Great.I’m stranded in the wilderness with unreliable communication to the outside world. My agent is going to hear about this, assuming I can get enough bars to make a call.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Finn says, already heading for the door. “I’m over in the lodge if you need anything.” He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Breakfast is served between six and eight, up at the big hall.”
I blink. “In the morning?”
A hint of amusement touches his mouth. “That’s when breakfast usually is.”
I swallow my horror—mostly—and simply nod, pretending the concept of willingly being vertical before eight in the morning isn’t fundamentally offensive.
Before I can protest or ask any of the dozen questions forming in my mind, he’s gone, the door closing with a decisive click that echoes in the now-silent cabin.
I stand in the middle of the room, feeling abandoned.
A quick inspection of the bedroom reveals a full-sized bed—not the king I’m used to, but at least it appears comfortable. The bathroom is functional but spartan, with a shower stall that’s going to make shaving my legs a contortionist’s challenge.
After unpacking enough for the night, I realize I’m hungry. Again. Apparently, stress burns through snacks at an alarming rate, because despite all the food at the reception, my stomach is staging a full-blown protest.
As I settle onto the couch with a cup of tea and some crackers with peanut butter, I’m struck by the absurdity of my situation. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in a luxury spa, panic-packing after indulging in treatments I was convinced I needed before facing Alaska. Now I’m sitting in a remote cabin, wearing borrowed boots after crashing a wedding, surviving on crackers, and worrying about becoming bear food. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls—a long, mournful sound—and I nearly drop my tea.
I came to Alaska to save my career, but judging by how things are going, I might have to survive it first.
Chapter Two
FINN
I checkthe breakfast casserole that has been baking for the last thirty minutes, the aroma of eggs and cheese filling the kitchen. I’m not known for my culinary skills, but I’m getting better. At least the food’s edible these days, a definite improvement from when I first opened.
Dawn breaks outside, with the first light hitting the mountains and pushing back the darkness. This is my favorite time at Crystal Creek—before guests get up, before the weight of the day’s responsibilities settles on my shoulders, when I can pretend I’m the only one here. I move through the kitchen with efficiency, slicing fresh sourdough bread for toast, arranging berries in a blue ceramic bowl my mother gave me years ago. The coffee bubbles and hisses in the ancient percolator that I refuse to replace despite my youngest brother Nash’s insistence that I “join the current century.” This old percolator still makes decent coffee. No need for fancy junk.
Unlike the overnight Hollywood celebrities who show up in my Alaskan paradise wearing leather dresses and designer heels.The memory of Lena Kensington teetering on thedock yesterday, one shoe stuck in the planks, has irritation and amusement wrestling in my gut. I’ve encountered her type before—city people who arrive in Alaska expecting postcard adventures, then complain when reality fails to match their Instagram-worthy expectations. But I need her money. Or more specifically, the production company’s money. My attention shifts to the stack of invoices, pinned beneath a smooth river stone on the desk in the corner.
Atop the pile sits yesterday’s mail—a crisp white envelope stamped with the Alaskan First Bank logo. I already know what it says. I read it last night, tearing it open even though the outcome was inevitable. The words, sharp and final, still echo in my head: Payment of $42,500 required within 60 days to avoid legal action.
Sixty days.The number hangs there in my head, sharp and unwelcome. Two years ago, an avalanche nearly demolished Cabin One and severely damaged the main lodge while I was visiting a friend on the mainland. I returned to devastation—broken windows, collapsed roof sections, and the worst of it: a massive pine tree had fallen through the great room, destroying furniture and leaving the place exposed to the elements. Insurance covered some of the damage, but the business loan I took out to fully rebuild and upgrade the property seemed manageable at the time. I made payments faithfully every month, sometimes cutting it close, but never missing a deadline. Then this past winter, an unexpected series of storms knocked out our power for weeks, burst pipes, and added new damage. The emergency repairs devoured my reserve funds, forcing me to miss several payments on the original loan. Now the debt’s a relentless pressure, grinding me down month after month. This Hollywood production is supposed to be my salvation. They’ve blocked out the lodge for the entire summer, and the pay-out from that extended booking is theonly thing that’ll clear my debts. For now, knowing that money is coming is the only thing standing between me and potential ruin.
I pull the casserole from the oven and set it on the counter. It smells good. At least I got that right. For all the complications of hosting this film crew, at least I can ensure they’re well-fed. My mother taught me that before she passed—food is how Alaskans show hospitality, even to guests who might not deserve it.
The thought of my family, all rooted in Port Promise, brings a bittersweet smile to my lips. Dad’s only been back in town for about a year, after leaving town following Mom’s passing. Now he pitches in wherever he’s needed. Each of us Hollister siblings has found our place in this town. Nash runs his hunting guide service from Misty Meadows, stubbornly protective of the wilderness he knows so well. The twins, Rhys and Reid, handle different aspects of our waterfront businesses—Rhys managing the dock and store at Birch Bay while Reid charms tourists with deep-sea fishing adventures from Lantern Bay. Then there’s Kane, running his fishing boat with a newfound cheerfulness since marrying Timber. Their wedding yesterday seems surreal—my perpetually scowling brother transformed by love. My sister Eliza lights up Serenity Cove, focused on motherhood since her baby arrived. I guess that leaves me as the resident Hollister grump here at Crystal Creek, trying to make this lodge work when hospitality never came as naturally to me as it did to the others.
None of them know how bad things have gotten with the lodge. I’ve kept the financial troubles to myself, determined to fix the problem without burdening them. They all have their responsibilities, their own struggles.And their successes, a voice in my head reminds me. The voice that sometimes wonders if I’m the only Hollister who can’t make a go of things on myown. If I lose Crystal Creek, I’ll be losing more than a business. This place holds too many memories. My mother helped design the great room, handpicking the river rock for the fireplace and choosing the wood for the beams. The blue ceramic bowls are from her collection, and the river stone paperweight she gathered from the creek still adorns my desk—a small, polished piece of home that keeps me grounded even on the hardest days. She’s everywhere in this place. In the creak of the floorboards. The smell of lemon and cedar. The way the wind hits the window just right. Losing the lodge would be like losing her all over again.
I finish setting the table. The quiet wraps around me—not heavy, but familiar. Eight place settings. One for me. One for Lena Kensington. Six for the crew that rolled in two days ago with more gear than sense. The lodge can accommodate up to twenty guests when fully booked, but these days, I’m lucky to fill half the cabins during peak season.
I hear voices heading this way. So much for the quiet. The door opens, revealing the production team—all appearing too alert for six-thirty in the morning. The producer, a slim man with wire-rimmed glasses named Elliott, leads the group. “Good morning!” he calls out with forced cheerfulness. “Something smells incredible.”
“Breakfast casserole,” I say, gesturing to the table. “Help yourselves. Coffee’s hot.”
The crew descends on the food with the focused intensity of people who know they have a long day ahead. They load plates with thick squares of breakfast casserole—eggs, potatoes, and gooey cheese baked together—alongside sourdough toast, chattering about shot lists and lighting conditions.
I stay out of their way, refilling coffee mugs when needed, but otherwise maintaining my distance.
It’s nearly seven when the door opens again, and Lenasteps into the lodge. I expect Hollywood glamour—the full makeup, styled hair, and an impractical outfit similar to what she arrived in yesterday. Instead, the woman who shuffles toward the coffee pot is surprisingly normal. Her face is bare, dark circles visible beneath her eyes, and her hair is pulled into a messy bun atop her head. She wears gray sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, revealing a slim collarbone. Her feet are swallowed by fluffy pink slippers, their soles already pincushions for pine needles.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I catch the moment she realizes I’m watching her. Her chin lifts, a flash of defiance crossing her face. “Morning,” she mutters, making a beeline for the coffee.
“Sleep well?” I ask, unable to keep a hint of amusement from my voice.
“About as well as anyone could with wolves howling all night,” she replies, pouring coffee into a mug emblazoned with a moose silhouette. “Is there a latte machine?”
