Chapter One
LENA
“Oh, hell no!”The words burst out before I can stop them as I hold the bride’s bouquet at arm’s length like it might explode. My heart is still hammering from the most mortifying five minutes of my entire professionally-embarrassing life.
Seriously, who shows up in a floatplane—piloted by a man who clearly moonlights as a stand-up comedian—only to crash-land into someone else's wedding?Me. That’s who.
Teetering off that deathtrap wearing heels completely unsuitable for anything but a red carpet, I vaguely register a crowd I naively assume might, just might, be a tiny welcome committee for yours truly—TV’s Hottest Rising Star, according toPeoplemagazine about five years ago. Then, boom. Wedding. Not for me. Obviously.
And then the questions. “Are you my driver?” I ask the handsome, scowling one who looks like he wrestles bears for fun—the groom, as it turns out. Wrong guy. Then the other handsome, scowling one—Finn, my agent calls him, the one I am supposed to meet— immediately points out I am “two days late.”
“I had a medical procedure,” I say, only for Finn to deadpan, “You mean Botox and a facial?” How does he know? My agent, of course. The same agent who had to beg for this last-chance gig in the Alaskan wilderness to “rehabilitate my image” after the champagne flute incident. So much for a dignified, mysterious arrival.
And then, the ultimate indignity, strutting down that rickety dock like it’s a runway, only for my heel—my Louboutin heel—to get swallowed by a rogue board. Finn wrenches my foot out, then tugs the shoe free, snapping the heel clean off in the process. “You won’t be needing those here,” he says, before kicking the evidence into the water like it’s common trash. The horror.
Before I can collect what’s left of my pride, someone ushers me off the dock and into a chair at the back of the ceremony like I’m the class delinquent being seated in detention. Then, the bride—a woodland goddess type, naturally—has to go and toss her wildflowers straight at me.
My face burns. I can feel it—a sudden, prickling awareness as the festive sound of the crowd dies down.Oh, no. They're all looking.The blissful newlyweds are momentarily forgotten. Every single pair of eyes swivels to fixate on me. I can only imagine what they see, the disastrous state I’m in, instantly branding me the ridiculous, out-of-place outsider. My stomach twists. Confused and deeply embarrassed, I scan desperately for an escape route, but the sea of curious faces offers none.
“You can put that down, you know,” rumbles a deep voice beside me. It belongs to the tall, irritated man from the dock—Finn, the lodge owner I’ll be staying with. “It’s not actually a grenade.”
“Could have fooled me,” I mutter, still holding the arrangement of wildflowers as far from my body aspossible. “Where am I supposed to put it? I am not prepared for wedding attendance today.”
Finn lets out a sigh, a long, drawn-out sound that seems to carry the weight of every inconvenient tourist he’s ever dealt with. The slight, almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes doesn't bode well either.
“Bring it with you to the community center,” he begins, and the tone he uses—so deliberately level, so painstakingly patient—is a dead giveaway. Oh, I am definitely testing the limits of his legendary Alaskan fortitude, or whatever they call it up here. “They’ve got tables set up for the reception. Then find somewhere to sit. The celebration’s starting, and I have best man duties to attend to.”
“Wait, you can’t leave me here,” I say, still clutching the bouquet like it might bite. “I don’t know anyone, I’m down to one functional shoe, and I’m pretty sure half these people think I crashed the wedding on purpose.”
“You made an entrance,” Finn points out, his expression a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Two days late.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I begin, but the skeptical tilt of his head stops me cold. That look—as if maintaining my appearance is some frivolous crime, not the cornerstone of my entire career.Please.I’ve invested more in this face, these cheekbones, than he’s probably seen in a lifetime. I didn’t fly across the continent for an image-rehab gig to be silently condemned by a man in flannel.
“Reception’s in the community center,” he tosses over his shoulder, already turning away. “Food’s good. Try not to cause another scene.”
I take a tentative step away from the dock, following the crowd as they head up a small incline—presumably toward this community center Finn mentioned—but my damaged Louboutin creates a lopsided gait. With each uneven step, I sink into the soft ground, nearly toppling me face-firstinto a puddle. I’m forced to tiptoe on the foot with the missing heel, each step a wobbly disaster that only increases my humiliation.
As I limp along, I pass a group of middle-aged women clustered near an old picnic table. They lower their voices as I approach, but not enough. “That’s what twelve thousand dollars of plastic surgery gets you?” one woman says under her breath with a snort. “My sister in Juneau could’ve done better for the price of a fishing license.”
“Shh! She’ll hear you,” another whispers, not nearly quietly enough.
“Look at her trying to walk. She’s like a foal on stilts,” says a third, followed by muffled laughter.
I freeze, heat rushing to my face despite the chill in the air. For a terrifying second, I’m twelve again—the poor Appalachian girl in hand-me-downs, mocked by classmates. The memory, one I spent years and thousands of dollars burying under couture labels and the poise I’d painstakingly built, knocks the air from my lungs. Shoulders back. Chin up. I summon the ice-queen persona that’s served me well on Hollywood sets. But inside, my stomach twists with the familiar shame. The fear that no matter how perfect I look, how flawless the smokescreen, people can still somehow see the girl who once bathed in a creek because the water had been shut off again.
“Steady there, Hollywood.” A strong hand catches my elbow, steadying me.
I glance up to find an older woman smiling at me. Her face is lined with decades of Alaskan living, but her eyes are kind. “Those fancy shoes aren’t built for Alaskan terrain.”
“So I’m discovering,” I say, trying to recover both my balance and my dignity. “Thank you, Ms…?”
“Call me May,” she says, her grip steady as she steers me toward solid ground. “Like the month. I own the diner in town.”
“Lena,” I offer, though her expression makes it clear she already knows.
“I know who you are,” May confirms with a wink. “Every teenage boy in Port Promise has your poster on their wall. That vampire show made quite an impression.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “That was a long time ago. Let’s say the fanbase wasn’t exactly there for my nuanced performance.”
