North Country(51)

Jameson pulls it out of his reach. “No! You’re being a dick.”

“Give me my fucking sandwich!”

As the two grown-ass men fight over Aunt Jill’s lunch, my attention wanders. I’ve always been fascinated by this area. Lake Temagami is home to over twelve hundred islands, everything from tiny crops of rocks to land masses several square kilometers in size. It has numerous arms, bays, and peninsulas, and is only accessible by boat or floatplane, or snowmobile when the lake freezes over in the winter, or by canoeing the over two thousand kilometers of corridors. Indigenous people have traveled those routes for thousands of years, and today, the area is enjoyed by backcountry enthusiasts, many of them clueless to its rich history.

“What is that?” I point to a large, flat, white and blue object floating in the water.

My question stalls the brothers’ bickering.

Jameson squints. “Looks like a paddleboard.”

“A what?”

“You know … a board that you paddle on?”

I glare at him.

He shrugs. “I don’t know how else to describe it! It’s like a surfboard but you stand on it and paddle over the water. They’re super popular.”

“And expensive,” Jack notes. “Probably floated away from a cottage. Here, let’s grab it. Maybe the owner’s name is on it.” We reel in our lines and Jack starts the motor. Our boat cuts through the calm water.

“Is that …” I squint as another floating form nearby begins to take shape, the purple life jacket unmistakable.

“Oh, shit.” Jameson tosses his half-eaten sandwich into the cooler as Jack cuts the engine.

I don’t think.

I dive in.





Chapter 18





Emery




“Go, go, go! Skate!” My palm slaps against the Plexiglas as Isla and her line mate rush toward the net, and I hold my breath that she’ll score. It would be the first time for her this season and on her new team. But the opposing team’s defense keeps them on the outside and, instead of shooting anyway, Isla attempts a redirect. They strip her of the puck.

“Next time, take the shot!” a dad yells from the stands.

I grit my teeth. Of all the parents on Isla’s new team, I’ve already pegged him as the most irritating. He’s not unique either—I’ve run into a dozen others over the years, all men who played as children and are now reliving their youth through their offspring who, of course, are future Olympic-potential stars who can do no wrong.

It’s why I prefer staying at ice level to watch—so I don’t have to listen to adults criticize teenage girls. Plus, it’s faster down here.

Isla waves as she glides past me on the way back to the bench, her face red from exertion.

Why didn’t she mention seeing Logan at the stables every morning this week? We have a good relationship, don’t we? She tells me pretty much everything … or I’d like to think that, as any mother foolishly tells herself.

I don’t like her keeping secrets, even the harmless kind.

Then again, I now have a colossal secret to keep from everyone.

My pulse races as I replay last night in my mind, struggling to keep my expression even. I haven’t had a night like that in … never. I’ve never had a night like that. The intensity, the emotion. We barely spoke, letting our bodies convey our thoughts. And Logan’s body had a lot to say. It was never idle, his hands roaming, his hips thrusting, his lips rarely leaving mine, unless it was to kiss another part of me. By the time I drifted off, I felt utterly ravished, sapped of all strength. Sore. It was different from how I remembered Logan and I being together, but I guess that was to be expected. We’re different. I’m different.

It was mind-blowing.

Jon had to walk in. Of all people! Obviously, he’ll tell Sarah, who’ll tell Annie, and then all the Landrys will know that I slept with Logan. How long before Isla somehow figures it out? And Dillon? Mike and Breanne?

Is there any way to keep a lid on this?

And how am I supposed to look at Logan again and pretend last night didn’t happen?

Or that, despite everything I said this morning and everything I know to be true, I already desperately want it to happen again.

The two teams are battling for the puck on the far end when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I groan when I see Jenny Monroe’s name appear on the screen. This must be about last night. What did Holly tell her parents? Do I want to deal with this right now? I waffle on answering but decide it’s best I do, in case it involves a lie about Logan.

I force a cordial tone. “Hey, Jenny. What’s up?”

“Hello, Emery. Will you be driving Holly home soon or do I need to come and get her?” comes the crisp response, rife with irritation.

“I’m supposed to drive Holly home?” I repeat, caught by confusion.

“Yes. She knows we’re celebrating Thanksgiving today, and she promised she’d be back by noon. She said you’d be dropping her off.”

I finally clue in. “Was Holly supposed to be staying at our place last night?” After Jenny not-so-subtly suggested Holly wouldn’t be allowed there anymore?

“Yes.” There’s a pause. “Didn’t she?”

“No. ”