Chapter 40
Ava
It’s official.
I’ve traveled so far for work, the moon was basically the next stop.
The private driver glances at me in the rearview mirror as we pull away from the airport.
“First time in Iceland?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You look shocked our air likes to fight back.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
I like him already.
And he’s not kidding about the wind.
If my coat hadn’t been buttoned, I probably would’ve gone airborne and ended up parasailing somewhere over the Atlantic.
“The wind wins most arguments here,” he says as we merge onto the main road.
Thank God he talks.
I’m running on approximately eleven minutes of airplane sleep, one emotional breakdown in business class, and the kind of exhaustion that feels zombie adjacent.
Yet somehow, I’m too wired to crash.
Besides, I’ve got twelve weeks of Iceland ahead of me, and I’m determined to experience every second of it.
Outside the window, Iceland looks unreal.
Black volcanic rock.
Endless moss-covered lava fields dusted with snow.
Steam curling up from the earth in strange ghostly ribbons.
It looks less like Earth and more like someone invented a fantasy planet and forgot to add trees.
Beautiful.
Lonely.
The driver gestures toward the horizon. “That blue light?” he says. “That is daytime.”
I blink toward the dim silvery haze outside the windows. “What do you mean?”
He smiles. “Enjoy it while you can. You get maybe four or five hours this time of year.”
“What?”
“Sunrise around eleven in the morning. Sunset before four.” He pauses thoughtfully. “People either become very romantic here in winter. Or very depressed.”
I’m already depressed, so I should fit right in.
I take several pictures to send the kids later.
When it comes to converting time zones, I’m hopeless. Thankfully, Connor is a very digital kid, so my phone now magically knows whether the kids are sleeping or awake.
Santa Claus in app form.
The car glides past another stretch of lava fields.
I stare out the window quietly while little clusters of colorful rooftops begin appearing in the distance like something from a snow globe.
“There’s a chance of seeing the Northern Lights tonight,” he says casually. “Very strong activity this week.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” He nods. “The hotel hosts rooftop gatherings whenever they appear. Blankets. Hot chocolate. Champagne.” His mouth curves faintly. “Tourists become emotional. Icelanders pretend not to.”
That earns a sleepy laugh from me. “Then I’ll probably be a basket case.”
I shoot several more pictures through the window.
A sign for Reykjavík appears ahead.
“47 kilometers,” I read aloud, wondering exactly how long that translates into before I can unpeel my clothes and faceplant into a mattress.
As if reading my mind, the driver says, “Twenty-five minutes if weather behaves.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means, but dear God, please let it behave.
The closer we get, the more surreal all of this feels.
I understand why the scouts insisted on this location.
It’s otherworldly.
And somehow… I’m really here.
My chest aches before the car even turns toward the hotel.
We pull into the roundabout, and a valet opens my door.
Inside, a flurry of scents comes alive. Cedarwood. Coffee. Fresh bread. Something faintly citrusy warming near the fireplace.
I’m too tired to eat, and overdosing on caffeine feels medically irresponsible.
A woman at the front desk greets me with a smile.
“Ms. Alvarez,” she says warmly. “Welcome. We’re so honored to have you with us.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ve prepared the Aurora Suite for your extended stay.”
“That sounds magical.”
“Only the best for Princess Luna.” She glances around cautiously. “Could I possibly bother you for one quick selfie?”
I’m so tired I could genuinely cry.
And this woman is currently standing between me and approximately three consecutive days of unconsciousness.
Right.
Actress mode.
I force myself to smile politely while another yawn nearly unhinges my jaw.
No rest for the weary. Like, ever.
A bellman takes my luggage while another staff member hands me a steaming towel infused with lavender.
It’s divine.
I’m genuinely tempted to bathe in it right here in the lobby.
The elevator ride feels endless, and I begin to understand why giraffes sleep standing up.
The bellman opens the suite and just… wow.
The entire room glows with soft amber light and the steady crackle of a fireplace already burning in the corner.
There’s a massive soaking tub beside the windows, shelves filled with Icelandic novels and photography books, and enough blankets and oversized pillows to hibernate a small family of bears.
Fresh pastries and fruit wait on the dining table.
And the flowers.
They’re everywhere.
White roses. Soft chamomile daisies. Eucalyptus and…
My breath catches.
Am I seeing things?
I step closer and brush my fingers against the bright orange petals.
The bellman sets down my luggage. “Those bright little ones were flown in,” he says.
“They’re my favorite.” As evidenced by multiple stickers currently decorating my suitcase.
“What are they called?” he asks.
“Marigolds.”
“Marigolds,” he repeats, charmed by the name. “There’s also a private geothermal spa reservation waiting whenever you’d like, Ms. Alvarez.”
I blink. “Wow. That’s incredibly nice of the hotel.”
“It’s not from the hotel,” he says politely. “It was arranged overseas.”
My chest gives a small, confused squeeze.
Did Sienna do that? Because if so, I owe her a kidney.
He gestures toward the windows. “And if the aurora appears tonight, the rooftop gathering begins at eight.”
“Thank you.”
The moment the door shuts behind him, silence crashes over the suite.
Just me.
Alone.
And as much as I’d like to collapse right this second, a shower is non-negotiable.
I crank the water to the lobster setting, determined to scrub away twelve hours of airports, recycled airplane air, and the horrifying sticky substance that was living on my armrest.
By the time I finally step out, I’m one hundred percent pajamas-and-bed-or-death.
I tug on a robe and unzip my suitcase.
And there it is.
Harrison’s flannel shirt.
Soft from a hundred washes.
Stolen because apparently that’s what I do. Whenever something smells faintly like cedarwood, laundry detergent, and his butthead glory, it will be mine.
My chest physically aches.
I pull it on, crawl into the massive bed, and press the sleeves against my face.
Somewhere between breathing him in, missing him, breathing him out, and hating him, I crash.