I have no idea if he could or not, but seeing Jonah riled up is too much fun. “But we get a shipping discount if we order both end tables and the coffee table together. I think it was two hundred to ship all three? Of course, I’d choose express, so it’ll be more.”

“Don’t you dare, Calla. Those are a huge rip-off,” he warns, his eyes flashing with grim amusement as he peers down at me.

Part of me wants to stretch the verbal foreplay a little longer. There’s nothing but his cotton boxer briefs separating us, and I can feel how much he wants me pressed against the apex of my thighs. Also, these kinds of games always lead to fervent sex, which is exactly what I’m in the mood for.

My hips shift of their own volition, enticing him to make the next move.

With a knowing smirk, he obliges, shoving his underwear down with one hand and entering me without preamble, his lips crashing into mine.

I cry out with abandon into the cold, dark night, again and again, my jagged nails dragging across his back with each powerful thrust, my fists tightening through his hair, my legs curling around his hips.

Taking full advantage of the fact that there’s no one to hear us for miles.

Chapter Thirteen

The snow machine’s engine churns loud and ragged as I race along the driveway toward the plane, holding out hope that it doesn’t die on the way, and that Jonah spots me coming before he takes off.

When the door pops open and Jonah hops out, I sigh with relief.

I come to a stop on the edge of the strip and wait for him to reach me, his strides long and purposeful, his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

I cut my engine. “You didn’t say goodbye.” He was gone before I stirred this morning, leaving nothing but the smell of brewed coffee in his wake and the faint memory of a kiss against my temple.

“Yeah, I did. You were half-asleep.”

“Then it doesn’t count.”

He reaches out with both hands to tug the sides of my winter hat down over my ears. The temperature is above average by a few degrees for this time of year, according to the local radio station, but there’s still a wintry chill in the air. “I found your itinerary form. It’s filled out and sitting on the desk.”

“Great. Thank you.” Agnes said to make sure Jonah never leaves without completing an itinerary. It has his destination and his flight plan. It’s the only way I know where to direct help, should he not arrive. “What time will you be home?”

“Around five. It’s far, and it took me a while to get that stupid thing goin’ before I could clear the snow.” He juts a chin toward the tractor, the cherry-red plow attached to the front wearing several dents. Another engine in need of a mechanic. “I’ll call you on the satphone when I get to Unalakleet.”

“Right when you get there?” I give him a threatening stare. Agnes warned me that one of Jonah’s few faults around piloting is his inability to promptly and reliably check in. It’s an odd and uncharacteristic difficulty for a guy like him, who prides himself on his communication skills.

“Yeah, yeah.” He smirks, leaning in to steal a quick kiss, obviously in a rush to get off the ground.

I grab hold of his neck before he has a chance to pull away and hold him there, prolonging the feel of his lips against mine.

He’s frowning curiously when I release him. “Am I gonna get this kind of goodbye every time I fly off somewhere?”

“Yes,” I say with more seriousness than I intended. “Don’t ever leave without saying goodbye to me. Please.”

He studies my face a long moment. “I’m not gonna crash, Calla. I promise.” His voice is soft, lulling.

“You can’t promise that.” Though I desperately want to believe him.

He leans in to kiss me again, this time more deeply. “Fine. But I will always find my way back to you,” he whispers against my lips. “Love you. See you in a few hours.”

“I love you, too.” My heart sings as I watch him head toward the plane, a buoyancy to his step that I’ve come to recognize as Jonah when he’s about to get in the sky—cheerful, energized, but also at ease, as if slipping into something comfortable. Today, he seems more charged than usual. Probably because he hasn’t flown since the day we arrived almost two weeks ago. The longest he’s ever gone without being in the air since he moved to Alaska, he noted last night, as we lay naked and out of breath, in postcoital bliss.

Suddenly, he spins to face me, walking backward. “By the way, what is that stuff in the fridge? In the jars?”

“Chia pudding. I made it for breakfast. Like it?”

“No.” He screws up his face. “Not even a little bit.”

I shrug. “It’s healthy for you.”

He waves off my words, turning his back to me. “You should go for a run!” he hollers over his shoulder. “You must have cabin fever by now!”

“Yeah! Log cabin fever, thanks to you!” A run isn’t a bad idea, though.

He climbs back into the plane. Moments later, the engine purrs loud and then Veronica is taking off.

I huddle in my parka with my Canon pointed, capturing stills of Jonah’s first official flight from our airstrip. Veronica’s wings tip and wobble left and right as she climbs into the sky, until the plane is nothing more than a speck and I’m all alone, surrounded by snow and trees and an eerily calm silence.

The snow machine’s engine chugs and coughs a few times in protest before finally coming to life. I coast back to our empty home, the panoramic view of the mountain range against the crisp, blue sky following me the entire way.

I slow my pace to a walk, my hot breath producing a billow of misty cloud as it merges with the icy air. My body is suitably warm from the three layers I dressed in, but my lungs burn from the cold.

Six kilometers.

That’s the distance I had to run—past chained driveways and smokeless cabins—to spot signs of another living being.

I pause to suck back a small gulp of my water from my insulated bottle while reading the tacky array of corrugated signs ahead. They’re nailed to a half-dead spruce tree on the right of the driveway leading into Trapper’s Crossing Resort, and they promise everything: fully equipped two- and four-person cabins and spacious camping spots for rent, excellent fishing and dogsled rides, free Wi-Fi, a hot breakfast, and small-engine repair.

Phil boasted about the fishing in the network of rivers nearby. I imagine that’s a seasonal thing. Right now, the rustic little cabins with red-tin roofs sit idly among the thinned-out trees, their curtains drawn, the snow-covered ground around them free of tracks.

Utterly lifeless.

The main building stretches off to the left—a simple, long and narrow log cabin capped with a red-tin roof to match the rest of the property’s structures. A string of old, multicolored Christmas lights like the ones I dug up in my father’s shed dangles across the front, from one end to the other. Above a solid forest-green door is a colorful decal of a fish and a sign that reads Ale House. In the window is a blinking neon Open sign. One lonely pickup truck sits in the lot, its burgundy color coated with dirt.

The sign for small-engine repair, which points with an arrow to a metal garage off to the other side of the main building, is what sparks my interest and spurs me toward the Ale House’s green door. This might be a good place to service our snow machines, before we find ourselves stranded.