phone into his pocket, he tugs the headphones out of his ears.
“Ex-excuse me,” he stutters, pointing ahead. “I’m on my way to Alpine Market.”
My ears buzz. Nine words that should sound like basic Montana English … except something about his velvety voice … the way he pronounced his r in a guttural way …
“Market,” I whisper, imitating his accent.
Aksel looks at me sharply.
“Excuse me.” The man offers another polite nod—a request to pass.
Reluctantly, Aksel steps aside, keeping me squarely behind him.
As the man passes, I smell it.
Cologne. Cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes—Ziganov cigarettes.
Adrenaline converts to panic.
The man disappears into Alpine Market. Aksel’s hand glides up from my hip, where he holds my forearm gently yet firmly, as if he’s trying to get my attention.
“Sophia, do you know him?” Aksel searches my face.
Behind him, a Range Rover idles on the side of the road. I realize my fingers are tangled in Aksel’s sleeve. Instinct tells me not to let go.
I shake my head, swallowing the fear, calming myself. “I don’t … I thought … for a second … but it … wasn’t …”
Why does he always have to see me this way?
Aksel swivels his head toward the voices and laughter coming from the Creamery.
“Hey, there you are!” Tate jogs toward us. “I found my keys. They’d fallen behind the booth, and we had to remove the cushion …”
Slowing to a stop, Tate notices Aksel.
“What’s going on?” He looks between me and Aksel.
I let go of Aksel’s jacket. “Nothing, I—”
“Were you meeting Fredricksen here?” Tate asks me accusingly.
“No, I—”
“You’re coming with me, remember?” Tate takes his keys out of his pocket. He presses the fob. An Explorer, parked a few spots down, lights up and beeps.
Another car turns onto Broadway—Emma.
Crammed inside her Jeep: Oliver, Abigail, and Cole watching us like spectators.
With disjointed movements, I fumble with the clasp on my watch. It takes two attempts to latch it back on.
I can’t do this. I can’t stay here. I am barely keeping rationality ahead of paranoia.
“Can you take me home?” I ask Aksel.
“Sure.” Aksel steps toward the Range Rover and opens the passenger door.
“I can drive you home,” Tate interjects angrily, stepping between me and the door.
“I don’t mind,” Aksel says coolly.
Although the same height, Aksel has about thirty pounds of muscle on Tate and looks like he could squish him between two fingers. Right now, he looks like he wants to.
I notice it now—it’s not only Aksel’s build that’s intimidating; it’s him. Fearless and confident, Aksel isn’t scared of anything, or anyone.
Certainly not Tate McCormick.
For that matter, neither am I. “I’ll see you later,” I say to Tate.
“Seriously, Sophia?” Tate says belligerently. “You’re ditching—”
“Let it go, man,” Aksel orders.
Ignoring the accusations and caustic remarks, I get into the Range Rover.
We drive in silence. At the end of my driveway, Aksel shifts into park.
A car drives past. We watch the headlights dissolve into the night.
“Thank you,” I say, composing myself. “I didn’t mean to overreact—”
“You didn’t,” Aksel interrupts curtly.
“My nerves got the best of me—”
“He was walking behind you,” Aksel says, cutting me off, “close—really close—with his phone out, awkwardly ahead of his body, like he was filming you.”
Filming me? A sharp ping hits my gut.
“Some guys are creeps.” I shrug it off. “Thank you for the ride.”
I put my hand on the door handle, but Aksel reaches across my body and puts his hand on mine. “Sophia, that’s not all.” His fingers meet my wrist beneath my jacket. I am acutely aware of how close his forearm is to my shoulder, of how near his beating heart is to mine.
Sitting back, Aksel drags a hand through his hair. He seems uncomfortable. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen him near you.”
Tentatively, I let go of the door handle. “Sorry?”
He drapes his hand on the back of my seat, facing me. “You were jogging alone when you came upon that grizzly, right?”
I nod. The grizzly? That was weeks ago.
“When I heard the grizzly, I scanned the forest. First, I spotted a guy, farther back on the trail. He was stopped—motionless. When the grizzly roared a second time, he took off and that’s when I saw you a few meters ahead.”
“It’s a trail,” I point out. “People jog there all the time.”
“Not people from Waterford,” Aksel says, exasperated.
I remember what the plow driver said. Tourist.
“You were there,” I say.
“Target shooting,” he explains. “I expected the other runner to show. I assumed you were together, and he’d gotten spooked and would come back to check