Big Russian: KANE BRINGS GIRL HOME. This is BIG.
Me: Don’t tell anyone.
Big Russian: Who would I tell? Santa? Your secret is safe. Besides, Alaska and Russia—neighbors, da? We keep each other’s cold secrets. And Wesley, this is good, yes?
I look at the weight on her finger, at the way she’s curled against me, trusting me completely.
Me: It’s complicated. And good.
Big Russian: Then do not ruin it. I am watching you, Alaska Bear.
I pocket my phone, half smiling despite myself.
The flight attendant brings blankets. Joy accepts one with a quiet thank you, then shifts closer—not dramatically, just a lean that brings her shoulder against mine.
“Tired?” I ask.
“Long day.” She settles, her breathing evening out. I cover her fingers with mine. She doesn’t wake, just shifts closer, her temple resting against my shoulder.
Fake,I tell myself.It’s pretend.
But that feels like the biggest lie of all.
Because somewhere between the Rockefeller bench and this airplane seat, between “deal” and the way she kissed me in the car, I stopped pretending.
The plane climbs into the dark. Below us, the city glows, a thousand lights strung together
I close my eyes and let myself have this: her warmth, her trust, the ring on her finger that’s supposed to be temporary but feels anything but.
For two days, she’s mine.
And if I do this right, she won’t want it to end.
5
ALASKA THOR (JOY)
The bed is empty when I blink awake. Sheets gone cold, pillow dented, the faint trace of his cologne in the air. Watery light seeps around the curtains. My phone says eleven o’clock—Alaska winter, where the sun barely shows up and acts offended when it does.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The sound carries through the glass. Not city noise—something older. Primal.
I push back the covers, pad across the room, and lift the blinds with two fingers.
The yard stretches below, fresh snow glittering in thin, reluctant daylight. Down by the shed, a stack of fish totes turned wood bins, a chopping block, and a man with an axe.
Oh. Oh no.
Wesley Kane. Chopping wood.
A hot shiver roars down my spine. Every nerve ending in my body just woke up and started taking notes.
The sun barely skims the horizon, threadlike gold over endless blue. His breath lifts in steady halos. His boots are planted in snow, thermal clinging to his shoulders, flannelhanging open. He’s traded his suit for work gloves and a beanie, and the transformation isunfair.
Get your head out of the gutter, girl.
Set. Swing. Crack.
