Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            Erik appears at the entrance of his kitchen about five seconds later, looking sleepy and relaxed and handsome in his Hanes T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. “You have dough on your nose,” he says, before leaning forward to kiss it away. Then he sits across from me, on the other side of the island.

            “Okay. Moment of truth.” I slide a small porcelain plate toward him. On top there is a croissant—the fruit of my many, many labors.

            So. Many. Labors.

            “Looks good.”

            “Thank you.” I beam. “Made from scratch.”

            “I can tell.” With a small smile, he glances at how three quarters of his kitchen is coated in flour.

            “My culinary genius is apparently a bit chaotic. Come on, try it.”

            He picks up the croissant in his huge hands and takes a bite. He chews for one, two, three, four, five seconds, and I should probably give him a little more time, but I just can’t wait to ask, “You like it? Is it good?”

            He chews some more.

            “Amazing? Fantastic? Delicious?”

            More chewing.

            “Edible?”

            The chewing stops. Erik sets the croissant back on the table and swallows once. With noticeable difficulty. Then washes it all down with a sip of coffee.

            “Well?” I ask.

            “It’s . . .”

            “It cannot be bad.”

            Silence.

            “Right?”

            He tilts his head, pensive. “Is it possible that you mixed up salt and sugar?”

            “No! I . . . Is it worse than Faye’s?” He thinks about it. Which is all the answer I need. “I hate you.”

            “There is a bit of a . . . vinegary aftertaste? Did you maybe add that instead of water?”

            “What?” I scowl. “I think you are the problem. I think you just don’t like croissants.”

            He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe it’s me.”

            Cat jumps on the island. He gingerly sidesteps our mugs and with a curious expression sniffs Erik’s croissant. “Oh, buddy, no,” Erik whispers. “You don’t want to do that.” Cat takes a delicate lick. Then he turns to me to stare with a horrified, betrayed expression.

            Erik doesn’t even try not to laugh.

            “I hate you.” I close my eyes, quietly planning murder and mayhem and lots of truculent revenge scenarios. I will deface his jerseys. I will pour soy sauce in his chocolate milk. I will hoard the down comforter for the next ten nights. “I hate you,” I repeat. “I hate you so, so much.”

            “Nah.” When I open my eyes, Erik’s smile is warm and soft. “I don’t think you do, Sadie.”





Below


            Zero





For Shep and Celia.

            Still with no polar bears, but with lots of love.





Prologue


            Svalbard Islands, Norway

            Present

            I dream of an ocean.

            Not the Arctic, though. Not the one right here in Norway, with its close-packed, frothy waves constantly crashing against the coasts of the Svalbard archipelago. It’s perhaps a bit unfair of me: the Barents Sea is perfectly worth dreaming of. So are its floating icebergs and inhospitable permafrost shores. All around me there is nothing but stark, cerulean beauty, and if this is the place where I die, alone and shivering and bruised and pretty damn hungry . . . well, I have no reason to bitch.

            After all, blue was always my favorite color.

            And yet, the dreams seem to disagree. I lie here, in my half-awake, half-unconscious state. I feel my body yield precious degrees of heat. I watch the ultraviolet morning light reach inside the crevasse that trapped me hours ago, and the only ocean I can dream of is the one on Mars.