“Sorry. Stayed to help them cover the planes.” Even his voice sounds exhausted. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the dresser. Beneath it is one of the sweaters I brought him—an azure knit that makes his blue eyes bright and hugs his chest and collarbone nicely. “Fucking guys up in St. Mary’s did a shitty job patching that hangar back in the summer. The whole damn thing is ready to cave in. I had to meet with the insurance adjusters and sort all that out, then explain it all to Howard.”
“The hangar with the roof leak that my dad was complaining about, back in the summer?”
“Yup.” He flops backward into bed with a heavy sigh and rubs his eyes, then his beard. It’s grown since I arrived three weeks ago—long enough for clippers and a bit more style. “Can’t wait to be done with all this Aro bullshit.”
Neither can I.
The blustery air clings to him, and I burrow deeper within my cozy cocoon. “You know you could be done tomorrow if you want, right?” It’s not like he signed a contract.
He gives a firm head shake. “I said I’d stay until the end of January, so that’s what I’m gonna give ’em.”
Of course, he is. Jonah is nothing if not loyal. To the detriment of himself, my father once hinted. “Okay. So, two more weeks.
That’s nothing.”
“And then I’m officially unemployed.”
“Join the club. On Wednesdays, we wear pink.” I can’t ignore the thrill of knowing that Jonah will be with me and one hundred percent focused on building this charter company soon.
“Pink?” He frowns at me, confused.
“You know, from Mean Girls? It’s a movie. Never mind.” Jonah didn’t have a television in his house until I moved here. “And you won’t be unemployed. You’ll be self-employed. That’s different.”
“Yeah, I guess …” He smirks. “I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a boss telling me what to do.”
I burst out laughing. “When have you ever done as you’re told by anyone?” According to my father, Jonah was a young, “full of piss and vinegar” punk when he showed up at Alaska Wild ten years ago, and stubborn as they come. But he quickly became an indispensable part of the team, and my dad’s right-hand man. From what I saw in the summer, it seemed like he was running the company. Wren Fletcher was more the quiet, passive type.
“I do, sometimes. When I feel like it.” Jonah reaches out to seize my chin beneath his thumb and forefinger, pulling my face down to steal a slow, lingering kiss. A small groan slips from within his chest. “And I’ve been feeling like doing that all damn day.”
I can’t keep the beaming smile from my mouth, an instant reaction to whenever Jonah says anything even semi-romantic, which is more often than I would ever have expected, though usually woven in among playful jibes.
“There’s a plate of spaghetti in the fridge for you. Homemade.” My best friend, Diana, in her desperate attempts to keep my presence in our Calla & Dee lifestyle blog alive, has a new brainchild for a segment: “Calla Learns to Cook.” It’s not the worst idea given these winter days are long, there is no premade meal service in Bangor, and we can’t rely on Agnes to feed us forever.
Jonah’s eyebrows arch with doubt.
“Homemade sauce from a can,” I amend sheepishly. “But I went all the way into town to get that overpriced can.” Which is about as exciting as my cooking content gets, but Di is convinced that pictures of me going grocery shopping on a Ski-Doo are hilarious.
“Thanks. I’ll eat in a bit.” He nods toward my computer, sitting open on my lap. “What’d you do today?”
“Lots of very important things,” I say with mock seriousness. We are two weeks into the new year and have fallen into somewhat of a routine, where Jonah goes off to Aro well before sunrise and I take breaks from toiling away on my computer to stoke the woodstove with logs that Jonah cut. Last week I focused on website design for the charter plane company, which is now ready for final touches and then launching, once he stops arguing with me about the fact that The Yeti is the perfect name for it.
This week, it’s real estate and a crash course in business operations from Agnes, who has basically been running the administrative side of Wild for years. I’ve taken copious notes about nautical miles, basic pilot jargon, radio frequencies, topography maps, and flight itineraries. Just a scratch in the surface of this exciting world, Agnes promised.
I flip to one of many website tabs I have open to show Jonah the house listings. There aren’t many this time of year. “What do you think about Eagle River?”
“Eagle River,” Jonah echoes.
“Fifteen miles northeast of Anchorage. A nineteen-minute drive. They have an airport and all the basic amenities. They even have a Walmart. And, look, they’ve got some nice houses.” Modern, new builds that surprised me, with high ceilings and tile floors and Corian countertops—all things I’d never given a moment’s thought to before I suddenly found myself entering the house-hunting market. “Look at this one. It’s got an extra-wide, two-car garage, and the view outside the kitchen window with the mountains is to die for. Or this one …” I flip through to another house, a few streets over, and show him the pictures.
“How much land?”
I scroll the cursor downward to reveal the details. “Almost an acre?”
Jonah laughs. “That’s nothing, babe.”
I frown. “But look at the yard. It goes way back.”
“What about the planes?”