“I don’t want to get used to it,” I say, pouting. Three airports, two planes, and eleven hours later, my frustration is swelling. More than anything else, I’m desperate to see Jonah.

He chuckles. “Yeah, well … Let’s hope your plane takes off tomorrow.”

My jaw drops. Tomorrow is the twenty-fourth. If it doesn’t take off tomorrow… “Oh my God. I’m going to be alone in an airport on Christmas Day, aren’t I!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Things can change on a dime around here. Listen, I went ahead and grabbed you a room at the lodge down the road. It’s nothin’ fancy but most places are booked up, with it being the holidays. I know the owners, Chris and Andrea. They’re good people. There’s a shuttle that’ll take you there.”

“Thanks,” I offer with resignation.

“You’re welcome, Barbie.”

I grin despite my sour mood. I used to hate it when he called me that. “Have you grown your beard back yet?” I keep asking and he keeps evading. I hope he has—a wish I never thought I’d be making.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see. Go. Grab your twenty-five overweight suitcases and head on over. Call me later.”

“’Kay.” I bite my lip against the urge to utter those three little words that I held back at the airport gate a month ago, that I hold back with every phone call, having convinced myself I can’t say them for the first time from thousands of miles away.

But, deep down, I’m fearful Jonah doesn’t feel the same way. Not yet, anyway. I’m confident his feelings for me are strong—we wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. But, if Jonah is anything, it’s blunt and undaunted, and he has yet to tell me that he loves me, which makes me think maybe he’s not sure yet.

So I can’t be the first one to say it.

“I’ll talk to you soon?”

Jonah chuckles softly. “Yeah, for sure. See you soon, Calla.”

I try not to drag my feet as I head for the luggage carousel. Thankfully, the belt is churning out suitcases from the Chicago flight. I don’t see mine on the conveyor belt yet, so I stand and wait, my disappointment with being stuck in Anchorage for a night—sans Jonah—weighing heavily on my spirits.

Thirty minutes later, long after the suitcases have stopped sliding down the shoot for my flight and the last of the passengers have wheeled their belongings away, I add “missing luggage” to my list of “things that went horribly wrong when I moved to Alaska.”

I’ll be able to laugh about this … one day.

Chapter Three

“What does Alaska have against me having clothes?” I accept my glass of red wine from the server—a man with unkempt brown hair and a black button-down shirt—with a nod of thanks, my phone pressed to my ear.

“You do look pretty good without them,” Jonah says wryly.

My cheeks flush. The last time I was without my luggage was thanks to him and that tiny tin-can plane he came to get me in, back when he thought I was nothing more than a spoiled brat in need of a hard lesson. “Did you have something to do with this?”

He chuckles. “I wish. Have they located them yet?”

“Apparently. They got shuffled in Chicago because of some glitch with the overweight baggage. They said they’d have them on a late flight tonight and they’d get them to the hotel by tomorrow morning, first thing.” I don’t know if I believe them. The airline attendant apologized and offered to refund my exorbitant fees before offering me an emergency care pack of a cheap, disposable toothbrush and pint-sized tube of toothpaste. Fortunately, I packed my toiletries and cosmetics in my carry-on. Between that and the night shirt I grabbed at the Walmart down the road, I’ll be fine for the night.

What I’m concerned about, though, are the Christmas presents I packed. “What if they don’t arrive in time? My flight leaves at three.” I spent two hours on the phone with the airline from my hotel room to secure that seat.

“Don’t worry. You’re not gonna need any clothes for a few days, at least.”

My blood surges with Jonah’s unspoken promise of what’s coming, delivered in a huskier tone.

This last month may have seemed frantic at times with all the preparation for my move, but it also dragged. We went from essentially living together during those last weeks before my dad died to parting ways on a chilly day in Anchorage with no plans to continue our relationship, to reuniting two months later over a four-day-weekend visit.

In my third-story bedroom, directly above my mom and Simon.

Not exactly conducive to the kind of intimacy we were both craving, though we made the best of it. But this month-long wait has only left me with an unending ache of frustration. Hearing Jonah say things like that doesn’t help.

I cannot wait to be alone with him.

I swallow a gulp of wine. “Is it still snowing there?”

“Still snowing. How’s the hotel?”

I drop my voice to a whispered hiss. “Aside from all the dead animals?” The lobby is full of bear skins and deer heads and stuffed fish. Pelts of every color and size adorn the walls of the hallways. A chandelier made from mismatched antlers—foraged in the woods or the prize of several kills?—dangles from the foyer, the dim light it casts adding to the eeriness of the place. “There’s a freaking water buffalo beside the front desk.”

“That’s a musk ox.”

“Whatever. This place is a wild animal tomb.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of their theme. Andrea’s a taxidermist.”

I feel my eyebrows pop. “She stuffed all these things?”

“And hunted most of them. You should see their house. They’ve got a full-grown male grizzly bear standing in the corner.”

“That sounds delightful.” I cringe, trying to picture the kind of woman who’d find pleasure in gutting animals and measuring their eye sockets for the perfect glass balls. Something tells me we won’t be swapping favorite nail polish colors.

“You’re in Alaska. People shoot and stuff things around here, and not only the men. It’s the way things are. Get used to it.”

I groan. “Get used to it” seems to be Jonah’s new favorite slogan. “As long as you never bring home a carcass and ask me to clean and cook it.” I know Jonah hunts. I’ve seen the collection of rifles and shotguns in his safe. I’m just not sure how I feel about it yet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I hear the smile in his voice. “The restaurant’s cozy, though, huh?”

“Yeah,” I admit. It’s plainly decorated in dark wood paneling and warmed by a rustic stone fireplace that blazes in a nearby corner. Picture windows overlook a frozen, snow-covered Lake Hood, cast in shadows of an afternoon sunset, all white save for the colorful small-engine planes, wearing skis in place of wheels. On the other side of the lake are humble brown-brick apartment buildings. Beyond them, in the far distance, majestic white-capped mountains loom.

I survey the tables with a curious glance. A third of them are occupied. How many of these people are also stranded, waiting to get somewhere?

“So, what’re you gonna order?”