Page 49 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Rainy.” The less she knows about what I really do, the better. “You got a date for homecoming yet?”

She turns up her nose, a sassy gesture that pushes my buttons. “Maybe.”

I laugh. “You and Mom going dress shopping?”

She swings her crossed legs. “Everyone’s wearing these itty little scraps, D.J.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to.” Agatha is a little toopreoccupiedwith her body image for my liking. I think she’s perfect, but she won’t listen to me. This discord might be the influence from the dance environment, or her friend group. It worries me, but Mom says she’s monitoring things carefully.

“Anyways. Kiss a glacier for me or something.” She flashes me a peace sign, makes a face like a fish, and ends our call.

I’m tempted to call Brielle, but I know that would be a mistake. What I want from her she won’t give unless I meet her demands. She’ll only remind me that there is only one way out of this.

After finishing off my bourbon, I close my laptop and turn in. Sleep doesn’t come, but I’m not surprised. Not after the day I’ve had. From the sounds of Quinn tossing and turning in the room next to me, I don’t think he gets much rest, either.

The river trip with Lexie today fills my mind. What the hell happened out there? Was it just the hunt? Connecting with such clever, determined creatures? Or was it Lexie’s energy, her confidence? What started as something adventurous turned intimate. Are the two connected? Could we have all ended up in that cedar tub without spending the day on the river together?

I love Lexie’s energy, her playful spirit. She’s feisty and passionate, yet tough and resilient. And brave.

But I can’t help feeling like it’s all going to blow up in our faces.

ChapterThirteen

LEXIE

My head is still floating somewhere upin the clouds when I arrive for my shift in the lodge. The wounds on my palms are healing enough that I only need band-aids and some extra tape. It’s inconspicuous, so I doubt anyone will notice. After tying on my apron and using the tiny mirror in the break room to check my lip gloss, I slip into the dining room to get my section ready.

“Look who’s got a high-pro glow,” Stacy says with a sly grin while we polish wine glasses. “What’s his name?”

I roll my eyes but can’t contain my smile. “Nobody you know.”

“The plot thickens.” She straightens the silverware on the linen napkins. “How’s your side gig going?”

“Good,” I manage. “Tomorrow they’re taking the primo glacier tour, next week is the wildlife photography expedition and panning for gold, and after that, the Bluegrass Festival.”

Stacy shoots me a curious look.

I fill water glasses from a pitcher, trying to keep my face neutral.

“You’re cooking for them too, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“Lucky them.”

It’safter eleven o’clock when my final guests, four gentlemen in their sixties, finally finish their dinner and storytelling, sipping their cognac.

“What’s this I hear about someone trying to put a mine in the Soren Creek valley?” Mr. Bryson asks, his cheeks flushed from four days in the elements, and probably the cognac.

“I thought your grandaddy had it set aside,” adds Mr. Little, his bushy eyebrows drawing into a scowl.

This catches me off guard. It’s one thing for locals to hear about Soren Creek Preserve’s setback, but these four are from outside. How did they find out?

“He did.” I paste on a smile as I gather their empty glasses. “But the existing claim in the upper basin takes precedence.”

“What are you doing about it?” Mr. Little asks, unwrapping one of the after-dinner mints I brought for them and popping it into his mouth.

I tell them about Alaska Wild’s plan to sue.

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