No Gentle Giant by Nicole Snow
Worth Its Weight In (Felicity)
Alaska’s face says volumes when he comes up.
He’s found something big.
He crests the water like some kind of sea god, all dark and sleek in his wetsuit with his hair slicked back against his skull, hard body gleaming in tight, hard contours against a rubber skin that leaves very little to the imagination.
Slayed.
That’s my state of being, no question.
It’s only the tight, restrained look on his face that keeps me from falling completely under his Poseidon spell.
The boat rocks heavily as he hauls himself over the side.
I grab the railing as my stomach goes sideways from the sudden jolt.
“Sorry,” he pants out, pulling out his mouthpiece and dropping down hard on the bench on the opposite side like he’s using his own weight to counter the sway. “Wish they had heavier boats to rent. This thing’s barely a tinfoil frame.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been on rubber rafts in rougher waters.” I right myself, biting my lip. “So? Was there anything down there?”
“Oh yeah.” He grins, brandishing his camera. “Found your plane. Tail’s pretty smashed up so I couldn’t match the numbers to the logs, but it’s a Cessna, all right, and...well, see for yourself. ”
He thrusts the camera at me with a boyish eagerness that would probably be charming if I wasn’t trying not to hyperventilate.
My dad’s plane.
It’s really down there.
It’s not just a crazy dream.
There’s no way it could be anyone else’s.
God, what was he doing?
Was he even the one who crashed it?
My mind spins with a thousand scenarios.
I can see the most likely scenario—Dad getting high off the Lockwood syndicate’s supply on a shipping run, crashing his plane and getting out, but after straggling back to his truck the heroin overloaded his system and he died.
Second most likely? He ODed first, and the Lockwoods sank his plane to hide his connection to them and avoid any implication in his death.
But as I activate the screen on the digital camera, I realize both options are wrong.
Dead wrong.
My breath goes out of me in a whoosh that practically deflates my lungs as I struggle to process what I’m seeing.
Piles and piles and piles of flipping gold bars hidden inside the plane’s dark belly.
My heart pounds like a drum.
My veins shrivel up, suddenly too small for the hot blood rushing through.
“Wh-what? How? I don’t...”
“That answers one question,” Alaska whispers, suddenly there, his hand warm and heavy on my back, guiding me to the seats. “Sit down. Take a deep breath. If you think you’re gonna pop, put your head between your knees.”
“I’m...I’m...I’m o-kay...”
I’m not okay.
I drop, letting the camera fall into my lap. But that image is still there, staring up at me.
So. Much. Gold.
Millions of dollars’ worth.
My first thought is that I wouldn’t ever have to worry about anything again.
Not the café. Not that rickety old station wagon. Not whether I can afford a couple treats for Shrub this week. Not how to pay my employees, where new equipment will come from, or—last but certainly not least—the next time that mackerel-eyed bitch shows up on my doorstep with that creepy-ass knife she treats like a pet.
I feel Alaska settling down next to me, the warmth of his body.
The heaviness of his bulk makes the boat dip.
I snap my head up, a question on my lips, all stalled breath making my chest flutter and my fingers shake.
“Alaska, I—”
I freeze, realizing how close he is.
He’d been leaning toward me, his hand still on my back...but now he freezes, too, as our noses almost bump.
There’s a silence so loud it’s deafening.
I can’t hear my own heartbeat but I can feel it against my eardrums, slamming so hard it mutes everything.
And in that silence I can feel too much: the broad spread of his fingers on my back, the delicious heat of his breaths against my frozen cheeks, the tingling proximity between us when his lips are so close I could just lean up and in a fit of passion—
My gaze drops to his mouth.
It’s like that thick, lustrous black beard of his just makes the redness of his mouth stand out that much more.
Honestly, it’s equally cruel and magnetic and I can’t take my eyes off it.
Until his lips move. At first I’m just hypnotized by their seam, the gleam of wetness, the shape of the tip of his tongue...
...and then I realize he’s saying something.
“—ou okay?”
“Huh?” I jerk my eyes back to his—warm swirling mocha watching me with such concern, and I flush as much with guilt as with his closeness. Clearing my throat, I jerk back, trying to hide it by straightening up in the seat. “I—yeah. I’m—I just—that’s a lot. That’s a lot to take in. I was expecting so many things, but not this.”
“I can imagine.” He starts rubbing my back, but it’s not soothing me. If anything, it’s just making my nerves ratchet up higher when the cold lake air painfully reminds me just how hot he is. “So you think your dad had something to do with all that gold?”
“I mean, how could he not? He must’ve been—”
I catch myself before the words slip out.
He must’ve been hauling it for the Lockwoods.
I can’t let Alaska that deep into my world.
I can’t let him face-plant into my trouble with a mafia princess who’s way too into knife play.
This time, it hits me for all the wrong reasons, chasing away that overheated buzzing high from finding the gold and from Alaska being this achingly close.
Jesus. This is what Paisley’s been after all this time.
This is why the little drips and drabs I tried to pay her off with would never be enough.
She thought I knew and lied to her through my teeth.
Which means Dad must’ve done something atrocious to get his hands on this much gold.
And if she finds out I know where it is, I’m beyond hosed.
I’m a dead girl walking.
She’ll skin me alive the second after she gets the coordinates out of me.
Oh, fuck.
“Okay,” Alaska says. “That’s not an okay face. If you’re gonna throw up, head over there and I’ll—”
“I’m not throwing up,” I whimper.
But I do throw myself against him, hanging on with all my might, holding in a panicked sob.
I just need sixty seconds.
A minute to hide; a minute to let someone shelter me; a minute where I’m not thinking anything except how safe Alaska makes me feel when I’m the exact opposite of safe.
I bury myself against his chest and hold on tight.
He has every right to push me away.
I think he should.
But he doesn’t.
Those big redwood arms fold around me, and it’s like this wall of stone wrapping me up, even with the rubbery wetsuit clinging between us.
He’s this great rocky houseof a man that makes me feel like I’m home, even when I’m over an hour away from Heart’s Edge.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his beard tickling my hair. “What’s wrong? What does the gold mean, Fliss?”
“I don’t know,” I lie, and I hate myself for it. But I’ll hate myself a thousand times more if I get him embroiled in my mess and he or—God forbid—Eli gets hurt.
It’s not a total lie.
I don’t know what the gold means, or where it came from, but I think I’d better find out before I make any big decisions.
All I know is that it’s blood money.
And I don’t think I can have that on my hands.
“Do you want to leave it?”
The question hits me hard.
It’s an option.
Leave the gold, forget it exists, and just...
Walk away.
...no.
No, because I might be able to—I don’t know.
Save my bacon?
Something’s telling me that even if I don’t keep the gold, it could still save my life, and Mom’s.
Which is infinitely more important than anything else in this insanity.
I pull back, shaking my head, wiping at tears that never fell.
“No. We should retrieve it, if we can.”
There’s a moment when he hesitates—before his arms fall away, leaving me cold. “Then let’s head for shore and get that crane in place.”
I stare at him. “Wait. Are you going to haul the whole plane up? For real?”
“Nah.” There’s a wickedness to his grin—an excitement, like we’re on some kind of wild treasure hunt. “I’ve got a better idea.”
* * *
I don’t knowwhat that idea is until we’re back on shore, and he’s maneuvered the crane down off the back of the flatbed truck to a good spot wedged against a tall outcropping of rocks.
It’s hooked up to heavy steel cables, and he loops their ends around one arm several times before tucking a bright-blue bundle under his other arm.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “And then we’ll see what this baby can do.”
He thumps the side of the crane with a hollow boom, and before I know it, he’s gone.
Sinking into the lake, sliding away as silky as a huge sea lion.
I can see his shadow for the longest time until I can’t see him at all.
I pace on the shore anxiously for what feels like hours.
It’s driving me crazy not knowing what’s going on down there, and I keep checking my watch.
Thirty minutes...
Forty...
Forty-two...
Oh, God.
What if something happened to him down—
There’s a distant splash before I finish that thought, and Alaska’s head pops up in the middle of the lake like some kind of freaky dolphin. I suck in a breath, pressing my knuckles to my mouth to stifle my laugh of relief.
He lets out a shout and waves before swimming toward me in powerful overhand strokes, the morning sun gleaming off his black-slicked, broad shoulders.
The moment he comes wading out, he yanks his mouthpiece and goggles off, then grins and beelines for the crane without even changing out of his wetsuit.
“Let’s see what we’ve hooked,” he says, and fires it up with a rumbling groan of the engine.
I’m expecting it to be difficult, slow, but the crane starts winching the cables back easily, sliding so lightly there’s no possible way they’re dragging an entire plane.
But Alaska had a plan, right? So how do you get the gold all the way up without—
Oh.
I realize what the bright-blue bundle was as it broaches the lake’s surface.
A tarp.
Tarps, plural, multiple layers by the looks of it.
He was down there loading up the gold bars on them and twisting it into a giant sack, then attaching it to the cables to haul it all up.
I’ll admit, I didn’t quite think it was real when I saw the photos.
The huge wad hits the shore and digs into the rocky sand with a grinding noise, its own weight dragging it to a halt.
I feel like I’ve been sucker punched.
Falling to my knees in the ice-cold surf on the shore, prying the wet tarp away, I stop and stare at the gleaming bars of shining metal that must be worth lives.
To Paisley Lockwood, probably worth many more lives than my own.
I’m not ready to carry the weight of this, but I guess I don’t have a choice.
Alaska’s hand falls on my shoulder.
Grounding me.
Steadying me.
“C’mon, Fliss,” he says. “Let’s get it loaded up and out of the way, and then we can set up camp.”
I lift my head, staring up at him dully.
“You still want to camp with all of this?”
“Yeah. Your pup’s covered, right?”
I nod. “My cousin’s checking on the doggo.”
Every muscle in his body flexes tight as he hunkers down in a crouch next to me. “Seems to me like you don’t want people knowing about this, and I don’t blame you. So, if we came up here to go camping, they’re going to ask questions if we come back when we haven’t even been gone half a day.”
“Oh. Good point.” I worry at my lower lip with my fingertips, nodding. “We can go back in the morning.”
I feel like that’s bought me a little time to figure out what the hell to do, I guess.
A smidge of breathing space at best.
I already dread returning to Heart’s Edge dangerously “richer” than I ever imagined.
Because the instant I do, I’ll have to figure out what to dowith this heap of shining, precious, entirely untouchable murder.
* * *
It takesus over two hours to get the gold loaded into the storage area behind the seats in the flatbed’s cab, and at least another hour for Alaska to get the crane on the truck.
By the time we’re done, my arms are sore noodles and I’m ready to collapse.
Leave it to Mr. Polar Bear to keep on trucking like he’s not even tired.
His wicked smile and his mad energy keep me moving.
He really thought of everything, including bringing along two tents—though I catch myself thinking I wouldn’t have minded sharing one. He’s prepared for just about anything life can throw at him.
Anything minus me, probably.
Still, it’s easy.
It’s quiet.
I don’t even know him, but it’s so effortless to be with him, moving in friendly companionship as we set up our tents, start a roaring fire, and then settle in on the shore with fishing poles to catch our dinner.
I take the spot closer to the fire, trying to warm up after changing out of my soaked, frigid jeans and into a dry pair. He’s just close enough that I can feel his shoulder lightly brushing against mine as he casts his line and waits.
Now and then he twitches his line and recasts, gazing off into the distance. His rugged expression mirrors the mountains, his forehead lined, deep in thought.
I can’t help but smile.
“What’s so funny?” he growls, lifting a brow.
“You look like you were made for this, dude.”
“Yeah?” He barks out a laugh. “Guess I don’t mind being a walking stereotype. They don’t call it the last frontier for nothing, where I’m from, and I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t rubbed off.” He turns his head, looking down at me, his eyes crackling with warmth. “I used to sit out back at my dad’s cabin and fish for hours when I was young. Always made the mind go a certain kind of quiet I can’t find anywhere else. You go just as still as the lake waters and let all your worries fade away.”
“Yeah. I get that. It’s peaceful.” I smile slightly and throw my line back in the water with a practiced flick of my wrist. “A long time ago, I used to fish with my dad here. He taught me about lures, about knots...heck, I could even scale my own fish by the time I was nine. I thought I’d be sad, being here again, remembering all that stuff. But you’re right. Being on this lake, I’m just still. That’s the best word.”
And I like that.
I like being stillwith this bearded beast-man.
That stillness finally breaks after nearly half an hour when my line gives a sharp tug.
“Watch out, I’ve got a bite!”
It’s all laughter and splashing then.
I guess we caught a school of fish at feeding time or something, because suddenly we’ve got lake trout practically leaping onto our hooks until we’ve caught more than we can possibly eat and have to toss some back.
It’s so easy, so fun, that I almost forget why we’re here.
Those gold bars hiding in the truck with secrets of their own begging to be unleashed.
We work together to get our food ready for the fire while I put on water for coffee. You can bet I brought a little mini press with me, and by the time afternoon starts to settle toward sunset, we’ve worked up a proper dinner and a proper appetite.
That’s the funny thing about camping.
You spend all your time working just to get comfortable and settled in, and that’s the point.
It’s hard work for the sake of being hard work.
It also clears the mind in the best ways.
I’m content sharing this space with Alaska as we enjoy a dinner of campfire-baked fish and coffee with a little fried flatbread on the side fixed from the supplies he brought.
We’re sort of sitting across the fire from each other, but not quite, when he’s just a little closer to my side.
We watch the sky turn purple and blue.
Starlight ignites over the mountains across the shore.
I’m surprised to see the glimmering flicker of another fire across the way.
Tensing, I squint over the mug I’m holding close to my chest against the deepening night chill, watching the small, energetic figures playing around the flames.
“Is that...Andrea?”
Alaska tilts his head, those fire-filled eyes focusing across the expanse.
God, he’s handsome in the firelight, all sharp planes cast in edges of soft gold.
“Blake’s daughter?”
“...yeah. And I think that’s Clark Patten and a few of their other friends.”
He frowns, drumming his fingers against his mug. “Worried their folks don’t know they’re up here?”
“No, I just...” I pause, shaking my head. It’s just a coincidence, I tell myself. Even with the long drive, this is a popular spot for older kids to knock off to on weekends when the weather’s getting nice. “I just wasn’t expecting company I’d know.”
“Hmm.” Alaska grunts softly. “They look busy messing around if it’s any comfort. Doubt they’ll ask what we’re doing.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “Kids being kids. I think they’re a little too busy making memories of their own to worry about the ones I’ve dredged up.”
“Is that what those bars are? Memories?”
I look up to find Alaska watching me steadily—and there’s a small, scared part of me looking for any hint of censure, of suspicion, of judgment.
Nada.
He’s worried about me, concern filling his bearish brown eyes.
And that’s exactly why I can’t answer him.
So I only smile and turn my gaze back to the flames.
We’re mostly silent until bedtime, but as I shiver in the rising cold breeze off the lake, he shifts closer. Shrugs out of his jacket. Lays it over both of our shoulders like a blanket, binding us together, capturing the fire’s heat when I suddenly don’t need it anymore because he’s all the warmth I need.
I could stay like this all night, my heart fluttery and sweet.
The hard, corded muscle of his arm pressed against mine.
His minty evergreen man scent—yes, that’s what I’m calling his smell—filling my nostrils and the wind occasionally tickling his hair against my cheek.
But then it’s time for bed, all that’s left is just banking the flames, rinsing the dishes in the lake water, and...a moment.
One quietly loud moment as we part ways for our separate tents.
Standing in front of the glowing embers, we lookat each other.
There’s something in his eyes, something about the way he watches me, that makes my pulse skip faster and catches my breath in my throat.
Sweet Jesus, I want him so bad.
Every kind of can’t pummels me like a sledgehammer.
I can’t be thinking about him half the night.
I can’t be thinking about anything those deep walnut-brown eyes rile up inside me.
I can’t be thinking about how close his lips were around the fire, how close I came to giving in to a desperate, seething need I didn’t know I still had.
How close I came to kissing Alaska Charter, and letting him use that brushfire mouth anywhere he damn well pleased.
So I only whisper in a squeak, “Good night!”
Then I turn, scrambling into my tent before his booming “’Night, Fliss,”can catch up to me.
I curl up there in my sleeping bag, huddling down for warmth, but also hiding from the world.
I watch his silhouette moving against the wall of my tent before becoming dimmer. There’s the sound of a zipper as he slips into his own tent for the night.
But not so murky and dim that I don’t notice—oh, crap.
He’s stripping.
Yes, I can see the rigid outline of every single part of his sculpted body, the agile twist of his muscles as he shucks down his pants, then slides his body into his sleeping bag with a brute strength that sends my brain spinning into the gutter.
So much for freezing tonight.
Instead, it’s stickier than a hot summer night as a terrible realization sets in.
Paxton likes to sleep in the buff.
* * *
The cricketsand night birds lull me to sleep, but I’m up with the dawn and ready to get moving, helping Alaska strike camp.
We wolf down granola bars and a few more bracing coffees while I mentally steel myself to face the music back home.
It’s a silent, tense drive back to Heart’s Edge, even if things are calm between us.
He’s not the reason for my tension, of course.
I just won’t feel calm, feel safe, until the gold gets stashed away somewhere no one will find it until I can figure out what to do with my illicit treasure.
It feels like Paisley’s watching me.
The worst part is, considering how she stalks Mom’s every move, I might not be wrong.
So I’m even more uneasy when I hear Alaska’s plan to hide the bars. Especially as he hauls that worn tarp across the ground and shoves it behind the pile of wood outside his cabin once we’re back in town, filling the narrow space.
“I don’t know about this.” I fidget anxiously. “What if someone robs you? Charming Inn has other guests besides you.”
“This isn’t the Wild West. It’s only temporary. You can’t keep it at home, right? Give it a week or so and we’ll relocate it somewhere better. I don’t think anyone’s even going to have the slightest clue there’d be anything worth stealing out here, let alone gold bars.” He flashes me a cocky smile as he tucks a few more bars away, arranging the wood to conceal the haul. “No one deals in gold like this outside of Fort Knox.”
He’s right.
So why did Dad have it in the first place?
That question eats at me as I pry myself away from Alaska.
I need to talk to Sheriff Langley. I want to see the police report on my father’s death again, dig in and check to see if there was anything I missed.
Anything that might point to more answers and show me what to do.
I can’t let that mess of gold be Alaska’s responsibility for any longer than it has to be.
Not when it feels like it’s as tainted as my name.
The Randall Curse is mine, and I’ll die before I let it consume Alaska or his sweet son.
