Joe Hamilton is real, and he just winked at me.
I’m fangirling so hard I might actually pass out.
The ferry bumps gently against the dock, and the crew starts calling out instructions for disembarking. People shuffle toward the side exit, and I join the crowd in a daze, my brain still trying to process what just happened.
I need to see him again. Get his number. Find out where he lives.
I scan the crowd as we file off the ferry, looking for that dark coat, those broad shoulders, that devastating profile.
And I find him.
He’s standing near the rear dock, talking to a woman. She’s pretty—long, dark hair, stylish coat, confident posture. She’slaughing at something he said, touching his arm in that casual, familiar way that suggests they know each other well.
Of course a man like that is taken.
Not that I was looking for an Alpha. I’m not. I’m here for work, for my investigation, for my mission. But I am fangirling. That’s all. Just excited to meet someone whose work I admire.
Nothing more.
I tell myself this as I walk away, dragging my suitcase behind me, trying to ignore the weird disappointment settling in my chest.
When I’m off the ferry, I glance back, and my stomach drops.
Because Leon is there. Standing near the ferry exit, staring at me with a judgy expression.
I cringe, quickly hurrying away from the port and into town, the mist closing in around me like the Norns are already at work.
2
ANITA
I’m going to die on this hill.
Slip on this snow-covered incline, tumble backward like a cartoon character, and roll all the way back down to the harbor with my suitcase wheels screeching the entire way.
My thighs are burning. My lungs are on fire. And my suitcase sounds like it’s actively trying to file a restraining order against me.
“Just a little farther,” I mutter. “You can do this. You’ve survived worse.”
Have I, though?I’m genuinely asking.
The hill is steep. Steeper than it looked from the ferry. “It’s fine,” I say with all the confidence of someone who has never actually climbed a hill while dragging twenty pounds of luggage and radio recording equipment through a snowstorm. “I’ve got it.”
I do not, in fact, have it.
My boots slide on a patch of ice, and I windmill my arms, somehow managing to stay upright. My suitcase tips sideways before I yank it back into position.
“We’re almost there,” I tell it. “Don’t give up on me now.”
Three more steps. Two. One.
And then, blessedly, miraculously, the ground levels out.
I made it.
I stand at the top of the hill, breathing like I’ve just finished a marathon, snow collecting on my shoulders. My backpack feels like it weighs approximately three hundred pounds. My fingers are numb inside my gloves. And I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated through two layers of clothing despite the freezing temperature.
But I made it.
