Chapter 3
THREE
EMMA
The muffins are still warm when I pull into the fire station parking lot, a small miracle considering I nearly dropped the entire tin when they came out of the oven. I don’t bake often—okay, ever—but guilt is apparently a powerful motivator.
New York Emma never would’ve done this. But Tree-Disaster-Repeat-Offender Emma?
She’s turning into a whole new person.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, and step inside the station.
The warm smell of coffee and something savory—maybe sausage?—greets me, along with a wave of chatter. The place is busy but not frantic, firefighters moving between tables, a few checking equipment. The big garage doors let in strips of pale morning light.
My heart does an unhelpful skitter as I spot him.
Kendrick is across the room, talking to a woman about my age with curly dark hair pulled into a bun and a little girl perched on her hip. The kid looks about five and is concentrating fiercely on coloring something on a clipboard.
Kendrick says something to them, and the woman—Abby, her name tag reads—laughs, bumping her hip against his leg in a sisterly, coworker kind of way. The little girl—Danielle—looks up and hands Kendrick a purple crayon. He takes it with a straight face, draws a line, and hands it back.
It’s stupidly cute. And unfair.
I swallow and take a step further into the room.
A few firefighters look up, including a blond guy at a table who nudges the person next to him and whispers something I cannot possibly interpret as anything good.
Then someone whistles.
Oh no.
Kendrick’s head snaps up.
His expression shifts—surprise first, then something more unreadable—before settling back into his usual steady calm, like nothing rattles him. Which, to be fair, maybe it doesn’t.
I lift the muffin tin like it’s a peace offering.
“Hi,” I say, way too brightly. “I brought carbs.”
That earns me at least three grins and one loud “Sweet!” from a guy with a buzz cut.
Before I know it, the muffins have been claimed, inspected, and devoured by a flock of hungry firefighters who apparently operate like seagulls at a beach picnic.
Kendrick approaches more slowly, hands in his pockets, that unreadable expression still there.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
“I kind of did,” I reply. “Apology muffins for… everything.”
One of the guys behind him snorts. “Everything? Gonna be a long list, huh, Kendrick?”
Kendrick doesn’t punch him, which shows impressive restraint.
“It was a very short list,” I say quickly. “Just the… you know… tree incidents.”
“Incidents?” another firefighter echoes. “Plural?”
I glare at Kendrick like this is somehow his fault.
He lifts one shoulder. “She finds trouble.”
“I find light,” I correct.
A round of muffled laughter ripples through the room.
Kendrick rubs a hand over his jaw, and when his eyes meet mine again, something softens. Barely. But I see it.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “Just stop putting yourself in danger.”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“Emma.”
Fine. Maybe slightly in danger. But still.
Behind him, Blond Tease Guy leans forward. “Hey, Kendrick—since you two are best friends now, why don’t you show her around? You know all the good spots.”
My stomach drops. “Oh—no, that’s not necessary.”
“Actually,” Kendrick says slowly, eyes narrowing in a I-will-get-you-back-for-this look at Blond Tease Guy, “it’s not a bad idea.”
Wait. What?
I blink at him. “Really?”
He straightens, nodding once. “If you’re going to keep wandering into the woods alone, better someone who knows the terrain goes with you.”
“Wow,” I say. “Romantic.”
Abby approaches then, Danielle still on her hip, her smile warm and open. “Don’t mind them,” she says to me. “They tease because they like you.”
“They don’t even know me.”
Danielle holds out the coloring sheet toward me—a crooked firetruck surrounded by scribbles.
“For you,” she says shyly.
My heart melts a little. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Abby squeezes her daughter gently. “You must be Emma. The photographer.”
I nod. “That’s me.”
“Well,” she says, glancing at Kendrick in a way that’s half smirk, half approval, “you’re in good hands with him. Even if he pretends he hates that.”
Kendrick exhales through his nose like he’s considering early retirement.
“Come on,” he says to me. “If we’re doing this, let’s go before someone volunteers to chaperone.”
I follow him toward the door, nerves buzzing, camera bouncing softly against my chest.
“Just to be clear,” I say once we’re outside, “you don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He opens the truck door for me. “Because you’re going to keep taking pictures.”
“That’s not a reason.”
He meets my gaze head-on.
“It is for me.”
I climb in before my heart can make a scene, and he rounds the hood, jaw set like he’s bracing for impact.
Maybe he should be.
Because whatever this is between us—it’s already starting to feel like more than bright light and beautiful danger.
***
Kendrick drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh, his posture relaxed but attentive in a way I’m starting to realize is just…
him. He’s not talkative—not like the guys at the station—but the quiet doesn’t feel awkward.
It feels intentional, like he doesn’t waste words on things that don’t matter.
We turn onto a narrow gravel road that winds between tall pines. The late-afternoon light glows soft and golden, slipping across his profile, outlining the sharp line of his jaw.
I should not be staring at him.
The whole point of coming to Alaska was to find myself, not to get distracted by a man with forearms that could bench-press my existential crisis.
He clears his throat. “You hike much?”
“Does wandering around with a camera count?”
“Not really.”
“Then no.”
He huffs a quiet sound that might be a laugh, then parks the truck at a small pull-off. When he steps out, I follow, adjusting my coat and slinging my camera strap across my chest.
He gestures toward a narrow trail. “It’s about a mile up. Steep in a few spots.”
“So… cardio.”
“That’s usually how walking works.”
I give him a look. “You’re very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“That’s the best part.”
He doesn’t respond, but his mouth twitches as he starts up the trail. I fall into step behind him, the scent of pine sharp and clean in the air, the path crunching softly under our boots.
The climb is steeper than he let on, and by the time we reach a sharp switchback, my legs are burning. Kendrick glances back at me.
“You doing okay?”
“Yep,” I say, definitely lying. “Just enjoying the fresh air. And the sweating. Love that for me.”
His eyes warm slightly—not quite a smile, but close. “We’re almost there.”
A few more turns, and we step out onto a rocky overlook that steals my breath more than the hike did.
The valley unfolds beneath us, a river cutting through it like silver thread.
Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks brushed with snow.
The sky is soft and pale, the sun dipping low enough to tint everything rose-gold.
It’s… stunning. Too big to fit inside my chest. Too alive to translate easily into pixels.
I lift my camera, framing the view, adjusting the aperture, waiting for the light to shift.
I’m so focused on the horizon that I barely notice Kendrick move to stand beside me.
“You bring a lot of people up here?” I ask, eyes still on the landscape.
“No.”
“How many?”
“One.”
“Me?”
He doesn’t look at me, but I hear it—the truth in his voice. “Yeah.”
Something pulls inside me, subtle but deep.
I lower the camera, letting the moment settle, and when I look up at him, he’s already watching the valley again, his profile cut from clean lines and quiet strength.
Without thinking—without meaning to at all—I raise the camera again.
Click.
The shutter startles me. I look at the screen. The preview image punches something soft and unguarded open in my chest.
It’s him.
Kendrick standing against the backdrop of the whole world, the light curling around him, his expression steady and contemplative like he’s made of something the wilderness recognizes.
It’s… beautiful. Not because of the landscape, but because of him in it.
I swallow.
He glances over. “Get anything good?”
“No,” I blurt. “Nothing. Terrible, actually.”
His brow lifts like he knows I’m lying.
Before he can pry, I pivot the camera toward the view again. “Want to help me find a good angle?”
“I don’t know anything about photography.”
“That’s fine. You have eyes.”
He gives me a look that might be skepticism but might be amusement. Hard to tell with him.
Still, he steps closer, pointing toward the ridge where the light hits the river. “Most people like that spot.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I’ve noticed.”
The words ripple through me, unexpected and warm.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he clears his throat and nods toward the trail. “We should head back before it gets dark.”
Reluctantly, I lower my camera. “Right.”
But even as we walk, I keep glancing at the photo stored in my camera, the one I didn’t mean to take, the one that feels like the first image in weeks that actually means something.
And I have no idea what to do with that.