"Night, Piper."
Outside, the cold hits like a slap of reality. Through her window, I can see her silhouette moving around the now-warm cabin, occasionally stopping to hold her hands toward the stove like it's a miracle she personally manifested.
Back in my cabin, I try to focus on tomorrow's practice, on the plays we need to perfect, on everything riding on the next five games. But my mind keeps drifting to expensive boots and determination, to someone taking notes on how to survive like there'll be a test later.
Five games. Five chances. I don't need complications living next door with her disaster preparedness and real smiles. Don't need to think about how her whole body changed when warmth finally reached her, the way she held her hands to that fire like she'd never felt heat before.
Really don't need to think about any of it.
But I check once more before bed, just to make sure smoke's still rising from her chimney. Because Dad would've done the same. No other reason.
The smoke curls up against the stars, steady and sure.
Good enough.
Through my window, I can see her moving around inside, probably editing that moose video or whatever influencers do.Her cabin's crooked, her survival skills are nonexistent, and she thinks screaming is an appropriate response to wildlife.
But the smoke keeps rising, which means she's warm.
Which means I can sleep.
I tell myself that's the only reason I'm still watching.
Chapter 3
Piper
The Ashwood Café’s door announces my arrival with a cheerful jingle that feels way too perky for someone who spent last night googling "how to not die in Alaskan winters" until 3 AM. But the moment I step inside, warmth wraps around me, carrying the scent of espresso and cinnamon and something else—contentment, maybe. The kind you can't manufacture for content.
My camera's already rolling because this place is pure gold. Mismatched chairs that look like they've hosted decades of conversations, hand-painted mugs lining shelves, each telling its own story, and a bulletin board so chaotically organized it might actually be the town's central nervous system. There's a notice for "Lost: One chicken, answers to Henrietta," right next to "NHL Scouts arriving Sunday—GO WOLVES!"
"You must be the influencer girl staying next to that handsome Ryder Lockwood."
I nearly drop my phone. A petite woman with silver curls and a rainbow scarf has materialized behind the counter like some kind of coffee-shop fairy godmother. Her eyes sparkle with the specific gleam of someone who knows my coffee order before I do.
"I'm Dotty," she says, eyeing me with the assessing gaze of someone who's perfected the art of reading people. "And you're Piper Meadows, here from Anchorage after that unfortunate business with your ex and best friend." She tsks sympathetically while moving to the espresso machine. "Viral breakups are the worst, honey. But you're in the right place to heal. Now, you look like a mocha girl to me. Extra shot?"
"I—yes, actually."
"Thirty years behind this counter, I can tell." She winks, already pulling shots and steaming milk with the efficiency of someone who could do this blindfolded. "Besides, we knew about you before your rental car hit town limits. Small town, big gossip network."
A minute later, she slides a mug across the counter—a hand-painted one with a grumpy-looking moose on it—along with a plate holding a massive blueberry muffin. "On the house. Welcome to Ashwood Falls."
The mocha hits my tongue and I actually moan. Out loud. Like this coffee has discovered taste buds I didn't know existed. "This is?—"
"Life-changing? Divine? Better than anything in Anchorage?" Dotty winks. "I know, dear. Now, you planning to film in here? Because the morning crowd's about to arrive and they do love a camera."
I set up my ring light near the window, adjusting angles to catch the steam curling from mugs and the way morning light makes everything look impossibly cozy and inviting. "Small Town Coffee Culture: Why Your Starbucks Could Never" seems like a solid title.
"So, Ryder's... famous?" I ask Dotty, trying for casual while framing a shot of the bulletin board. Next to the lost chicken notice, there's a hand-drawn poster: "SUPPORT OUR WOLVES- NHL SCOUTS SUNDAY!" with a crude drawing of what might be Ryder's jersey number.
"That boy's our golden ticket," she says, arranging pastries that look homemade enough to make angels weep. "Captain of the Wolves, firefighter like his daddy was, and five games away from the NHL if he plays his cards right. Shame he's been alone so long. A man needs?—"
The door explodes open with the force of an athletic avalanche. Hockey players pour in, all post-practice energy and competing conversations about someone's "dirty dangle" and whether something called "sauce" was "crispy." They move like a pack, commandeering tables, calling out orders Dotty has memorized.
"You're the neighbor!"
One player breaks from the pack immediately—lean, dark-haired, with a grin that probably should come with a warning label. He drops into the chair across from me without invitation, stealing my moose mug for a sip.
