With last goodbyes exchanged, I follow Finn out of the community center, carefully navigating in my borrowed boots. The night air grows chillier, and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d brought a jacket more appropriate than my flimsy designer wrap. Finn catches my shiver. Without a word, he shrugs out of his flannel overshirt and hands it to me, leaving himself in a simple black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the impressive muscles of his arms and chest.
“I’m fine,” I protest weakly.
“You’re shivering,” he counters. “Take it. I’m used to the cold.”
Too tired to argue, I slip the shirt on over my dress. It’s warm from his body and smells like pine and something uniquely masculine that I refuse to acknowledge as pleasant.
“Your luggage is already loaded in the trailer,” Finn says, leading me to where a rugged four-wheeler is parked at the edge of the property. “It’s about a thirty-minute ride.”
As he helps me climb onto the back seat of the Polaris, I gather my courage to ask, “So, what exactly should I expect at your place? My agent was vague on the details.”
Finn gives me a sideways assessment, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “From what I understand, you’ll be staying at my lodge while they take some publicity photos and videos of you pretending to enjoy nature. The production company booked it for the rest of the summer.”
I nod, relieved. This is exactly what I signed up for—a comfortable stay at a scenic retreat with occasional forays outside. Nothing too strenuous or authentic. Just enough to convince my fans I’ve gone “back to nature” and rehabilitate my image.
“Sounds perfect,” I say, settling onto the seat. “The place has all the amenities, right? Wi-Fi, hot water, decent cell reception?”
Something that might be humor flickers across Finn’s face as he swings his leg over the front seat. “We have hot water. Most days.” Before I can demand clarification on that unsettling answer, he starts the engine.
The ride up is an adventure in itself. My luggage follows behind us in a small trailer, bouncing precariously with every rut and bump in the rugged trail. I cling to the seat, grateful for the borrowed boots as we splash through puddles and navigate around fallen branches. The engine’s roar makes conversation impossible, leaving me to my thoughts as the Alaskan wilderness rushes past, dark and shadowed in the moonlight.
As we round a last bend in the trail, a sprawling log structure nestled among towering pines comes into view, warm light spilling from its windows. Finn cuts the engine of the Polaris, and the abrupt silence is almost startling after the constant roar. “Welcome to Crystal Creek Retreat,” he says, a clear note of pride in his voice. “Home for the duration of your stay.”
The building is impressive, a perfect blend of rugged charm and modern comfort. “It’s beautiful,” I say honestly, momentarily forgetting my exhaustion.
Finn appears surprised by my sincerity, but nods in acknowledgment. “Built it myself, with all my brothers’ help. Took nearly two years. Named it after the creek that runs behind the retreat.”
As we dismount from the Polaris, I spot several smaller structures scattered around the main building, barely visible in the moonlight. “What are those used for?” I ask, gesturing toward the shadows.
“Seven of them, used for guests,” Finn says, unloading my luggage from the trailer. “The retreat has common areas—dining room, great room, kitchen. Guests stay in the cabins for privacy.”
“I’ll be in one of those?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment. I’d been picturing myself in a cozy room inside the main building, not isolated in a separate cabin.
“Cabin Three is yours,” Finn confirms, hefting two of my suitcases. “We call it Stargazer’s Retreat. It’s got a great view of the night sky from the bedroom skylights.”
“How far is it from the main lodge?” I ask, already picturing the long, dark walks between buildings.
“About fifty yards,” he says. “Cabin One is closer, but it’s being renovated right now.”
Fifty yards seems like a mile as I peer nervously at the dark woods surrounding us. “I’ve already heard about the local wildlife from May. Is there any chance of those bears or wolves deciding my cabin seems like a good place to visit tonight?”
Finn actually laughs at this. “Just use common sense. Don’t leave food outside. Make noise if you’re walking around after dark. You’re in their home, not the other way around.”
That’s not exactly the reassurance I hoped for.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, perhaps seeing the real fear on my face. “The path to your cabin is well-lit, and I’ve never had a guest eaten by wildlife yet.”
“Yet,” I mutter under my breath as Finn unlocks the cabin door. “Very comforting.”
Finn flips on the lights, revealing a cozy but decidedly basic interior. A river rock fireplace dominates one wall of the main room, with a worn leather couch and armchair arranged in front of it. The kitchen area is little more than a corner with a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and minimal counter space. A round wooden table with four mismatched chairs sits between the living and kitchen areas. The walls are decorated with what appear to be local landscape photographs and, alarmingly, the mounted head of some antlered creature I don’t want to identify.
This is a far cry from the luxury accommodations my agent promised. Where’s the high-speed internet workstation? The jetted tub? The king-sized bed with premium linens?
Finn drops my suitcases unceremoniously inside the bedroom door, then gives me a perfunctory tour. “Bathroom’s through there,” he says, gesturing to another door. “Hot water’s limited, so keep your showers short. The kitchen’s stocked with basics.”
I look around, searching for any sign of modern amenities. “Is there Wi-Fi?”
“Sometimes,” Finn says with a shrug. “Signal’s spotty out here. Cell reception too.”
