No Gentle Giant by Nicole Snow
Fool’s Gold (Alaska)
No matter how many times we change homes, one thing stays sacrosanct in the Charter household—breakfast.
It’s been a morning ritual ever since Elijah was old enough to eat solid food. I’ve always done most of the cooking, but some days when I was busy with work, it’d be sandwiches or takeout for lunch or dinner.
Not breakfast.
Breakfast is as permanent and sure as the sunrise.
My days don’t feel right if I don’t start ’em standing over the stove with several skillets popping away, filling the kitchen with the glories of frying hash browns, sizzling bacon, eggs sputtering with molten cheese.
Sometimes my son helps—but the kitchen in the rented cabin is a little tight for a man my size and a growing teenager, so he’s perched on a stool at the island, half watching me and half messing around with Instagram filters for his latest photoset.
“Hey, Dad,” he says a little breathlessly. “I just landed my five hundredth follower!”
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder, watching him while keeping one eye on the timer. The buttermilk biscuits are due out any second, and I hate burning the edges. “I’m proud of you, dude. You don’t mind if I check these people out, do you?”
He stops, sighs, and gives me an aggrieved look.
He’s still in his pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and shorts, bedhead sticking up everywhere. I hold in a laugh. He looks less like the patient sufferer he wants to be and more like a very exasperated baby chick with his feathers ruffled.
“You don’t have to check all of my followers. I’ve been careful,” he says.
“I can promise you I do,” I reply smoothly. “You’re twelve years old. It wouldn’t be the first time weirdos online sent inappropriate DMs. I just want to know what kind of accounts are following you, and why they’re interested in your photos.”
Eli groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll change my password back.”
I snap my head around to eye him.
“You changed your password?”
“Um...it was a security thing. It prompted me!” he rushes out.
“Uh-huh.”
Real slick. Like I wouldn’t change my password if I was twelve and trying to avoid my overprotective dad supervising my internet fun.
Sighing, I shake my head and go back to pushing eggs around the skillet. “Just text me the new password. If it was a security thing, it probably won’t let you change it back to the old one.”
That earns me a scowl and a stuck-out tongue, barely glimpsed from the corner of my eye. I turn around and secretly grin as I hear him tapping on his phone to text me.
The sound that chimes next definitely isn’t my notification tone, though.
The doorbell.
I’m not expecting company. The very last thing I’m expecting, when I turn around, is to see Felicity Randall waiting outside on the front porch, framed as pretty as a picture in the glass inset of the door.
Oh, hell.
Yes, I’m painfully aware that I’m standing here in pajama pants, shirtless except for a damned apron, probably looking every inch the mess of divorced bachelor man I am. Divorced roughneck bachelor man, with my tattoos out and literal battle scars showing.
Meanwhile, she’s put together like a dream, teasing and svelte in a simple but lovely off-the-shoulder blouse. It glows in a shade of soft blue that brings out the rich blue-violet glow of her eyes.
Her hair tumbles over her bare shoulders in cinnamon ripples.
Her jeans hug her curves and long legs, heeled leather boots giving her an extra inch in height.
A battered leather purse hangs from one arm, her fingers wound lightly around the strap.
An first glance, yeah, she looks like pure vixen sin. Delicate pointed features, heavy-lidded eyes, the low sweep of thick lashes.
Take a closer look, and she’s more like a fawn.
Still delicate, strong, long and slender and all legs, but less sly and more wary, waiting to bolt the second something startles her.
Is that the skillet popping or my blood?
I wonder who hurt this girl. And why?
I’ll never get why people go out of their way to make someone else suffer for no goddamned reason, and I can’t imagine Felicity doing anything to provoke those shitty rumors.
More than anything, I wonder why she’s on my doorstep, watching me through the glass with clear amusement.
Her round full-lipped mouth peaks at the corners and damned near punches me in the dick.
“Uh.” I clear my throat, then raise my voice. “Just a second!”
I’m already turning off the burners and the oven, then fumbling with my apron strings to get them off—but I realize I probably shouldn’t.
At least not in full view of the door.
“Hey, Eli? Can you let her in and grab her some coffee? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing.” He’s watching me with a knowing look.
“Thanks!”
I dash into the bedroom, pulling at my apron, and listening to the sounds from the living room. Considering how shy Eli is unless he gets caught up in his photos, I’m surprised to hear how relaxed he sounds greeting her, genuine warmth and excitement in his voice. I already know he’s going to forget to offer her coffee, tea, something to drink.
And I’m right.
In the time it takes me to pull on an undershirt and a clean flannel shirt, button it up, and step back to the common area, he’s already got her at the island. They’re browsing his Instagram account, the two of them with their heads together like co-conspirators.
What gets me, though, is the fact that she’s actually paying attention.
You know how most people are when kids want to show them something.
They’ll humor them, nod, smile, but don’t actually pay attention. Or they’ll say things in that tone that says they’re not even taking it in and just waiting for the kid to shut up and go away.
Not Felicity. Her eyes spark with keen interest.
As I walk toward the living room she’s saying, “...no, I can see why you used the sepia tone here. With the sunlight streaming in, the way the light hits everything makes it glitter, and desaturating a bit makes the room seem kinda ghostly.”
“Yeah!” Eli brightens, looking at her raptly, and I’m starting to think he’s got a little bit of a crush himself. “Like, that’s what I was going for. I think it’s really cool to photograph these bright places and make them look kind of haunted with filter effects.”
Felicity props her elbow on the kitchen island and rests her chin in her palm, grinning at my son. “You know, we used to think Heart’s Edge washaunted. That we had some monster up in the hills, this big beast named Nine. Turns out it was just my friend’s husband, Leo.”
“Dude.” Eli’s eyes widen. “The guy with all the cool scars and tattoos?”
“That’s him.”
“I want to take pictures of him, but Dad won’t let me ask.” He pouts, shoulders sagging.
I start to open my mouth—but Felicity answers first. She rests her hand lightly on Eli’s shoulder, watching him with her gaze warm. “Sometimes people who’ve spent their whole lives feeling sensitive about how they look can feel self-conscious even when people think they look cool. We love Leo, but he’s still getting used to folks seeing him out in the open without being afraid. So your dad’s probably thinking about Leo’s feelings, and I’d bet you wouldn’t want to hurt him either, right?”
Eli’s brows knit together.
“Oh, right. I didn’t think about it like that. I mean...I get it. It’s just like if I have a pimple on photo day.”
“Just like that.” Felicity laughs softly, then blinks, lifting her head and looking at me standing there like a dumbstruck moose in the hallway. She flushes, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”
She has nothing to apologize for.
Except maybe the fact that my heart’s about to blow through my rib cage, watching this woman talk to my kid in such a sweet, reasonable way. Without even trying, she’s helping him work through things he needs to learn as an adult, but that my clumsy ass isn’t always equipped to teach.
The way to some men’s hearts is through their stomachs.
Looks like the way to mine is through my son.
I finally make myself stop gawking at her like a moon-faced moron and flash a smile.
“Hey, no worries. You want some coffee? I told him to ask, but I see you fell down the rabbit hole.”
“I really didn’t mind. Eli’s talented.” She flashes me a smile, while Eli beams at her with stars in his eyes. Her smile fades as she glances into my kitchen at the brewer going steady with a fresh pot. “I’m not drinking coffee if it’s out of that.”
I blink. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Drip is the lowest life form on the coffee hierarchy.” She pushes to her feet, sliding smoothly off the stool in a little undulating twist that pulls her blouse up. Just enough to show a tempting hint of velvety pale skin in the curve of her waist. “I know these cabins come with French presses. I’m the one who helped Ms. Wilma pick them out. So. I’ll drink coffee with you, on the condition that you let me make you better coffee.” She grins. “I even happen to have a case of my special Felicity-branded roast in the trunk of my car.”
“If it’s Felicity-branded, how can I resist?” I chuckle. “Also, we’ve got a rule here. If you’re making coffee, you earned breakfast. I insist.”
Felicity’s smile sinks.
She looks at me uncertainly, darting her eyes away, tucking her hair behind her ear with her fingers curved so lightly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose, I just—”
“You’re not imposing. Stay,” I finish for her.
I want to yank that idea right the hell out of her head right now.
No matter the rumors, no matter what the fuck people say about her or what they’ve made her believe, I’m not judging her.
My opinion begins and ends with the woman she’s shown me from my first hurried coffee runs into her place for the crew. Now I see one who’s warm, caring, smart, thoughtful, willing to risk herself to save a kid who isn’t even her own. That’s the Felicity Randall I’ve met.
That Felicity Randall is welcome around me anytime.
Just to put her pride at ease, I grin and say, “I told you. You earned it. We’re trading services here. My cooking for your coffee.”
She still looks uneasy, and I wonder again what’s brought her to my doorstep. Somehow, I don’t think it’s a neighborly chat when we’re not proper neighbors—never mind small-town hospitality.
After a moment she nods and a small, troubled smile flickers over her lips. “Okay, deal. Give me a second, and I’ll bring in the grounds. The French press should be in the second cabinet above the sink.”
“I’ll get it washed out and ready for you.”
She only nods and gives Eli a warmer smile before turning and slipping out. I watch through the window while she pops the trunk of her car and then disappears behind it.
I tear myself away and focus on rummaging around in the cabinets for the—oh. Yep. There it is. I think?
This thing looks like it should be used for pressing something with this disc on a stick inside the large glass cylinder.
Look, I know how good coffee tastes.
I’ll leave the mechanics to the experts.
It’s a little dusty, but a quick rinse in the sink and a wipe with a towel has it gleaming good as new. By the time I set it down on the counter, Felicity’s already letting herself back in, fingers plucking at the little tabs sealing a tight-packed bag of grounds closed.
The moment it opens, the scent of nirvana fills the room, bursting into every corner—earthy, rich, dark, nutty. I take in a deep breath, flaring my nostrils.
“Damn, that smells divine.”
Felicity ducks her head, and a faint flush warms her cheeks until she’s nearly glowing. “It’s a hazelnut-caramel roast,” she says, giving me a dry look. “I know your order. You have a sweet tooth sometimes. Figured I’d go for a sweeter blend.”
“Pretty unique. Most people add their flavoring in after.”
“Yep. I wanted to try something new. Something different.” She starts to venture past the island and into the kitchen, then pauses with a questioning gesture, only to step farther inside a second later, passing me in a whiff of coffee, sweetness, and something deliciously Felicity as she moves to the French press. “Most of the time beans are mass-roasted for distribution. I’m distributing, too, but since I’m making small batches, I can afford to experiment. And most of my sales go to a candy shop and its spinoff café in Chicago, so I thought maybe people coming in for candy would appreciate something sweeter.”
I appreciate her sweetness, all right.
There’s this certain way she talks about her handiwork as she fills the kettle on the stove, her voice so soft, her eyes lowered, care in every word and every action.
It’s the same way I imagine you’d hear a master artisan talk about their craft, from a fine crafter of violins to a gifted painter.
Frankly, it’s beautiful.
I’ve always thought you can put that kind of love into anythingyou make, no matter how small or mundane it might seem. It’s clear Felicity has.
It’s also awfully clear I’m staring at her again like my eyes have no chill.
Good thing she’s busy with the coffee.
I clear my throat and get myself together, jerking my gaze from her face to her hands so I can at least look like I’m interested in the process and not just her.
“So you grind your own beans, too?”
“Mm-hmmm.” It comes out absent, murmured, as she leaves the kettle to simmer and then does some arcane thing to the French press that makes it come apart in neat pieces. “I bag and sell whole beans for the purists who want to grind their own. Grinding them makes them lose flavor, so it’s better if you buy whole beans and only grind when you’re ready to use them. But not everyone has time for that, or cares enough to bother.” She smiles ruefully and shrugs. “These were just ground and bagged last night, so they’re still strong.”
I could listen to her talk about this for days.
I’m barely even processing the words. Just listening to the soothing pride in her voice turning every syllable into silk and watching the absorbed expression on her face.
Not to mention the way she bites her lip so gently as she focuses on pouring steaming hot water into the press’ carafe, carefully streaming it down the sides till it forms a small puddle in the bottom.
I’m honestly confused. Guess it must show on my face, because she glances at me sidelong with a smile.
“You have to preheat the glass evenly for the best result,” she says, setting the kettle back down on the stove.
“Ah. Preheat. Got it.”
She turns the kettle off before stealing a measuring cup from my pantry, then shakes out some of those grounds. The movement releases another burst of delicious scent that makes my stomach rumble like it’s caught a whiff of hazelnut-caramel pastries.
Yeah, my gut’s as subtle as a grizzly bear waking up from hibernation.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Felicity stifles a giggle behind her hand, then glances at me, clearing her throat.
“I guess I made it smell pretty good in here,” she says. “Or you’re just starving. I didinterrupt breakfast.”
“We hadn’t started in yet. I just need to let everything cook for a few more minutes.” I move next to her, turning the burners back on the stove and putting the oven back on. The biscuits might be a little thick from turning off before they finished cooking, but we’ll survive.
It’s pretty comfortable for the next few minutes.
Felicity and I work side by side in extremely close quarters while I make sure the eggs are good and cheesy, the bacon crisp, the hash browns rich and buttery.
She puts grounds in the press and fills it up, releasing so much of that heavenly scent it’s nearly dizzying, only to stir and then do—something—that releases a rushing cloud of aromatic steam that flushes up like some kind of magic trick.
“That was so cool!” Eli gasps, and I jump. He’d been so quiet, watching us so intently, that I’d half forgotten he was there. He grins. “I gotta tell Mr. Leo about that. Zach says he hates making coffee over a campfire. It’s always gritty.” He stops, giving me a look that’s almost too cunning for a twelve-year-old. “I mean. I gotta tell him—if you give me permission to go camping.”
“I told you I haven’t made up my mind yet.” And I won’t, not till I get a chance to feel out the areas around town better and figure out just how safe they are. I point my spatula at him. “I’ll talk to Leo when we drop you off today.”
The impending pout immediately turns into a hopeful smile. “I still get to go hiking?”
“You still get to go hiking. After breakfast and a shower.” I toss my head toward the hall. “Food’s almost ready. Go clean up.”
I barely get the last word out before Eli’s off the stool, tablet abandoned as he zips toward the bathroom.
Oof. I miss having that kind of boyish energy.
Once he’s gone, though, I glance at Felicity and offer her a smile as I pull down a second coffee cup to add to the first I’d already put out. Then I start portioning up the food onto three plates.
I always make a little too much in case Eli needs a snack later, so I’ve got plenty for a guest. Felicity pours that amazing-smelling coffee and pulls over the tall sugar canister on the counter.
“I already know you take yours with a half-pound of sugar and a dash of heavy cream,” she teases. “In the fridge?”
“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 kidto 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 hypotheticalshe’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 the 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 believeI 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 and 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.
I’ve got my window down. The air smells gorgeous: crisp with pine and distant unmelted snow, warmed by the sun.
Underneath it all, there’s that scent of Miss Fliss and her constant fragrance of warm homey coffee.
“I’m sorry,” Felicity says, breaking the silence that’s held since we loaded up my camping supplies, dropped Eli off, and headed out before many folks would be up to stare at a monster crane floating down Main Street.
I’ve been expecting this, though it’s so abrupt it catches me off guard.
I glance at her again, but she’s not looking at me, staring out the window—until I catch her gaze in the reflective glass, the shimmer of morning turning the window into a mirror.
That’s when it hits me.
She hasn’t been looking out at the wilderness the whole time.
She’s been looking at my reflection in the truck’s window.
Fuck.
I feel like I’m ten years younger, the way my head spins with all these questions about why, and about why I want her to be staring—but the rational adult’s still in charge.
And rational adult me feels more concerned with that troubled look on her face that says she’s two seconds away from bolting out of a moving vehicle like we’re in the middle of some old Jean-Claude Van Damme remake.
“What’re you apologizing for?” I ask carefully.
“Everything. Nothing. I...” She lifts her hands, then drops them into her lap hard enough to make her palms smack her thighs. “I only meant to ask you for advice. This was never supposed to happen, and now here you are, driving up into the mountains with me, chasing ghosts.”
I shrug, idly thumping my thumb against the steering wheel.
“Little late to stop now. Already got the crane loaded and we’re almost there. Not to mention I don’t like taking no for an answer.” I flash her a wink.
Honestly, I was surprised by how easily she’d given in at the time, considering what a prideful little fox she is.
But I figure the other day, she’d been in shock, too overwhelmed by me springing this camping idea on her when she was trying to play coy with her un-hypotheticals.
Shock’s worn off now.
I should probably brace myself for an argument, a panicked demand to turn this truck right back around on this narrow two-lane mountain road and let her do whatever fool thing she’s fixing to do. Alone.
Felicity twists to glance over her shoulder, looking through the window in the back of the truck. Most of the view’s taken up by the deep yellow and black stripes of the crane.
She squints at it with her mouth knotted up before sighing.
“I know, Alaska, I just—I don’t know. Not really.” With a frustrated sound, she twists to face forward again. “People who get close to me usually end up regretting it. People who do me favors can lose more than they ever meant to give. I’m the black cat of Heart’s Edge. And one guy...” Her mouth trembles, and she flashes me a heavy-eyed look full of enough guilt to sink a tanker. “One guy lost his life.”
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“Unless you killed him yourself,” I ask, “how’s it your fault again?”
“It just is.” She hisses it out, pressing her tongue against her upper lip, pink tip curling. “My father was involved in bad things. I told you that. A few years ago, there was a friend of mine, this older guy, Dennis Bress...”
Her eyes mist over, and she tilts her head against the window again, staring out at the sun shafts sliding through the trees.
“Go on,” I urge her.
“He was so sweet, but always so sad. He had his own issues. He was big into local real estate and trying to help me with working out collateral for a loan. Back then I didn’t know the slightest thing about working with banks or how to safely use my café as collateral without losing it. Not to mention my credit’s so bad I’d need ten cosigners to take out a thousand dollars. All he wanted was to help me because he loved my coffee so much. And then this other guy who was caught up in my dad’s hot mess just up and murdered him. All because he was using poor Mr. Bress to cover himself.”
“Your friend died because some asshole thought he was disposable,” I point out firmly. “Just because he knew you doesn’t mean his death was on your hands.”
“It was,” she repeats, clenching her fists against her thighs. “It’s a butterfly effect. Because maybe if Dad never did the things he did that entire chain of events wouldn’t have—”
“No point worrying about if when if is never gonna happen.” I frown.
Yeah, her old man was involved with drug runners—but he wasn’t around anymore, and I doubt Felicity’s taken up in his footsteps.
“Look, you can only worry about the now, and what’s to come. And right now, you can’t carry the cross of blame for your father’s mistakes. They’re his to bear and he’s gone.”
“...try telling that to everyone else,” she mutters miserably. “I just don’t want to see you or Eli hurt.”
“You think anything can hurt me?” I flash her a grin. “And you can be damned sure Papa Bear isn’t letting anyone near his son.”
She blinks at me, her mouth twitching in little spasms, almost like she can’t control it.
She finally loses the battle and her soft, sweet red lips turn up at the corners, a snort of amusement escaping her lips.
“Papa Bear, huh?”
“Got a smile out of you, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. You did. Congratulations.” Her eyes soften. “Thanks for that.”
“Anytime, Fliss.”
She just looks at me for a few long seconds, and I wonder what she’s thinking.
The woman’s an odd one. Seems like she’s got her heart on her sleeve, but there’s always something held back, too.
Like she’s keeping a secret in those shining eyes that study me like she’s trying to suss out my true motives. I’ve got a skittish one on my hands here, all right, and that gorgeous creature is trying to figure out if I want to have her for dinner.
I mean. Shit.
There’s a terrible joke or two I could make here about eating her—and about being an overgrown wild thing myself, looking for a mate.
I’m holding it in.
Barely.
Let me tell you, it’s a feat of goddamned strength.
I glue my eyes back on the road and not on the pretty girl I want to gravitate to with every breath.
“Hope you’re not too worried about heading up here with me. I’ve done riskier jobs in the SEALs. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I tell her.
“What if you’re what I need to worry about?” she asks solemnly.
I jerk so hard it’s a miracle I don’t stomp my foot on the brake.
“Uh.” I glance at her, wide-eyed. “Ma’am, I am not that kind of guy. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll turn right back around and go back for Eli. You can sure as hell bet I wouldn’t mess with a girl without her consent, but least of all in front of my kid.”
I’m not expecting the stifled snickering.
Or for it to turn into full-blown, playful, belly-busting laughter.
Vixen.
I scowl at her. “What’s so damn funny?”
“Nothing, I just...the look on your face! Oh my God.” She’s laughing behind her hand, her eyes bright above her curled fingers. “I wasn’t serious, Alaska. I wouldn’t be in this truck if I didn’t think you were a hundred percent safe.”
I don’t know if that warms me or rustles my jimmies just a little.
I’m glad she knows I’m safe.
I’m glad she feels safe with me.
But hell, I wonder if she even sees me as a man at all, if she doesn’t think I might just be looking her way. While I’ll keep my hands to myself without an invitation, sometimes that Cupid’s bow of her lips makes my wayward thoughts filthy things without my invitation.
That’s my problem to deal with, though.
I grumble and slump down in the driver’s seat.
“Can’t always tell when people are joking sometimes. My primary social life for the last twelve years has been Eli,” I say.
“Is it true what Holt says?” she teases. “That you spent more time around polar bears than people?”
Not this shit again.
“I think what’s true is I’m gonna have to string Holt Silverton from a ceiling fan by his balls. When did he tell you that?”
She smiles at me sunnily. “While you were checking the chains on the crane.”
“You mean when his lazy ass was supposed to be helping me,” I counter.
“He was helping you.” She blinks innocently. “He was helping me feel safe with you. I think he called you a—what was it again?” Felicity makes a big show out of thinking, tapping at her lower lip and raising her eyes to the roof of the cab. “A big teddy bear. That’s what he said. Just a big old fuzzy squish.”
“There’s nothing squishy about me, woman,” I say darkly.
“But you are kinda fuzzy.”
“Can’t deny that.” I grin, stroking my beard. Really oughta give it a trim, or just go straight-up Viking and start putting beads in it. “Does that make you want to pet me?”
There’s nothing but a strangled sound from her, and I glance off the road—I’m doing that too much with this girl—to find her staring stiffly out the window, her face red as a beet.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Just teasing. Promise you I really am harmless. We’re just killing time on a long drive, but I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”
“You didn’t.” She laughs then, and it’s honest and sweet and real. A coil of tension in me loosens its grip. With one more shy peek at me, she brushes her hair back. “I’m not used to people being that easy with me. I mean, yeah, I have my friends who don’t care about the petty small-minded stuff, but they have their own troubles. I’m usually the one listening to them, trying to lighten their mood.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time you deserved somebody listening to you?” I ask.
“Deserved? I don’t know about that.” She gives me a smile that could bring summer to Fairbanks in January. “But it’s definitely nice to have your ear.”
I can’t answer.
Not when that smile makes my heart boom behind my ribs, churning and straining even harder than the traction on this eighteen-wheeler.
Even so, I’m glad to smile back, and we settle into an easy, comfortable quiet for the rest of the drive.
We take the scenic route—though technically every route feels like the scenic one up here.
The road slopes down on one side to lush overgrown valleys full of trees older than my grandpa, clustered so dense together it’s like primordial forest. When an ancient tree falls in these parts, it never quite hits the ground. It just gets caught up in the branches of the trees around it and leans there while new things grow on it, grass and moss and vines, all the living things making their homes inside.
To the other side, the mountains rise in sheer cliffs and rough slopes.
Every now and then as we round a turn we get a breathtaking view of snowy peaks marching against a brilliant blue skyline so clear you’d think it was a technicolor painting.
Not something real.
The beauty continues as we crest a peak in the road that cuts through a mountain pass, looking down into the miniature valley that cups Glass Lake.
Now I can see how it got its name.
It’s as clear and smooth as glass, barely rippling, throwing back the reflection of day with a perfect blue sheen. It’s also so translucent you can see into the depths.
Looks a bit murky toward the center, though.
Too deep to make out more than muddy shadows beyond a certain point, the reflection of the sky becoming a mask that hides what’s underneath.
On the far end of the lake there’s a little rental place along the shore with a few pontoon boats bobbing in a small marina. Sort of disorienting when the water’s clarity makes the boats look like they’re floating on air—something I’ve only seen in places like French Polynesia before.
Felicity lets out an awed sound, looking through the windshield with wide eyes. “It’s gorgeous. I forgot just how beautiful it is up here.”
“You come here a lot?”
“...used to.” She hooks her index fingers together, tugging them like she’s trying to break out of an invisible finger trap. “Back when, you know, things were still good with my family. We’d come camping up here sometimes.”
“Fliss?”
“Yeah?”
“You sure you want to do this?” I make sure the brake’s locked, the truck idling, before I turn to face her, propping an arm against the back of the seat. “What if there’s nothing up here for you but bad memories?”
“Then I need to face them,” she says firmly with a touch of brave pride that makes admiration flare in my chest. “But if there’s nothing here, then you dragged this humongous crane up here for nothing.”
“Not for nothing. Got camping gear, fishing tackle, a cooler full of beer, and a pretty girl. Sounds like a nice weekend to me.” I thump the back window of the cab, where the crane’s just a blot of yellow in my peripheral vision. “The crane can stand night watch.”
Felicity lets out a soft laugh, but it’s a little nervous, too.
I promise myself I’ll make sure of one thing no matter what happens today.
Felicity Randall’s leaving here better than when she came.
It’s a little awkward maneuvering the truck down the steep slope into the valley, and then around the lake along some narrow dirt roads winding through the trees. I think if there hadn’t been loggers here before, their tracks worn deep, I’d have never gotten the truck through.
It’s even more awkward dealing with the guy at the boat rental place. He can’t stop staring at the crane while I’m just trying to get out of here with the fewest questions possible.
He just gawks out the window of his little booth, looking between me and Felicity, past us at the crane, then back at Felicity, who’s tucked close to me with her wool-lined jacket wrapped tight around her, arms hugged close against the glacial nip of mountain air.
I’m in short sleeves, of course.
To me, this is a balmy day.
“Uh,” the guy says. “Are y’all with a construction crew?”
“Nope.” I smile and offer him my debit card. “Just came here for some camping. Maybe a little fishing too.”
“You gonna scoop all the fish out with the crane? Shit, mister, we don’t got whales in this lake.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I counter cheerfully, and don’t offer a single other word.
After a few more seconds of expectant staring, the guy snorts, swipes the card, and hands it over, along with the key to unlock the boat’s controls. With him watching us, Felicity and I head down to the dock, scanning the numbers on the boats’ hulls to find ours.
“You good taking this out to the site?” I ask. “I’ll get the truck situated close by.”
“Sure,” she says. “Although I think that guy’s ready to call the rangers on us.”
“Any laws about transporting construction equipment out here?” I ask.
“Don’t think so.”
“If anyone asks, I work construction. This was the only vehicle I had for a sudden detour to camp on the way home from a job, and it just happened to be loaded at the time.” I laugh, and nod at the far side of the lake. There’s a small inlet there, where a spit of land thrusts out and isolates a small segment of the lake from view on this side. “Meet you over there?”
“Sure thing, Papa Bear.”
Before I can do anything but splutter, she flicks my arm with her fingertips, plucks the keys from my hand, and marches down the weathered boards of the dock. I watch her vault lightly into the pontoon boat without so much as rocking it.
This woman.
I’m left watching dumbfounded as she unmoors the pontoon boat with an expert hand and sends it puttering into the water, looking like she’s floating on air.
I don’t realize I have company till there’s the scuff of a foot on the dock, and I find Rental Guy staring after her, looking confused and flustered.
He starts to open his mouth.
I raise a hand.
“No more questions, man. Seriously. It’s not as deep as you think. Here.” I open my wallet and push a few crisp bills into his hand. “Extra safety deposit to cover any concerns you’ve got going through that head. Keep it.”
I leave him there, flabbergasted, chuckling to myself.
He’s gonna have some stories to tell his old lady when he gets home tonight, I’m guessing.
I’ve got a girl sailing away from me, though, and she’ll beat me to the campsite at this rate, so I clap the guy’s shoulder and head back to where we parked the truck.
By the time I get to the site I’d pointed out, I’m cursing. It’s a small miracle I haven’t tipped this damned thing over.
Rocky gravel, mud...maybe I was a little overconfident.
After a solid half hour, I manage to park the truck behind a cluster of fir trees not far from the tree line. Looks like a clear path to back the crane down the truck’s ramp to the shore if needed. Though in the loose, silty soil and lakeshore gravel, I’ll probably need some big rocks to wedge the thing in if we need it.
Felicity’s waiting for me when I haul my sweaty behind out of the cab with both our bags and a big duffel of camping gear slung to my back. Wrestling a truck shouldn’t be so exhausting.
She’s found a tumble of rocks that bump right up to the shore, windswept clean except for a little lichen and a few collected pools of rainwater in the hollows.
The way she looks seizes me by the throat.
She’s sitting on the rocky peak with her hands braced on both sides of her lithe body, her nose pink from the cold, her eyes bright and her cinnamon hair spilling over her shoulders.
In a flash, I see this strange freshwater mermaid, playing at being human.
Like any moment now she’ll tumble away, skin silver-white and icy as the glacial water, hair streaming kelp, her legs turned into a fishtail.
Maybe it’s an odd fantasy—the kind of thing I’m used to from hours spent on Alaskan fishing boats, the waves lulling you into quiet daydreams.
Still.
There’s this feeling about her.
Like she’s ephemeral and not really here.
Too easy to let slip through your fingers, even when you’re fighting like hell to hold on to her.
That shouldn’t make me feel so melancholy, so raw. Too many memories, I think, turning me inside out now that I’m alone in the wild with a pretty lady. It’s been too long.
Katelyn and I were long over when she died. No love lost. You still mourn the person, no matter what they did.
Because no matter what, you still made something together, and what we made out of our bad times is more precious to me than anything in this upside-down universe.
Eli.
There’s a very good reason I haven’t looked at a woman in years—Eli always comes first.
Clearing my throat, I step up to the rocks and drop the bags in a good clear spot.
“Hey.”
She startles, jumping a little, then looks over her shoulder at me. It’s like she’s just come back to earth, becoming solid and real again.
“Oh, hey. Did it give you much trouble?”
“More stubborn than wrestling a bear,” I say.
“Have you really?” she asks lightly. “Wrestled many bears, that is.”
“Only the odd bears trying to break into our grub while camping.”
She stares, her mouth dropping open a little.
Biting back a grin, I wink, leaving her to decide for herself whether or not I’m punking her.
I settle down, my forearms resting on a rock outcropping, looking up at her with the sun framing her and pulling out the hints of red in her hair. It makes individual strands glow like forge-fire.
Shit, it’s hard to tear my eyes off her.
“So you want to head out now, or set up camp first? Gonna be colder on the water. Might be good to have a fire prepped and warm digs waiting when we come back.”
“Now. Before I lose my nerve,” Felicity says. No hesitation. She looks away from me, that far-seeing gaze turned out over the lake as if she can see all the way to its bottom. “I’d rather know than chicken out.”
“Now it is.” I straighten, dusting off my arms. “Did you see anything when you passed by?”
“Hmm.” After a moment, she shakes her head. “Nothing but shadows. Big ones. That deep, the water’s too murky. How are we even going to get down there?”
“Not we. I.” I pick up one of the bags I just dropped—what used to be my go bag, a duffel bag stuffed to the nines with survival gear, but now it’s just the minimum. Force of habit. It’s got my scuba gear in it, and thank God I’ve kept myself in shape or I’d have a hell of a time squeezing into the wetsuit. “Did you forget the Navy SEAL part? Plus, I’ve got twice the diving experience from offshore work. You didn’t just bring me here for my big crane, did you?”
Again, I wink.
Her eyes widen before she breaks into a laughing fit.
Yeah, I’m grinning.
Her laugh could grow on a man.
She laughs like she’s not used to a joke, but it’s a delight to see, to hear, to relish.
“Oh my God, your dad jokes are awful. And so are your dirty ones.”
“My sense of humor makes Eli laugh, thank you very much.” Chuckling, I shake my head and twirl one finger. “Now turn around. I need to suit up, and I can’t have you feasting your eyes and spoiling my purity.”
That gets another snicker, then she clears her throat and dutifully turns away, lifting her chin and making a point of staring at the sky.
I turn my back before I start to strip down.
I’m not shy.
I’m just not a fan of exposing myself to strange women unless they’ve asked to see it.
You hoping she’ll ask, Alaska?this sly voice in the back of my mind sings.
Nope. Gotta get those catastrophic thoughts outta my head.
A dip in the glacial water should help with that, though I wince at the imminent freeze to my balls.
It doesn’t take me long to shimmy into the wetsuit, zipping up from neck to toe in the rubbery, insulated layer.
Checking the wrist seals, I pull my jeans and flannel shirt back on over the whole thing for now and sling the dive kit with my backup oxygen tank and mask over one shoulder.
“C’mon,” I say, smoothing my thick hair against my head as much as I can. “Let’s roll.”
There’s a comfy tandem in the way we move together to haul the rest of my backup gear onto the boat before pushing off from shore.
Feels like we’ve known each other for years, instead of just noticed each other in passing for months before settling into this odd...friendship? Is that what this is?
Despite her skittishness, she puts me at ease when I’m around her.
Makes me feel calm. Settled. Focused when my eyes aren’t stuck to her.
Glass Lake is pretty big, but the pontoon boat skips lightly over its surface and carries us to the coordinates from her dad’s logbook.
We track them down with precision using the boat’s onboard navigation.
Felicity idles our ride to a halt over the spot, and I lean my arms on the side rail, peering down through the clear water.
Still, even eerily translucent water becomes inky shadows at a certain depth.
Strain as I might, I can’t see the bottom—but I can see subtle differences in the shapes and outlines of the shadows. I think I can make out something darkeragainst the bottom.
Something with a more regular—possibly man-made—shape versus whatever rocks and waterlogged deadwood might be at a freshwater lake bed.
“There’s definitely something down there,” I say.
She joins me at my side, frowning, leaning over the edge so far I want to catch her by the scruff of her coat and pull her back. “It could be anything. Driftwood. Rocks. Trash.”
“The fact that it’s right where your dad put down his coordinates says otherwise.” I shrug out of my shirt. I’m too hot in the wetsuit underneath, but that’ll change pretty fast. “I’m gonna head down and take some photos of whatever I find.”
“I feel like I should be doing this. Not you.” Felicity straightens with a troubled look.
“Do you have scuba gear?”
“No?”
“Experience diving in forty-degree water?” I ask.
“...no.” She offers me a sheepish smile. “I get it. I’d just be in the way.”
“Nah, you’re not in the way. Period.” I can’t resist.
Part of me wants to pull her in, kiss her forehead, hold her till that subtle tremble in her body eases and I feel her go soft against me.
We’re not like that, though. Not yet.
So I settle for resting a hand to the top of her head, ruffling her hair, and regretting the fact that I can’t feel a single damned thing through my rubbery gloves.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe, Fliss. I know I’m making this sound like a pleasure snorkel, but I’m going deep and water this cold gets hazardous. It’s easy for me and I don’t want to risk you down there. Don’t even think about feeling guilty over it.”
She peeks up at me from under the shadow of my hand.
She’s holding so still, like a feral cat who wants to push into a gentle touch but isn’t sure if she should.
“You’re a good guy, you know that?”
“Yeah. Just don’t tell the rest of the town.” I smile, letting my hand fall away. “I was just starting to enjoy Holt’s reputation rubbing off on me. Alaska Charter, heartbreaking bastard, enigma, and dastardly ladies’ man.”
Felicity tilts her head, squinting one eye.
“Yeah, no. I don’t see it.”
“Thanks,” I snort.
Stepping back from her, I slide my jeans down my legs and kick off my boots, then heft my kit to my back before strapping on the oxygen tank, my goggles, and my mouthpiece under my chin.
“Be back in no less than thirty. Start the timer. It’s not that deep a dive, but just to be safe I’m gonna take it slow. Don’t start worryin’ unless I’m gone longer than forty-five minutes.” I clip a waterproof camera to my belt and strap a handheld palm light over my knuckles, then sit on the rail, backing out into the water. “Wish me luck.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Good luck!”
I just grin.
Fit my mouthpiece on.
And flop backward, plunging into the water.
* * *
It’s beena long time since my last dive, but this always feels like coming home.
The rush of frigid water against my face and neck, swarming like stinging hornets through the suit.
The water’s pressure on my body.
The streams of displaced air bubbles frothing around me, shimmering only to fade away as I sink deeper, and the world grows farther and farther away through the misty, wavering lens of the surface above.
The water really is so clear and gorgeous it’s like looking through clear sea glass.
The sun. The sky. The underside of the boat.
And Felicity, her hands gripping the railing tight as she looks over the side at me, her lips moving soundlessly and saying something that looks like “Come back safe.”
With that burned on my vision, I twist in liquid free-fall and kick my way down.
I should’ve brought proper flippers. Luckily, my own weight and the slight flare of my insulated diving shoes is enough to send me gliding down swiftly enough.
This time of day, it’s bright even down here—
Until it’s not.
The light falls away like I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. I snap on my palm light and aim it ahead of me as my eyes adjust to the cloudy darkness.
Fish flit past, lake trout and bigger species bursting apart in shimmering clouds of surprise, darting away.
I catch a few more slow-gliding, undulating shapes that could be weeds or water snakes.
Mostly, I’m focused on the shape below me.
It’s almost T-shaped, larger than it seemed from above, murky at first but as I get down deeper, closer, I can see.
My light dances across a strip of dull, degraded red. A racing stripe, I realize, painted down the side of a white outer shell.
I kick back, slowing my descent, holding as still as I can while I pan the light over the full shape of it. It’s halfway buried in silt, in debris, one wing snapped clean in half and the destroyed bit wedged upright between some rocks.
Yep.
No fucking doubt about it.
It’s a plane.
A Cessna, just like Felicity said her dad’s was, and considering the location, there’s zero doubt it’s his.
She’s either gonna love this or hate it. Or scream because we found it and she won’t know what to even feel.
I’m not sure myself.
I’ve got my camera off my belt in a heartbeat, snapping photos with one hand and aiming the lens with the other. I get a few full shots from up high, then move in closer for more detailed shots of the nose, the tail, the debris burying it.
One window looks shattered, the interior completely flooded. I can still make out the inside of the cockpit.
Might as well get a few shots inside to see if there’s anything interesting.
Anything worth hauling up the entire plane, or maybe she’ll just want to let sleeping dogs—and crashed planes—lie.
I manage to get an arm inside and snap a few shots.
What’s really striking is that the seat belt is unfastened. Most people don’t have the presence of mind to unlatch a seat belt when they’re crashing and drowning at the same time.
Not unless they planned it.
Fuck, I don’t know.
My mind whirls with freakish possibilities to explain this wreck. This mystery Felicity’s wrapped up in preys on my thoughts and makes me wonder things that are none of my business. I can think on land when I’m not counting the oxygen I have left.
There’s just one last section I want to check out.
The cargo hold.
The cockpit doors are locked from the inside, the water pressure sealing them in place anyway, and there’s no way I’m fitting my giant ass through that broken window without gutting myself.
So I kick back, circling, aiming my light till I pick out the seam of the cargo hatch outlined in lichen and moss, and dive down deeper to try to see if it’ll come open.
Easy? Hell no.
I end up clipping my camera back on my belt and sliding my palm light up to my wrist so I can get a good grip on the latch. With my feet braced against either side, I give it my all, throwing my strength into a heaving corkscrew twist.
Just when I’m about to give up, the door pops off like the top on a can of goddamned chips, nearly rocking me backward as the seal breaks.
I’m left floating there, door hanging from my hand while I stare dumbly at the broken hinges in the faint flickers of light from my wrist.
Must’ve rusted more than I thought after so many years down here—or maybe I don’t know my own strength.
I let the door go, not really paying attention as it drifts into a cloud of silty sand, and beam my light into the cargo hold.
It bounces off something reflective.
Something brilliantly bright.
My throat tightens.
Holy shit.
I fumble for my camera with numb fingers, breathing so hard I surround myself with a cloud of bubbles that still can’t obscure the glittering secret stashed inside that cargo hold.
Gold.
At least a hundred thick, heavy bars of it.
I snap shot after shot, forgetting the oxygen in my tank to get as many photos as I can.
I have to show Felicity.
She’s going to lose her shit.
Hell, I might lose my shit.
Though I’ve got a few uneasy questions, too.
Like whether or not she knew this was down here.
What the hell was her father doing with it?
And did this gold belong to someone else first, and if it did...won’t they come looking for it?
