The reminder of why we're on this plane together sobers me instantly. I'm not on vacation. I'm running for my life.
"What's it like? Where we're going?"
"Different from what you're used to. Remote. Quiet. Safe."
"Sounds perfect," I say, and I mean it. After years of chaos, noise, and crowds, the idea of remoteness is appealing even without a stalker hunting me.
"We'll see if you still think so after a few days of mountain living."
"You think I can't handle it? That I'm too pampered?"
"I think you've never chopped wood or hauled water or gone without cell service for more than an hour."
He's right, of course. My life has been filled with hotel suites, private planes, and personal assistants handling every detail. But he doesn't know everything about me.
"I spent every summer until I was fifteen at my grandfather's cabin in the Cascades," I tell him. "There was no electricity. No running water. Just me, my grandfather, and about a thousand books."
That gets his attention. "Really?"
"Really. Those were the best days of my life." I smile at the memory. "Grandpa Jack didn't care about my grades, if I practiced piano enough, or if my clothes were right for the recital. He just wanted to teach me how to fish and tell me stories about my grandmother."
"What happened to those summers?" He asks, but I think he already knows.
"Fame happened." I shrug like it doesn't still hurt. "The first summer after my single hit, my mother said I couldn't waste time in the woods when I had appearances to make. By the next summer, Grandpa Jack was gone."
"I'm sorry."
I shrug. "Don't be. It was a long time ago."
We fall into silence, and I find myself studying his profile as he looks out the window. Strong jaw, straight nose, full lips that seem at odds with the hardness of the rest of his face. There's ascar just below his right ear, thin and white against his tanned skin. Another disappears into his hairline above his left temple.
This man has seen violence. Has probably dealt it out as well as received it.
And now he's my shield against whatever is coming.
"You should eat something," he says, catching me staring.
"I'm not hungry."
"Doesn't matter. Your body needs fuel."
He reaches into a bag at his feet and pulls out energy bars, offering one to me. I take it, surprised to find it's an expensive organic brand, not the tasteless tactical food I was expecting.
"Thanks."
He nods and unwraps his own bar, eating with the efficient movements of someone who views food as necessary fuel rather than pleasure. I wonder if he approaches everything that way. Necessary rather than pleasurable.
The thought sends heat to my cheeks that I desperately hope he doesn't notice.
"After we land, we'll drive straight to my property," he says. "It's about three hours from the airfield. Remote enough that no one will find you, but close enough to town that we can get supplies if needed."
"And your family? You mentioned they've been in Grizzly Ridge for generations."
"My brothers live nearby. Not on my property, but in the area."
"Will they know I'm there?"
He considers this for a moment. "Eventually. But not right away. The fewer people who know your location, the better."
