leaves the soft curve of her nape exposed. My shoulders stiffen. She’s beautiful—objectively—but today she looks worn thin.
I stare at the pendant in my hands, pretending not to hear her.
Definitely not noticing the reddish-orange freckles dusting the bridge of her nose or the trail of them along her pale collarbones. My mind is used to noticing the small things, that’s all this is.
“I’ve spent the past hour running around town searching for you. Helloooooo,” she sings, stopping right beside me. I don’t have to look up to know her ice-blue eyes are locked on me.
“You’ve resorted to following me.”
“Aren’t you a modern-day Sherlock Holmes?”
From my peripheral, the smile on her face glistens.
“What do you need?”
She shoves a basket toward me. “Thought you could get a taste of my world-class muffins.”
Against my better judgment, I glance up. She’s standing over me, lit by the shop’s dusty front windows, glowing in all her infuriating glory.
Finn always teased me for dating women who were human fog banks in puffer coats. Clementine is a lighthouse beam. Too loud, too sunlit, too everything.
“Appreciate the effort, but I already told you my answer is no,” I bite. Finn was always the personable one, especially with women.
“You see, the problem with that is ‘no’ simply won’t work for me.” She plucks the towel off the basket, revealing six huge, golden-brown muffins.
My stomach grumbles.
“Gonna have to make it work since that’s my final answer.”
Her nostrils flare. A small crease forms on the base of her nose before she rolls her neck, widens her grin, and tightens the grip she already has on me.
“Now, you listen to me, sir,” she snaps.
“Sir?”
Ignoring me entirely, she barrels on. “I begged my grandmother to make these double chocolate chip muffins for me at the break of dawn this morning—”
“I thought you made them?”
“I helped,” she fires back. The way she’s getting worked up over a basket of muffins almost drags a smile out of me. Almost. “Then I brought them down to the lodge, but your truck wasn’t there. So I spent the rest of my morning looking for you.”
“Could’ve left them on the porch.”
“For the moose to eat?” She gasps. “Absolutely not.”
“You’ve never shied away from breaking into the place.”
“It’s not breaking in if I have the key.”
What is up with her?
Better question is, what’s up with me? Why am I letting a woman with flour smudged on her wrist tie me up in knots?
Why am I letting myself get baited by her?
God, my sisters would love her. She has that Hastings determination.
Neither Brooklyn nor Frankie let me get the final word in.
The three of them in the same room together would be a torment.
“One more pitch—” She opens her mouth to start.
“Pass.”
“Too late. It’s happening.”
“With all of your determination, I’m sure you can track down another partner,” I mutter, shifting the pendant under my arm. This will have to do.
I need to get out of this store.
“But I want you,” she says—low, maybe not meaning for me to hear.
Except I do. She keeps talking, words tripping over each other.
“I got rejected by every semi-athletic person in this town yesterday. Everyone’s either partnered up or ignoring me.
No one answered my bulletin board notice.
Hinge, Tinder, even Base Camp Cuties. Absolutely no one. ”
My brow lifts. “Are you looking for a date or a Wild Trails partner?”
“I’m being resourceful,” she snaps, teeth flashing.
“You’re desperate.”
“I am! I am desperate. You are the only unattached person in this town, never mind that you might actually help me win Wild Trails. Never mind that I am certain these muffins are basically a gateway drug—you’ll taste one, and before you know it, you’ll be climbing Gran’s porch steps at midnight, hopelessly addicted, begging me for more. ”
Addicted. Begging. The words wade low in my throat. The only thing I’ve ever chased like that is a summit. That’s the only language I know for hunger. And yet her voice puts the idea in my head of wanting something so bad I’d knock on her door at midnight, powerless against my desire.
My fingers flex tightly around the pendant.
A laugh almost slips out, but I clamp down on it. “On a mountain, desperation gets you killed. And it’ll drag your partner with you.”
“You wouldn’t last a day in ballet,” she shoots back. “Desperation is in the job description. You starve, you bleed, you smile prettier than the girl who wants your role. And if you can’t, she takes it. That’s it.”
“Would you drop it? I promise a pretty smile isn’t enough to sway me into entering the competition.”
Her eyes widen, blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. Mine too, damn it. Blushing. For fuck’s sake. In the middle of a thrift store? While being steamrolled by a fox in denim?
“You just called my smile pretty.”
“You hear what you want to hear.” My voice is flat, but my pulse isn’t.
“It’s called reading between the lines.”
“There are no lines to read between with me. I’m direct.”
She steps closer, not touching, but close enough I get a waft of something sweet. “I’ll remember that when we’re on the trail.”
“Pass.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Her hand flares out, the muffins nearly clipping me in the head.
“You agree to partner with me. I train myself. You do nothing except show up for the qualifier and the race. And I help you with the lodge, because God knows you need it. You wouldn’t be here, cross-eyed over light fixtures, if you didn’t. ”
Her fire licks higher, and the strangest thing is part of me, against all sense, against all the rules I’ve ever lived by, doesn’t want to put it out.
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. My face probably says it all: not interested.
But my gut won’t shut up. She’s not wrong. I do need help. Jillian, my agent, emailed me this morning that all the designers she reached out to are booked out for months.
She said she was a ballerina. I believe it. The way she holds herself, even when she’s rambling. Straight back. Long neck. Legs angled. Even her hands are deliberate, like she’s used to performing down to the fingertips.
“Why does this competition matter so much to you?” I ask.
“Because I need this.” Her shoulders twitch, then lock back into perfect alignment. “I’ll be completely honest since we’re going to be partners—”
“I never said that.”
“I spent the last eight years in New York chasing ballet—heck, I spent my whole life chasing it. All it’s left me with is debt and a shredded belief in myself.
I need the cash. Badly. But I also need to do something I wasn’t sculpted into since I was three.
I need to figure out who I am without the only thing I’ve ever been good at. ”
Her honesty lands like a punch.
I stare at her. The gloss falls away. Her hands tremble.
Her thumb rubs the basket’s wicker edge in a compulsive loop.
Shoes scuffed, bun too tight, sweat brimming around her hairline.
Her body’s trained into perfect lines, but her edges are fraying.
She’s still holding my gaze like it’s the last rope on the wall.
She wants this.
She’s got a chip on her shoulder.
And I know what it’s like to move through life with one—lonely.
Thing is, climbing with Finn was the only time I ever learned to move in sync with someone. We didn’t even have to talk on the trails. I knew when he was fading. He knew when I needed space. You don’t get that with strangers. You earn it one climb at a time.
And it damn near broke me when I lost him.
I glance down at the pendant light in my hand.
Truth is, I miss being out on a trail.
But I don’t have the time. Not with the lodge in pieces. Not with Finn arriving next month. And definitely not with a girl I’ll be leaving in a month or two. What’s the point of making friends when I’m already planning on abandoning this place?
If I say yes, I’d be responsible for her.
“Still no,” I decide, even though my throat’s tighter than it should be.
“At least take the muffins.” She shoves the basket into my hands, decisive to the end, before marching out of the store.
The bell above the door jingles once, then I’m left in silence. Holding her damn muffins.
Subject: Glacial Documentary Climb Pt3 – November in Iceland
From: Jillian@
To: alec@
Hey Alec,
The film crew for Vatnajokull in November has been booked, and they’re asking if you’re joining them.
I know things have been heavy since K2, and I completely understand if you're still finding your footing. That said, they’d be thrilled to have you on this ascent if you're open to it, with or without Finn. It would be great to get you back on the wall since you’ve climbed this path twice before.
I’ve reattached the brief with the full schedule, safety protocols, and comp details. The footage is slated for release at next year’s Climate Film Festival, so timing is tight.
They need an answer by the end of this month.