Lost With My Enemy (It Happened Up North #11)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ELISE

I have seventeen tabs open on my laptop, a color-coded timeline taped to my apartment wall, and a flight to Calgary that leaves in six hours.

Everything is on schedule.

My suitcase is packed with military precision.

Toiletries in a clear bag, shoes in individual cloth covers, outfits separated by day with corresponding sticky notes.

There's a backup charger in the front pocket and a backup for the backup in my carry-on.

The boarding pass is printed, because Wi-Fi is a suggestion, not a guarantee, and my planner is open to today's page, where every hour from now until wheels-up is accounted for in blue ink.

This is what calm looks like. Organized. Airtight. Under control.

My phone rings.

The caller ID says Sloane Barrett, which means one of two things: she's calling to wish me a good flight, or something has gone sideways and she wants to warn me before I find out on my own. Sloane has always been better at ripping off the bandaid than letting me pick at it.

"Don't spiral," she says, which is the worst possible opening to any phone call.

"That's not how you start a conversation with someone who has a flight in six hours."

"Five hours and forty-seven minutes, knowing you."

Fair point. "What happened."

"WestJet just announced a forty-eight-hour pilot strike. Starting at midnight."

The room tilts just enough for me to grip the edge of my kitchen counter while my brain cycles through contingencies at a speed that would concern a medical professional.

"That can't be right. My flight is Air Canada."

"Air Canada announced a sympathy work action twenty minutes later. Both airlines are grounded. Domestic and cross-border." A pause. "It's all over the news, El."

My laptop is already open, fingers moving before Sloane finishes talking. CBC headline, bold and merciless: MAJOR AIRLINE DISRUPTIONS EXPECTED ACROSS CANADA AS DUAL WORK ACTIONS TAKE EFFECT.

Forty-eight hours minimum. Possibly longer pending negotiations.

And I need to be in Calgary in thirteen days to oversee the setup for the Weston-McAllister corporate retreat. Two hundred guests. A venue I've never physically walked. A client who once fired a caterer mid-appetizer course because the napkin folds were "aggressive."

Thirteen days felt generous this morning. Now it feels like a countdown.

"Before you ask," Sloane says carefully, "I already checked VIA Rail. Sold out through next week. Everyone had the same idea."

"Bus?"

"Greyhound doesn't run cross-Canada anymore. And before you suggest it, no, you're not renting a car and driving thirty-four hours solo. You've never driven west of Peterborough."

"I've driven to Montreal."

"That's east, babe."

My jaw tightens. Sloane knows me well enough to let the silence breathe instead of filling it, which is generous, because the silence is full of a controlled panic I've spent twenty years perfecting.

My parents' divorce taught me one useful thing: when the floor drops out, you build a new one before anyone notices you're falling. The problem is, I can't build a floor out of a grounded airline and a sold-out rail system.

"Griffin has a friend," Sloane says, like she's been waiting to deploy this sentence.

" Griffin Wyatt? Our Griffin? The walking disaster who set off the fire alarm at grad formal? No."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"If Griffin Wyatt is suggesting it, the plan involves zero structure, at least one person I've never met, and a level of spontaneity that would give me hives."

"The friend is driving from Toronto to Calgary. Leaving tomorrow morning. He's got room in his car. Griffin says he's a good guy."

"Griffin thinks everyone is a good guy. Griffin thought The Screaming Oaks were an acoustic band."

Sloane laughs, which is rude given the circumstances. "His name is Jaxon Mills. He's a photographer. Outdoor adventure stuff. Based in Calgary, was in Toronto for a shoot, and he's driving home."

"Why is he driving and not flying?"

"Because he has a car full of camera equipment and apparently doesn't believe in checking bags."

Of course he doesn't.

"Fourteen days, give or take," Sloane continues. "He's taking the northern route. Through Sudbury, Sault Ste. Marie, Thunder Bay, across the prairies. Says he wants to shoot some locations along the way."

"Fourteen days to drive what Google Maps says is thirty-four hours."

"He's making stops."

"He's meandering."

"He's offering you a ride to Calgary when you have zero other options, Elise."

My name, full and unabbreviated, lands with the weight of a verdict. Sloane only uses it when she's done negotiating.

The planner is open on the counter. Today's page is pristine. Tomorrow's is blocked in neat segments: airport shuttle, 6:15 AM. Board, 8:40 AM. Land YYC, 11:05 AM local. Client site walkthrough, 2:00 PM.

None of that is happening anymore.

"I'll need his number," I hear myself say, and the words taste like defeat wrapped in common sense.

"Already texted it to you. Also, Griffin says to tell you that Jaxon is, quote, the most chill human on the planet, and you'll love him."

"Griffin and I have very different definitions of love."

"Griffin and you have very different definitions of chill."

She's not wrong.

We hang up, and I stare at the contact Sloane sent over. Jaxon Mills. No photo. Just a 403 area code and a future I didn't plan for.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a solid minute before I type.

Hi, this is Elise Boyd. Griffin Wyatt gave Sloane your number. I understand you're driving to Calgary tomorrow and might have room for a passenger. I'd like to discuss logistics if you're available.

The three dots appear almost instantly, and I straighten my posture without thinking about it.

hey elise! griffin told me about you. totally down to have company on the drive. fair warning i don't really do itineraries but we'll figure it out. what time works to meet up tomorrow?

Zero capitalization. A single period that feels accidental. "Totally down." "We'll figure it out."

My left eye twitches.

I'll have a proposed route and schedule ready by tonight. What's your address? I can send a car to collect your things and consolidate luggage at a central departure point.

lol i was just gonna say meet me at the tim hortons on queen and spadina at 8. i'll be the one in the truck.

My eyes close.

Fourteen days in a vehicle with a man who thinks Tim Hortons is a departure point.

The planner is still open on the counter, tomorrow's schedule a ghost of a life that made sense twelve minutes ago. Grabbing a pen, I cross through every line in one clean stroke and write two words at the top of the blank page underneath.

Survive this.

Then, because I am nothing if not thorough, I add a sub-bullet.

Do NOT kill him.

* * *

At 7:52 the next morning, I pull up to the Tim Hortons on Queen and Spadina in an Uber with my suitcase, my carry-on, my laptop bag, and a printed fourteen-day itinerary I stayed up until 2 AM creating.

The itinerary includes daily mileage targets, pre-booked short-term rentals, meal stops, fuel station locations, and a weather contingency appendix. It's color-coded. It's laminated.

A mud-splattered pickup truck is idling in the parking lot with the windows down. There's a canoe strapped to the roof, a duffel bag visible through the back window, and a sticker on the bumper that reads TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.

A man climbs out of the driver's side. Ball cap pulled low, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a faded t-shirt, hiking boots that have seen actual hiking. Brown eyes that crinkle before the rest of his face catches up to whatever he finds amusing, which appears to be me.

"Elise?"

"You brought a canoe."

His grin widens. "You brought a binder."

My grip tightens on the laminated itinerary.

Fourteen days. One truck. One canoe I did not budget for.

This is going to be a disaster.