Page 98 of Knocked Up in Alaska

“First,” Izzy said, “unlike Mia, back in the day, you’re not a newborn, unable to express what you want. He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. That’s going to wear him down. Furthermore—”

“You’re not out-of-sight, out-of-mind,” Bridget interjected. “You two will cross paths practically every day. It’s hard to withstand something you want when you see it all the damn time. Again, trust me on this. Archer had it one hundred percent correct.”

“No offense, Bridget, but the situation between you and Archer was different. He loved you. You loved him, too. You just didn’t trust his feelings, because…” She trailed off at her friend’s pointed look. “Okay, I see what you’re saying, but the becauses are different. You had concrete reasons for not trusting him, given he’d walked away once, even if he felt like walking was his only option at that time.”

“He was wrong, in my opinion, and we may never see eye-to-eye on that, but I understand why he did what he did, and I forgave him. Ford’s wrong, too. It’s sort of sweet, in a twisted kind of way, that he’s trying to protect you from him, and his wants, and not cage you and smother you and live happily ever after with you before you’ve lived enough to know you want happy ever after with him, too—”

“But I do know! And I’m hurt.” There. She said it. “I’m hurt that he holds back, regardless of his reasons. I’m hurt that he can, because I can’t. I love him. I want to be with him. I’m hurt that he rejects my feelings, even if he thinks it’s for my own good. I’m hurt that he doesn’t respect me enough to believe my feelings are real.”

Izzy put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently. “You’re entitled to all that hurt. You are. But keep in mind that he honestly thinks he’s doing the right thing. Keep in mind that it hurts him to do it, even if he doesn’t let that show.”

“And keep in mind,” Bridget said as she slung her arms wide, so they rested on the rim of the hot tub, “that he owes you an apology, girlfriend. He owes you a belly-to-the-ground, face-in-the-dirt, I-was-so-wrong-please-forgive-me apology.”

“I second that,” Izzy said and sent Bridget a toast with her water bottle.

“Ha.” She tried to muster up some enthusiasm at the notion of Ford crawling for forgiveness but silently acknowledged the unlikeliness of the scenario. They hadn’t seen his “Ford knows best” face. “I’ll hold out for that.”

But would she be holding for the rest of her life?

…

You weak-willed, selfish motherfucker.

Ford silently acknowledged the failing from the business side of the bar as he watched Lilah escort two guests through the lobby of the inn, step out onto the covered sidewalk, and smile her beautiful, serene smile as she pointed them toward whatever destination they’d planned for their evening.

In those brief seconds, he catalogued every detail. She didn’t have Shayla with her. Her long, sun-kissed hair flowed like silk past her shoulders. The rose-colored shirt she wore put a bloom in her cheeks. The trim, tan skirt hugged her curves like a possessive lover. No more T-shirts and jeans for her work wardrobe. As co-owner of The Captivity Inn, she looked…professional. Sophisticated and, somehow, remote. He missed her like he’d miss a limb, or a lobe of his brain…or a chamber of his own heart. He missed her smile, the way her green eyes twinkled when she aimed it at him. He missed her scent. Her touch. The taste of her on his lips.

The couple started off down the street. Lilah stood for a moment, looking after them, then turned and re-entered the lobby. As she made her way past the archway connecting their businesses, she glanced through and caught him staring. Did he look as desperate for her as he felt? Did she pick up on any of his desperation?

She turned away and kept walking.

Apparently not, which should have been a relief, because his willpower was at an all-time low where Lilah Iquat was concerned. He wanted to chase her down, bundle her up, place her and Shayla bodily on the first plane to Anchorage, and set her on the trajectory she was meant to take. That’s what he wanted, except…except the selfish motherfucker inside him wanted to chase her down, tell her he loved her—her and Shayla—and keep her with him, forever. The longer she stuck around Captivity, the less likely he’d be able to hold onto the high ground in their war of wills.

“Yoo-hoo. Another here, if you please.”

He looked down the bar to see Jorg holding up his empty mug. Right. All part of his totally satisfying, self-contained life of serving drinks in Captivity. He drew another pint and walked down the bar, past the stools full of chatting tourists—cruise ship Wednesday—to the corner where Jorg sat. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Yah. Lilah. I miss her.”

Join the club, old man. He braced a hand on the bar and waved the other toward the archway. “She’s at the inn. Wander over and see her. Problem solved.”

“Why does she not come in and say hello? She just walks by nowadays—no smile, no wave, no nothing. Is she mad at me?” Guileless blue eyes locked on him and narrowed. “Or is she mad at you?”

He took Jorg’s empty mug and wiped the wet ring it left on the bar with a towel. “She’s just being stubborn. That’s all.”

Jorg let out a breath through his nose, hard enough to ruffle his gray whiskers. “Somebody is being stubborn,” he announced before taking a long swallow of beer. Under his breath, he added, “Somebody determined to be ogift the rest of his long, lonely life.”

Over Jorg’s shoulder, he saw the street-facing door swing open. Bridget and Izzy breezed through, sent waves to Annie and Ben Watkins, enjoying dinner at a table, and made their way to the bar.

“Hey, Jorg.” Bridget clapped his back before sliding into the empty seat next to him. Then she turned cool eyes on him. “Ford.”

Izzy took the empty stool on Jorg’s other side and aimed an equally cool, somewhat assessing gaze his way.

Great. What now? “What can I offer you ladies?”

“Let’s try an explanation, for starters,” Bridget answered and crossed her arms as if to signify she wouldn’t be leaving without one. Izzy propped her chin in her hand and drummed her flawless red fingernails on the bar, a picture of impatient expectation.

He straightened, took a prudent step back. “An explanation about what?”

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