Chapter 3
THREE
ERICA
Cradling a cup of coffee, I stand at the window and watch as the sun rises.
I hold my breath as it hits the mountains, sending rays of shimmering light in all directions. It’s beautiful. Heaven on Earth.
He wrote about this.
Or whatever AI system Boone used to write his letters to me did. Because there’s no way the guy who decided to “mess” with his best friend and a complete stranger the way he did has the soul it takes to write something so poetic.
But apparently a machine does.
And it does it well.
Too well.
Damn. That’s one more thing I have to worry about. A machine stealing my dream author job before I get my big break.
I sip my coffee and grimace. Motel coffee tastes like someone waved a bean near hot water and called it a day.
My phone sits on the bedside table, dark and judgmental.
I slept with Boone.
I flew to Alaska to meet Knox.
Those two facts do not coexist peacefully.
The night flashes through me in pieces I refuse to linger on: his hands, his mouth, the way he paid attention to me like I was the only thing in the room worth studying. The way I didn’t once think about consequences until the consequences were already tangled up in the sheets.
I press my forehead to the cool glass.
I quit my job.
I packed my life.
I emptied my savings.
I came here chasing words.
This is what ambition looks like, apparently. Mild hypothermia and catastrophic decision-making.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
My spine goes rigid.
Another knock, gentler this time.
“Erica?”
Boone’s voice.
Of course it is.
I stare at the door like it might vanish if I ignore it long enough, then drag myself across the room and crack it open.
He’s standing in the hallway holding a paper bag and two cups. His hair is damp like he showered recently, jacket zipped up, cheeks pink from the cold.
He looks… annoyingly good for a man who detonated my life plan.
“Morning,” he says carefully.
“Morning.”
I hesitate, then open the door wider.
He steps in, glancing around the aggressively beige room with polite neutrality before holding up the bag. “Breakfast sandwich. Egg, cheese, bacon. No tomato.”
My stomach flips.
“…How did you know that?”
“You said once tomatoes make bread soggy and ruin everything.”
I blink.
“I did.”
“Twice, actually.”
Of course I did.
He sets the cups down on the little desk. “And almond milk. Two sugars.”
I stare.
He clears his throat. “You drink it black when you’re stressed, but sweet when you’re tired.”
I do not like that he knows that.
I like it very much.
Both can be true.
“Thank you,” I say, because my brain has short-circuited.
He gives a small nod and lingers near the door like he’s not sure if sitting is allowed.
I take the sandwich anyway. Hunger overrides pride.
It’s… excellent.
Warm, greasy, comforting.
He watches me take the first bite and relaxes a fraction.
“Okay,” he says. “Good.”
We eat in silence for a minute. Not awkward exactly, but heavy. Loaded.
Finally, he speaks.
“I’ve been thinking.”
That never bodes well.
“I’m scared already.”
“That seems reasonable.”
I eye him over my coffee. “About?”
“Your situation.”
My stomach tightens.
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know.” His tone is quick, sincere. “That’s not what I meant. I just—” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “You didn’t come all this way to panic in a motel.”
“Oh, I’m not panicking. Yet.”
He winces then clears his throat. “So, I got offered an overseas contract.”
I start at the abrupt change in subject. “What kind?”
“Infrastructure build. Water systems, sewer lines in remote communities in serious need of them.”
My brows lift. “That sounds noble.”
“It’s just pipes,” he says. “But important ones.”
“For how long?”
“A year.”
My chest does something unpleasant and tight. “Oh.”
“I wasn’t planning on taking it,” he adds quickly. “Not until yesterday.”
That lands.
“Why yesterday?”
He hesitates.
Then meets my eyes.
“Because you deserve time to make decisions that aren’t tangled up in me.”
My pulse stutters.
“And I thought maybe this could help.”
“Help how.”
“I’ve got a cabin outside town. It’s empty when I’m gone. I’d cover the bills. Utilities. Internet. There’s even a little stipend I can set aside for groceries and stuff.”
I choke slightly on my coffee. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Boone.”
“You could stay there. Quiet. Space to write. No rent. No pressure.”
“I’m not letting you bankroll my midlife crisis.”
“You’re not middle-aged.”
“I am spiritually middle-aged.”
He almost smiles, but seems to catch himself.
“And my cat would need someone to keep her company.”
“…your what?”
“My cat.”
I blink. “You have a cat.”
“Georgie.”
My voice goes high. “That is an old lady name.”
“I like to think she’s more dignified. Plus, she’s a baby.”
I shake my head, because what the heck is my life? “What kind of cat?”
He smirks, as if he knows he’s about to get his way. “She’s a long-haired calico. One of my buddy’s daughters found her mama, and they needed homes for the babies once they were weaned. So I took her in.”
“That’s really nice of you.”
“Well, it’s mostly selfish.” He lifts a shoulder. “I figure she’ll keep vermin out.”
I wonder what kind of vermin they have in Alaska. I’ve never really thought about what kinds of animals can and can’t survive up here.
I swallow.
This is unfair.
“She likes women,” he adds.
Of course she does.
“I can’t take your house,” I say weakly.
“Cabin.”
“I can’t take your money. I’m not a charity case.”
“It’s not charity.”
“It feels like charity.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “It’s me trying to undo the mess I made.”
That… kind of makes sense, actually. And, honestly, it’s no crazier of an idea than the one that brought me here.
“You didn’t ask for this,” he continues. “I put you in this position. Let me make it easier, not harder.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Think about my sublet apartment.
My dwindling savings.
The job I left behind.
The book sales that trickle in but I know in my heart are capable of so much more.
I hate that logic is siding with him.
“You’d just leave me here.”
“I’d come back.”
“When?”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“When I’m done wit the job.”
I study his face, searching for any signs that he’s messing with me again.
I can’t find any.
“I don’t want to be dependent on you,” I whisper.
He nods slowly. “Then don’t be. Use the year. Make something with your books as an investment for your future. Leave if you want. I can get Knox to come check on Georgie.”
Leave. That word shouldn’t sting.
Somehow, it does.
I stare down at my hands.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Possibly.”
“I barely know you.”
“You know me better than you did yesterday.”
My cheeks flush at the reminder of our night together. “And now you’re offering me a cabin, a cat, and money.”
“When you list it like that, it sounds crazy.”
“It is crazy.”
“I am extremely vetted,” he says. “There was paperwork.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
Silence stretches.
A year.
A warm cabin.
Space to write.
A cat named Georgie.
I hate that my chest loosens at the thought.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say finally.
He tilts his head. “No.”
“I will.”
“We can argue about that later.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
I swallow.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
The word feels huge. Final.
Terrifying.
He stills. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
His shoulders drop in visible relief.
“I hope I’m not ruining my life,” I add.
He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey, the odds have to be in your favor this time.”
That helps. A little.
As he turns for the door, I watch him go, uncertainty curling in my chest right alongside something warmer.
Hope.
Which feels even more dangerous.