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Until next time.

C. No, you know what? As much as the mystery was fun, curiosity is getting the better of me, and I need to know your name. So I’ll start, and I hope you’ll indulge me.

Talk soon,

Charlee.

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Chapter Seven

STRANGER

Charlee

When the plane lands in Vancouver, I’m reminded of why I love this corner of Canada so much. Mountains as far as the eye can see, the Pacific Ocean roaring on the coast, wilderness and nature at its finest. I could see myself living here one day. If I ever manage to earn enough money to rent or buy something other than a shed with these ridiculous prices.

I could have called this place home five years ago, if . . .

My heart pinches.

Thinking about him is always painful, no matter how many years have passed since I last read a word from him.

I sit down in the arrivals lobby, waiting for the Movie Night Live crew to join me. According to Ben, their plane isn’t scheduled to arrive for another hour, which leaves me time to go over the schedule again.

We’re supposed to meet Wild Planet’s Vancouver team this afternoon before we head into the wilderness tomorrow.

I don’t know why, but I’m a bit nervous.

Actually, I know why.

A lot is riding on the success of these two weeks. Really, it’s no big deal; just the future of my job—my passion and my career—and those of twenty other people.

I stifle a nervous laugh.

God, I’m exhausted. I woke up at four a.m. to catch my flight and spent the entire ride squished between a man-spreader and an old lady who used my shoulder as her personal pillow.

I get up, stretching my stiff limbs, and head over to the Tim Hortons a few gates away. Because coffee is exactly what I need to help with my buzzing nerves.

When I get there, I order a black coffee and a box of assorted Timbits to go.

The young man behind the counter chuckles. “Rough morning?”

If I had sunglasses on right now, I’d probably push them up so he could get the message. “Something like that. Oh, wait.” I dig in my backpack when I see him grab a plastic cup and hand him my reusable one. “Here.”

“Cute and environmentally conscious.” He casts a long, deliberate look at me, which makes my eyes roll. “How can I leave you my number if I can’t write it on the cup, though?”

Not only am I not in the mood, but it’s also way too early for me to get hit on by a guy who is way too young if the two hairs fighting for their lives on his chin are any indication. And by the looks of it, they’re both losing.

“Your dad is more my type.”

This seems to do the trick of shutting him up. I pay and grab my mug, now filled to the brim with the hot, delicious black liquid, and the Timbits, then walk back to my seat, where my bags are waiting for me.

An hour later, the coffee has worked its magic. I’m pacing the arrivals terminal, vibrating with the desire to get the hell out of here and lose myself among the trees, when I spot a group of four people dragging huge trunks and crates behind them. I’ve been around photographers and crew long enough to recognize equipment when I see it. The woman at the front of the group sporting a black leather jacket and equally black short hair waves at me.

“Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “You’re Charlee Fletcher, right? I recognize you from your LinkedIn profile. I’m Emma, from Movie Night Live.”