But also because I’d been preparing myself for the smell of stale beer and three-day-old pork chop bones, something that might suit the life of an Alaskan bush pilot and bachelor who puts little effort into his appearance.

“Hey,” I call out, kicking off my mucky running shoes, my curious frown still firmly in place. “I brought you a plate of Mabel’s cheesy casserole in case you haven’t eaten. My dad said it’s pretty good.”

“Just leave it in the kitchen.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”

I set it down and then venture farther in, into the living room. Another room that’s identical in basic layout to my father’s—a sliding door that leads out to a screened-in porch, small black woodstove atop beige ceramic tile in the far corner, simple Ikea-style floor-to-ceiling bookcases tucked in the other corner—and yet feels distinctively different.

And, again, unexpectedly tidy.

The carpet has been updated to a fluffy-pile mocha that’s still new enough not to show wear patterns. The walls have been painted a warm gray and decorated with framed photographs of vibrantly colored bush planes against backgrounds of snowy tundra. Table lamps cast a warm, cozy glow to a room in shadow, despite the burning sun outside.

To be frank, it looks Jonah’s house has been decorated by a woman.

Jonah is sprawled out on one side of a charcoal-gray faux suede sectional. His stained clothes from earlier are gone, swapped out for a pair of black track pants and a soft gray T-shirt that lays loose across his abdomen and yet still manages to highlight his muscular ridges. He’s cursing quietly as he fusses with a pill bottle.

“Here, let me.”

“I’m good.”

I yank it from his grasp, my nails scraping against his dry, rough palms. With one swift turn, I have the cap off. “You’re right. You’re perfectly fine.” I make a point of letting him see me roll my eyes as I hand the bottle back. “What are they for?”

“Thanks,” he mutters, fishing out a pill. “Muscle relaxers.” Strands of his hair dangle down either side of his face, freshly washed. He obviously just showered, but there are still flecks of dried blood tangled within that mangy beard of his. Nothing short of a pair of scissors will get all that out.

His eyes are on me now, narrowing suspiciously. “What?”

“Let me get you some water for that.” I hunt through his cabinets for a glass, temporarily mesmerized by the state of his kitchen. It’s spotless. Everything is organized tidily, and there’s no clutter or obvious dirt. Two plates with pink flowers etched around their rim sit drying in the dish rack, along with a handful of other dishes, the stainless steel in the sink gleaming.

But the most bizarre discovery for me is the canned goods cupboard. A guy like him, I’d expect to chuck cans in haphazardly. But every last can is grouped by type and size, their labels facing out, stacked in tidy rows. “Hey, have you ever seen Sleeping with the Enemy? You know, the one with Julia Roberts and the crazy ex--husband?” The one who likes his cans to be organized this same way. Ironically enough, the one I watched with my dad the other night.

“I don’t watch TV.” A pause. “Why?”

“No reason.” I add more softly, “I’ll bet good ol’ psycho Martin didn’t watch TV, either.” Dog food? Why does Jonah have a dozen cans of chunky chicken and liver alongside peaches and creamed corn and black beans? He doesn’t have a dog.

But he does have a raccoon, I remember.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Nothing.” I fill a tall floral-etched glass with water and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table.

“Thanks.” Jonah promptly downs his pill and starts chugging.

“Did you sleep earlier?”

“No. My shoulder’s throbbing too much. It’ll be fine once these pills kick in.”

“Have you taken them before?”

“Yeah. The first time I dislocated my shoulder, back in high school. When I was playing football.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have taken you to be a team player.” I wander over to the bookcase, noting what I didn’t notice earlier—that there isn’t a TV in here.

“I wasn’t. I got kicked off the team halfway through the season.”

I shake my head but smile as I examine the tatty spines, curious what interests Jonah besides flying planes and being generally abrasive.

“Those are called books,” he murmurs, the timbre of his voice soft and smug.

The Great Gatsby . . . Crime and Punishment . . . “My, aren’t we literary.”

“And what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know . . . How to Skin a Squirrel in Four Steps? 101 Ways to Cook Beaver? What Happens to You When Your Parents Are Related?” I mock.

He chuckles darkly.

There must be over two hundred books crammed in here. “You’ve read all of these?”

“That’s what you do with books, Barbie.”

I ignore the nickname, because he’s just trying to get under my skin, and turn my attention to the one shelf reserved for framed pictures. “Is this your mom?”

“Yup. Way back, when we still lived in Anchorage.”

I study the stunning and svelte woman in the cherry-red bikini, perched on the edge of a dock, her long white-blonde locks looking windblown, her slender legs crossed at the ankles. “She looks a lot like this Norwegian fashion Instagrammer that I follow. Really pretty.”