Chapter 1
Trace
The chisel slips, and I nearly carve a chunk out of my thumb instead of the eagle's wing I'm working on.
Which would be bad for multiple reasons—bleeding all over the workshop, explaining to customers why their commemorative Alaska statue has DNA evidence embedded in it, and the fact that I need all ten fingers to do literally anything useful.
I set down the tool and flex my hand, staring at the half-finished carving like it personally offended me. It didn't. I'm just distracted, which is unprofessional and stupid and entirely the fault of a woman who left my cabin six months ago without so much as a goodbye.
"Get it together, MacKenzie," I mutter, picking up sandpaper to smooth the rough edges. "She was one night. One really good night, but still. One."
The picture of my dog, Kodiak—Kodi for short—sits with his head lifted where he was sprawled across the workshop floor, giving me a look that clearly says, You're talking to yourself again. This is concerning.
"Don't judge me," I tell the picture. "You licked your own ass for entertainment."
The thing is, I can't stop thinking about her.
Patrice. With her sharp wit and sharper laugh, the way she looked at me like I was actually interesting instead of just another small-town guy with wood shavings in his hair.
She was confident and funny and had this way of tilting her head when she listened that made me want to tell her everything.
Also, she was gorgeous. Like, stupid gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes you forget how to form complete sentences and suddenly understand why people write terrible poetry.
We danced. We laughed. We went back to my place and proceeded to have the kind of night that should come with a warning label: May cause obsessive thoughts, recurring daydreams, and the inability to look at your bed without remembering what happened there.
And then she vanished.
Gone. Poof. Disappeared like a sexy, sarcastic Cinderella who didn't even leave a shoe behind, just the faint scent of her perfume on my pillow and a crushing sense of what the hell just happened.
I checked with Gage the next day—casually, because I'm not a complete disaster—and he said she'd already flown back to Florida. Didn't leave a number. Didn't ask for mine. Just... left.
Which, fine. I'm an adult. I can handle a one-night stand. People do it all the time. It doesn't have to mean anything.
Except it did. At least to me.
I've tried to move on. I've gone on exactly two dates since she left, both set up by well-meaning friends who seem to think I'm too young to live alone in the woods like a slightly feral hermit.
Date one was with a nice woman named Sarah who talked about her ex-boyfriend for forty-five minutes straight.
Date two was with another nice woman named Michelle who asked if I wanted kids within the first ten minutes.
"Eventually?" I'd said, caught off guard.
"How many?" she'd pressed.
"Uh... two? Three? I don't know, I haven't really—"
"I want five," she'd announced. "Minimum."
I'd made an excuse about an early morning and never called her back.
The truth is, nobody measures up. Not to her. Not to Patrice with her Florida sunshine laugh and the way she kissed me like she was claiming territory.
My phone buzzes on the workbench, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
Gage: You free tonight?
Me: Define free.
Gage: Not covered in sawdust and talking to the picture of your dog.
Me: That's just hurtful and also accurate.
Gage: Come over for dinner. Tessa's making something that may or may not be edible. She's experimenting.
Me: Is this a cry for help?
Gage: Always.
I grin and type back that I'll be there, then set the phone down.
I clean up the workshop, brush most of the sawdust out of my hair. The drive to Gage's place takes twenty minutes through winding mountain roads that are finally clear of snow now that it's June. Summer in Alaska is short but glorious—long days, warm sun, everything green and alive.
When I pull up to the cabin, Tessa's already on the porch waving like I'm a ship coming into harbor. She's wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Cook (at your own risk)" and has flour smudged on her cheek.
"Trace!" she yells, like I'm not thirty feet away. "You're early!"
"Traffic was light," I deadpan, climbing out of the truck.
Gage appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face. "She's been watching the window for twenty minutes."
"I have not!" Tessa protests, standing up and brushing dog hair off her jeans. "I was just... coincidentally near the window. Doing window-adjacent activities."
"Staring," Gage clarifies.
"Observing," she corrects.
I laugh and follow them inside. The cabin smells like something burning, which is either ambitious cooking or a small kitchen fire. Hard to say with Tessa.
"So," I say, settling onto the couch while Toby, one of Gage’s dogs, immediately flops at Gage's feet. "What's the occasion? You don't usually invite me over mid-week."
Tessa and Gage exchange a look—one of those couple looks that involves an entire conversation through eyebrow movements and slight head tilts. Finally, Tessa grins so wide I'm worried her face might split.
"We're getting married!" she squeals, holding up her left hand where a ring glints in the light.
I blink. Process. Then break into a genuine smile. "Seriously? That's amazing! Congrats, man." I stand up and pull Gage into one of those back-slapping man-hugs that convey emotion without actually having to say feelings out loud.
"Thanks," Gage says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice even though his face barely changes.
Tessa launches into an explanation about the proposal—something involving a carved wolf, a sunset, and Gage finally using more than five words in a row. I'm only half-listening because my brain has snagged on one crucial detail.
"When's the wedding?" I ask.
"January," Tessa says. "We wanted to do it during the solstice festival, but that's too chaotic. So we're thinking January. Small ceremony, just close friends and family."
January. Seven months away.
"That's great," I say, and mean it. "You need help with anything?"
"Actually," Tessa says, her grin turning slightly mischievous, "my maid of honor is flying in a few days early to help with planning."
My heart does something stupid and painful in my chest. "Yeah? Who's that?"
"My best friend Patrice," Tessa says, watching me carefully. "You remember her, right? You guys hung out that night at the bar?"
Hung out. That's one way to describe it.
"Uh, yeah," I say, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near transparent desperation. "I remember her."
Gage snorts softly, which is basically his version of hysterical laughter.
Tessa's eyes light up with unholy glee. "Oh my God, you like her. You still like her! I knew it!"
"I don't—" I start, then stop because lying to Tessa is pointless. The woman can smell a crush from three miles away. "Okay, fine. Yeah. She was cool."
"Cool," Tessa repeats, grinning. "That's the best you can do? Cool?"
"What do you want me to say?" I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. "She left without a word. Pretty clear message there."
"Or," Tessa says, drawing out the word, "maybe she panicked. Maybe she had to catch a flight and didn't want to wake you. Maybe she's been thinking about you this whole time and just doesn't know how to reach out."
"Has she?" I ask, hating how hopeful I sound.
Tessa hesitates. "I... don't know. She doesn't really talk about personal stuff unless she's ready. But she's moving to Anchorage! She got a job offer—Director of Finance for some big logging company. She's flying up in January for the interview, and then she'll be here permanently!"
The world tilts slightly. "She's moving here? To Alaska?"
"Well, Anchorage," Tessa clarifies. "But that's only a few hours away. Close enough for visits. And she'll definitely be at the wedding."
My brain is short-circuiting. Patrice is moving to Alaska. Permanently.
"Holy shit," I mutter.
"Right?" Tessa bounces on her toes. "This is perfect! You'll see her at the wedding, you guys can talk, maybe reconnect, and then boom—epic romance! I'm basically a genius matchmaker."
"You're basically delusional," Gage says affectionately.
"Delusion is just optimism in a party hat," Tessa retorts.
I sink back onto the couch, trying to process this information. Four months. I have that long to figure out what to say, how to act, whether I should pretend it didn't matter or admit that it did.
Half a year to prepare for the possibility that she might not remember me the same way I remember her.
Gage catches my eye and gives me one of his patented looks that says, We'll talk about this later when Tessa isn't vibrating with matchmaking energy.
Dinner is surprisingly edible—some kind of pasta situation with vegetables and cheese that Tessa announces is "experimental rustic Italian fusion," which I think just means she made it up as she went.
But it's good, and the company is better, and by the time I leave, I'm feeling almost optimistic about the whole situation.
Almost.
The drive home is quiet except for the sound of my thoughts spiraling. I try to picture it: seeing Patrice again. What I'll say. How she'll react. Whether she'll pretend that night never happened or acknowledge it or—worst case scenario—have absolutely no idea who I am.
Back at the cabin, I stand on the porch, staring up at the stars. The night is clear and cold and impossibly vast, and I feel ridiculously small under all that sky.
Somewhere in Florida, Patrice is living her life. Working, probably. Maybe going out with friends. Maybe dating someone new. Maybe not thinking about me at all.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that I can't shake, the one that keeps me up at night—maybe she thinks about me too.
My phone buzzes.
Gage: You good?
Me: Yeah. Just processing.
Gage: She's a good person. Tessa loves her. That means something.
Me: I know.
Gage: You'll figure it out.
Me: Hope so.
I pocket my phone and head inside. I grab a beer from the fridge and settle into the armchair, staring at the cold fireplace.
January feels like both forever and no time at all. Time to get my head on straight. To prepare. To maybe, possibly, hopefully get a second chance at something I didn't even know I wanted until it was gone.
I take a long drink and close my eyes, letting myself remember: her laugh, her kiss, the way she said my name like it mattered.
"January," I say out loud, like making it a declaration will make it real. "I can wait until January."
I pull out my phone and do something possibly stupid. I open Instagram—which I barely use—and search for her name. Patrice Henley. There are a few accounts, but I find hers pretty quickly: professional photo, private account, bio that says "Numbers, not words."
I stare at the "Follow" button. My thumb hovers. Pulls back. Hovers again.
This is ridiculous. It's Instagram, not a marriage proposal. Just press it.
I press it.
The screen says "Requested" and my heart pounds like I just did something monumentally stupid or monumentally brave. Possibly both.
I set the phone face-down on the side table—because staring at it won't make her respond faster—and head to the bedroom.
Sleep should come easy. It doesn't.
My brain won't shut up, replaying that night on a loop: her laugh, her kiss, the way she fit against me like she'd been custom-made for my arms. Months of wondering if she remembers it the same way. Months of wanting another chance.
January suddenly feels impossibly far away and terrifyingly close all at once.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling.
This time, I'm not letting her leave without getting her number.
Assuming, of course, she even remembers who the hell I am.