by Nicole Snow
“An entire carton of it. How do you take yours?”
“A half-gallon of heavy cream and a dash of sugar.” She laughs. “I’m your opposite.”
In how many ways? I wonder, when I know I should not be thinking about this woman in those frigging terms.
I shouldn’t be wanting to know her better.
I have a kid to think about.
Can’t just go throwing strange women around in my life like it’s no big deal.
That’s more of a Holt Silverton move—or it was before he met Libby and traded in his skirt-chasing days for a ranch and a wife and a whole mess of ghost town renovations.
It’s never been my game, but now that I’m Eli’s only source of stability, I’ve really got to think about my choices. I can’t go falling head over heels at first sniff just because she makes bomb-ass coffee and looks bomb-ass gorgeous doing it.
I clear my throat and load up my arms, something I got pretty good at back when I got put on galley duty in boot camp. It’s second nature slinging the plates out on the breakfast bar in a neat row.
“So,” I ask, while she sprinkles one of the cups with sugar and pours enough to choke a horse in the other, “this just a social visit? Or is there something I can help you with?” I frown. “Did the mugs cost more than you thought? I told you, I can pay more if you need me to.”
“No!” she says sharply, jolting so fast that grains of sugar spill over her hands. She sets the sugar tin down and brushes her fingers off with a shamefaced look, then snags a towel and wipes up the counter. “Sorry. I mean...no, the eight hundred was more than enough. I really couldn’t accept another dollar from you, Alaska. You’ve already done a ton for me.”
There’s something else in her voice, though.
Something in the way she hunches her body and bows her head.
She’s wearing her guilt wrapped around her like a shawl.
“Hey,” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
She stops, looking down into the cups of coffee, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the unvarnished wooden counter.
No, it’s not just guilt tangling her up in its jaws.
It’s sadness, and once again I wonder what the hell happened to hurt this girl.
“I...” She bites her lip. “You’re right. This isn’t a social visit. I came to ask you for advice, but I’m about to be awful and not even tell you what it’s for. Can we call it a theoretical thing? Would that be okay?”
My fingertips tingle with a hint of wariness.
Felicity Randall’s got secrets, all right.
Possibly bad ones.
And she’s trying hard to keep me out of them.
“Okay,” I say. “Theoretical. We’re just floating questions.”
“And um, you can’t tell anyone we had this talk. Or that I was even here at all,” she whispers, her eyes big and pleading.
From tingling fingers to toes, suspicion wells in my veins like a flood. I fold my arms and lean my side against the breakfast bar.
“I won’t tell about the conversation, but good luck explaining to Eli why you weren’t here.”
She smiles thinly, lifting her head and giving me a pensive look. “Okay. I came by because you wanted to try my new roast, so I dropped off a few bags.”
“Fair enough. What’s on your mind that makes you need a cover story then?”
She hesitates a minute longer, drumming her fingers against the edge of the counter and glancing toward the hall.
The shower hisses faintly, but steady. Eli’s erratic thumping and singing is a whole lot louder.
That’s his thing. He belts out rock ballads in the shower, and sometimes gets so into it he uses the walls like bongo drums. It says a lot for his comfort levels with Felicity that he’s not keeping quiet with her here.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “He can’t hear anything—and he’s about two octaves out of his range.”
She doesn’t laugh.
Instead, she gives me a strained look before she opens her mouth. “How would you get a plane up from the bottom of a lake?”
I blink.
Huh?
Not what I was expecting.
Not at all.
Apparently, she’s dead serious, looking at me with her eyes wide and her jaw set in a determined line. I frown, stroking my fingers through my beard, turning her puzzle over.
“What size plane are we talking about?” I ask. “Commercial passenger, military, private?”
“Small prop plane,” she says. “Cessna, I think. The kind used for personal flying and small cargo transport.”
“Depends on if you want it mostly in one piece or not and how deep the water is,” I say. “If you want it in one piece and it’s deep, you’d need a pretty big boat, possibly freighter size, with a winch on it. Someone would have to dive to hook it up, and then you’d let the machinery do the work.”
She takes a deep breath, scrubbing her hands against her thighs, leaving faintly damp marks on her jeans.
My eyes flick to her hands.
Sweaty palms. She’s nervous. So nervous she’s probably sweating down the back of her shirt, her pulse throbbing hot against her throat, fluttering and straining against pale skin.
“Okay,” she says. “So, say I don’t have access to a freighter, but it’s pretty deep. What are my other options?”
“Well...” I turn over the scenario, seriously doubting the hypothetical part. “If you had a powerful enough crane and a long enough length of steel cabling, plus a diver willing to hook it up...then as long as the plane wasn’t submerged long enough to crumble into rust, and as long as it wasn’t lodged on anything, you could probably dredge it up from the shore. You’d lose some parts, yeah, but you’d get the main cabin intact.”
Felicity folds her arms tight against her chest, chewing the knuckle on her thumb, her eyes dark and preoccupied.
“Okay,” she says, rolling her shoulders. “Okay. So we’re talking the kind of crane someone could rent from a construction supply company?”
“Or the kind of crane someone who works construction could let you ‘borrow,’” I point out. “And probably transport safely and discreetly to the site and operate for you. You know. If this wasn’t all hypothetical.”
Felicity goes white as a sheet, everything except two rose-red spirals on her cheeks.
She’s not just nervous.
This wild hypothetical she’s talking about scares her.
So much that she looks like she’s about to pass out. I round the island quickly, pressing a hand to the small of her back and guiding her away from the counter to a stool. “Hey—hey, Feliss. C’mon. Sit down.”
“Fliss,” she says faintly, like she doesn’t even realize she’s talking.
“What?”
She sits down, almost missing the stool, but my hand on her back nudges enough to sway her over so she thumps down on the padded leather seat.
She lifts her head, looking up at me, her eyes stark and ringed wide with their whites showing. “My friends, they...they call me Fel or Fliss. Not Feliss.”
“Okay, Fliss. Noted.” Fuck, is she in shock? I lean down, trying to get a look at her pupils, checking if they’re dilated. “Talk to me. What’s got you so riled?”
“Alaska, I can’t.” She takes a shaky breath that sounds like it rattles her throat. “I can’t get you involved. I can’t—”
“Who said involved? We’re just talking hypotheticals, remember? There’s nothing to get me wrapped up in. Let’s say in this hypothetical it’s safe to tell me what’s wrong. What would you say?”
Felicity just stares at me—then twists away.
She’d left her purse on the floor, propped against one of the stools, but now she leans down and flips the top flap up, drawing out a battered black leather book.
Looks like a journal or a logbook.
With a shallow, humorless smile, she passes it over.
“Last page,” she whispers. “You know. Hypothetically. In th
e theoretical book you’re not holding.”
Frowning, I flip through the pages. “...this looks like a flight log.”
“Yeah,” she says faintly. “How’d you know?”
“My brother,” I say. “Former Air Force, now a bush pilot near Juneau. I’ve seen this stuff before.” I stop on the last page. I’m not too shabby with coordinates myself, plus all that military jargon, and it’s not hard to tell the last entry indicates a location somewhere north of here.
Felicity looks on, watching me with her eyes small pinpricks.
“So what am I looking at?” I ask.
“Hypothetically?” It comes out fragile, a weak attempt at a joke. “Something my father left me. I...how much do you know, Alaska? What things have you heard about me?”
“Scandalous claims. I’ve heard you serve the most addictive coffee in the entire state. That’s about it.”
Felicity gives me a flat look, but at least it looks like she’s coming out of her shell shock.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I skim my fingers under the last line of flight coordinates. “I’m not in town much, Felicity. I’m either on construction sites or busy spending time with Eli. Guys on site don’t have time to gossip when we’re trying to meet deadlines and avoid anything that might cause a worker’s comp suit. And I’m just not around the local hangouts enough to hear anything. I’m not at Brody’s bar enough to know everybody by name. I’ve heard more about these rumors from you than anyone else.”
She winces, heart-shaped lips pulling back in an embarrassed grimace. “Great impression, right? The first time I really get to talk to you alone, and I tell you I’m the town pump. Again.”
“Are you?”
“What? No!”
Her face flashes bright red, right up to her hairline, and it’s the most adorable damned thing I’ve ever seen.
I snap the book shut with a decisive thump.
“Exactly. So there’s nothing to worry about with impressions. There wouldn’t be even if you were. Your sex life is none of my business.” I swallow too hard.
I didn’t know it was possible for her to go any redder.
Though I’ve got my own problem, too. My face feels like a damned brush fire, and my brain sticks on barbed wire, suddenly obsessed with what it would be like if her sex life was my business.
Focus, Paxton.
You got an upset lady here with some scary secrets, and she’s trying to trust you.
Mind off your dick—and off how goddamned lonely it’s been.
She’s staring down at her knees, no doubt mortified by my mouth. Time to change the subject and douse the tension in the air between us.
“So what do the rumors have to do with this flight log?”
She lets out a long, slow sigh like she’s deflating, still staring at her knees.
“My dad. Morgan Randall. He...he wasn’t the greatest guy, let’s say, though he tried sometimes. A lot of people in town blame him for a lot of things. He was a drug addict, then he got clean, but even when he was, he kept working in dirty circles. I think he was a cargo pilot doing some illicit runs. He helped turn Heart’s Edge into a minor distribution hub for some nasty junk, until Warren Ford ended that a few years ago. Dad always swore his dirty business was meant to get us stable so he could take care of us, but...” Her words keep getting tighter, her jaw more tense, her gaze fixed and unmoving from the denim over her kneecaps.
“But?” I whisper softly.
“That never happened because he died. His plane disappeared, and then he was found dead in his truck. His heart almost exploded from the overdose.”
Harsh.
Every thought in my head vanishes save one.
This girl is trouble with a mammoth T.
I just wish like hell I could help her.
That thought’s going to get me in trouble, too, if I’m not careful, but I can’t help the way my chest aches for the quiet sorrow in her voice.
It’s that mellow, desperate pain that’s been etched deep over time, starting off as a little scratch until the next thing you know it’s a jagged groove.
Years later, it’s worn a hole right through you like caustic acid.
Felicity’s got too many holes in her soul.
I gotta remind myself it’s not my job to fill them.
Still, I can at least try offering her some comfort, some answers.
I settle down on the stool next to her, lightly resting my hand between her shoulder blades. “So is that what this is about? Finding out what really happened to him, and if his plane’s at the bottom of the lake?”
She hesitates before nodding, and this time it’s less that her eyes are downcast and more that she’s avoiding mine.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
Okay.
Damn.
She’s obviously not telling me the whole truth, but she doesn’t owe me that either.
Not yet.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll let Holt know I need to borrow our biggest crane for the weekend, plus the flatbed to transport it.”
“What?” Felicity’s head flies up so fast her hair snaps across her face, and she stares at me with her mouth open. “Alaska, no! I can’t drag you or Holt into this! He’ll...God. No way. I can’t do that to you guys.”
“Holt doesn’t have to know what it’s really for.” I smirk. “Look, he’s got some weird ideas about what guys in Alaska do for fun. I could tell him I need the crane for deepwater fishing or a log tossing competition, and he’d believe it and just tell me to bring it back without a scratch. Besides, this is still hypothetical, right? So now let’s say it’s imaginary. It’s an imaginary crane, we’re dragging it to an imaginary lake, and as far as anyone’s concerned—this imaginary brainstorming never happened.” My smirk widens into a grin.
“Alaska...” She looks at me, her eyes shining like stars. “I could hug you. Imaginary hug, I mean.”
What the hell? I lean in, giving her a quick, joking squeeze.
It’s almost painful tearing myself away when I want to linger.
Her nose scrunches as my smile catches her. I watch those heart-shaped lips lose their tug-of-war and quirk up at the corners.
Cute as hell.
I’ve just got one question left.
“How do you feel about going on an imaginary camping trip this weekend, Miss Felicity?”
I can’t believe I actually talked her into it.
I also can’t believe Holt let me borrow a crane this frigging large and this expensive without an interrogation. The bossman just reminded me to strap it down tight to the flatbed, considering the hills around here are pretty steep, the roads are wicked twisty, and this crane weighs a metric ass-ton.
I’ve got a few thousand yards of steel cabling, too, plus enough camping supplies to let us bunker down for a few days if needed, depending on what we find at the bottom of that lake.
And hey.
At least Eli got to go on his camping trip, even if he’s staying pretty local in the hills beyond Charming Inn. 'Roughing It Lite' with his new friend Zach and his parents, Leo and Clarissa. If anyone knows the wilderness around Heart’s Edge, it’s a dude like Leo who spent years living in it like a wild man.
They’ve promised to put my number on speed dial and call me if Eli gets so much as a splinter.
I have a feeling he’s not the one I’ll need to worry about.
Not when I’m heading north into the cool mountains with a girl who looks like she’s about to face a firing squad, rather than spend a relaxing weekend fishing for some trout, some bass, and maybe—if we’re lucky—her daddy’s old plane.
She’s bundled up in the passenger seat of the truck cab now.
Even if it’s comfortably warm and breezy in town, it’s gonna be chilly out by the lake. Her stylish leather coat with the Sherpa collar hugs her frame, padding her curves without hiding them.
She’s tucked herself into the corner of the cab, leaning against the door an
d resting her head against the window.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was asleep.
Only, her bright eyes are open, half lidded and looking pensively out the window, watching the trees roll by as miles and miles of road disappear in our rearview mirror.
It’s not hard to tell she’s feeling guilty for dragging me into this and for relying on me to wheel and deal for equipment.
I don’t know how to convince her I don’t mind.
Feels like the best way is to show her.
Somehow, I’m hoping that maybe—just maybe—this bizarre escapade will give her the closure she needs to let go of all the bruises her father left behind.
I want to see her smile once, dammit.
I want to see those eyes ignite like a winter sunset when the stars are just coming out and the sky’s colors kiss, leaving blue and violet streaks.
Hell, I want to come to the brink of kissing her pretty little face off—even if I’m man enough to know I shouldn’t.
She’s too beautiful right now, even when she’s sad, with the soft morning light falling through the windows and spilling over her like gold.
It brings out the cherry highlights in her cinnamon hair.
Her pale skin glows, the edges painted in soft shimmers that show just how smooth she is, but not flawless.
Nah, see, a face like hers isn’t made to be flawless. Her imperfections give her soul.
The tiny little nick of a scar right above her eyebrow and another near the corner of her mouth just draw the fineness of her other features into stark relief.
I feel like I’m admiring a painting of a beautiful girl captured in heartbreak valley.
I want to see her alive, smiling, and radiant with relief.
Getting sentimental already?
Keep your eyes on the road, mister, a voice growls in the back of my head.
I make myself quit watching her from the corner of my eye and focus on the tricky turns as the narrow roadway spirals through the rising slopes. At least out here it’s already been cleared for logging trails, making room for a flatbed hauling a crane.
The slopes are graded for safety and give me an easier time than I’d expected with the pathway penetrating deeper into rich evergreen forest.