“You belong wherever you want to belong,” I tell her fiercely, cupping her face with my good hand. “And I want you to belong here. With me. If you'll have me.”
“But the lodge ... the money...”
“Forget the lodge,” I say, meaning it with everything I've got. The truth hits me, sudden and clear. “It's wood and stone. It's not worth losing you. I'll sell it. I'll follow you to Hollywood. I'll learn to drink those kale smoothies. Whatever it takes, Mags. Because losing you ... that's the only failure I can't face.”
Tears spill over, tracking paths down her cheeks, but she's smiling now, a watery, brilliant expression that lights up her entire face. “You'd do that?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“You don't have to sell the lodge, Finn.” She reaches up, her hand covering mine on her cheek. “May explained things. About partnership. About pride. About Hollywood solutionsversus Alaskan problems.” Her thumb brushes my cheekbone. “I don't want you to give up your home for me. I want to be part of your home. If ... if you'll still have me.”
“Still have you?” I laugh, the sound rough with emotion. “Mags, I love you. All of you. Lena, Mags, the woman who knows plants and faces down bears and somehow worries about moisturizer. I love every complicated, surprising, terrifying part of you.”
“Oh, Finn,” she breathes, her eyes shining. “I love you too.”
And then I'm kissing her, right there on the dock in the bright morning sun, pouring every ounce of regret and hope and love into it. She meets me with equal fervor, her arms tightening around my neck, her body pressing against mine. It's not like the desperate, exploratory kisses in the cave. This is a kiss of arrival, of recognition, of choosing each other despite the odds, despite the different worlds. It seals a promise, feels like a new beginning.
We break apart, breathless, foreheads resting together. The world comes back into focus—the lapping water, the cry of a gull, the faint sound of Nash clearing his throat from somewhere behind us. Hank leans out his window, gives a thumbs-up, then starts unloading Lena's mountain of luggage onto the dock before preparing for takeoff again.
Nash walks over, grinning. “Guess Hank figured he wasn't needed for the return flight after all.” He nods toward the pile of expensive-looking suitcases now sitting on the dock. “You planning on setting up shop here permanently, Hollywood?”
I look down at Mags, seeing her, maybe for the first time, without fear clouding my vision. Her expression is wide, full of a future I thought was lost.
“So,” I say, my smile spreading across my face, the ache in my ribs momentarily forgotten. “Does this mean you're staying?”
She laughs, the sound of pure joy echoing over the water as Hank's plane engine roars back to life. “Try and make me leave.”
I pull her close again, my heart full. “Right, then,” I say against her hair, watching Hank's plane taxi away empty. “Let's get your things and go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LENA
The fire sighsin the stone hearth—it sighs, like it's bored with sitting there burning—casting long, dancing shadows across the log walls of the great room. Log walls. Sometimes it hits me that I live inside what resembles a Lincoln Log masterpiece. It's the only sound besides the wind moaning around the eaves, doing its best ghost impression from a low-budget horror flick. It speaks of the deep Alaskan fall settling in, stripping the aspens bare and whispering promises of snow. Promises I'm not sure I'm ready for.
Three months. It's been a lifetime—long enough for the LA gossip cycle to spin through three scandals and forget my name, thank God—and also the blink of an eye since Hank's float plane lifted off without me. Left me standing on the Port Promise dock with Finn, hearts wide open, futures uncertain, and me wondering if I'd packed enough warm socks. Spoiler alert, I hadn't.
I trace the rim of my wineglass, admiring how the firelight makes the Cabernet look even more expensive and brooding. Finn sits beside me on the worn leather sofa—a piece of furniture that looks as if it wrestled a bear and lost but issurprisingly comfortable. His shoulder is pressed against mine, a solid, reassuring weight. He's reading—an actual book, pages and everything, not scrolling doom on a tiny screen. It's one of his quirks I find endearing, right up there with his ability to chop wood like a lumberjack superhero and his quiet wariness of anything involving kale. His reading glasses are perched on his nose. They're the ones that still make me do a double-take sometimes because really—him, being all Clark Kent! The tension that seemed permanently etched around his eyes when I first met him has mostly dissolved, replaced by a quiet contentment that suits him.
Life had found its rhythm here, a beat marked by deer sightings and debates over the best way to stack firewood. The frantic energy, questionable catering, and existential dread of the film crew are a distant, bizarre memory. Elliott, bless his narrative-obsessed heart, spun the whole ordeal into a “Hollywood star finds her roots” masterpiece, milking my dubious “wilderness competence”—which meant Finn told me what to do and I didn't die—for all it was worth before vanishing back to LA.
The show aired two months ago, and Elliott's version of events actually worked. Bookings started trickling in—people wanting the “true wilderness experience” they'd seen on television. Finn's payment from the production covered the immediate bank crisis, buying us breathing room. But the lodge needed more than breathing room. It needed a future. Real investment in infrastructure, cabin upgrades, equipment that wouldn't break down every other Tuesday. That's where I came in—Finn finally agreeing to a partnership after I explained that “angel investor” wasn't code for “hostile takeover.”
It's still a hustle, but the panic has receded, replaced by the more manageable stress of “Will the generator start?” and “Do we have enough coffee for the winter?”
Hecloses his book, marking his page with what looks like a folded napkin, and turns to me, his arm sliding around my shoulders. The casual intimacy still sends a little thrill through me. “Lost in thought, Mags?”
“Thinking,” I say, leaning into his warmth, which smells of wood smoke and competence. “About how different everything is.” And how okay I am with it.
“Different good? Or different 'Dear God, what have I done, I miss room service?'” His expression is steady, searching. Even after three months, he sometimes looks at me as if I might spontaneously combust into a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and demand a non-fat latte.
“Different good,” I assure him, meeting his eyes. “Mostly.” I give him a small smile. “Though I wouldn't kick room service out of bed.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the fire crackling—probably judging my life choices. The bear rug beneath our feet, once a terrifying reminder of nature’s indifference, now feels … fluffy. Soft. Surprisingly comforting.
“Do you ever regret it?” Finn asks, his voice low, almost hesitant. The familiar guard is back in his eyes for a moment, that fear of not being enough, and it makes my heart squeeze. He's still worried I'll bolt.
“Regret what? Agreeing to try your questionable 'mystery meat' stew last week? Slightly. Leaving my conditioner behind on the last supply run? Deeply.”
