CHAPTER THREE

Ally

The heat on the tarmac rises off the asphalt in pulsing waves. I shield my eyes from the sun, trying to take in my surroundings. It appears as if the tiny airport dropped from the sky, with only one runway cutting through a flat grassy expanse. The open field in which I am now standing is surrounded by a thick forest, stretching up the rocky mountainside until there's nothing but brown and grey rock. I crane my neck to take in the mountains looming around me on all sides. They are breathtaking, if not somewhat intimidating. The late summer heat means that the snow has completely melted, but I can imagine how stunning the rocks would be, blanketed in snow.

Heartwood is nestled in a deep valley, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, on the border between British Columbia and Alberta. A world-renowned ski resort located two towns away, roughly an hour's drive from here, is the only reason anyone knows this place exists.

I had never heard of Heartwood until I started perusing online job postings, desperate for anything that would be my ticket out of Vancouver. I eventually stumbled upon a viable option, advertising for a registered nurse position in a rural outpost clinic, and I knew that this was my chance to get away.

I got a call back a few days later and accepted the job on the spot. The woman on the phone seemed friendly and kind and was very reassuring when I explained that I hadn't worked as a nurse for over a year. I wonder if my nursing skills will be like riding a bike, hoping that they will come back to me like muscle memory. First impressions are a strong suit of mine. People take to my bubbly and outgoing personality without much convincing. I'm determined to make a positive impression at the clinic, too.

Nate had told me he loved the fact that I was a nurse, that I cared so much about helping others. He liked how it looked to other people. I had intended to go back to my job after the wedding, once all the commotion had died down after filming, but Nate was adamant that I shouldn't.

"Let's ride this wave out, baby. Keep the momentum that we have from the show," he would say, trying to convince me to make social media my full-time job. Ironic that he always suggested dropping the nurse card every once in a while in a post. He expected me to give up everything that I had, but he never once returned the favour. His work always came first, and I was left in his wake.

He didn't take it well after I left him at the engagement party. The texts hadn't let up in the few days following the disastrous event. Every opportunity Nate got to publicly shame me, he did. His strategy got pettier and more vicious as the days went on. At first, he tried to garner sympathy, posting photos and videos of himself wallowing in his fancy high-rise apartment. Soon, he started calling me out, attacking my character and telling blatant lies. I found it hard to feel sorry for him with the backdrop of his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the downtown Vancouver skyline. His followers didn't have as hard a time as I did; they showed no mercy towards me in the comments.

I endured three weeks of a constant barrage of posts on Instagram and TikTok, most of them siding with Nate. Everyone had turned against me, including people who had acted like my friend to my face. They turned on me the moment I prioritized myself over anyone else. Luckily, Spencer had let me hide out in her apartment until I found this job and booked my flight.

Now, standing in the midday sun, I close my eyes and let the golden rays warm my skin. I inhale. The air smells like fresh pine and possibilities.

There's only one building that I can see; the squat, one-storey airport terminal sitting off the runway. The door on the side of the building is open, awaiting my arrival. I found myself alone on the small plane, prompting me to question whether I had selected an unusual flight time or if there truly existed a dearth of individuals with aspirations of visiting Heartwood. There are plenty of people leaving, though. As I enter the building, I notice enough people to fill the plane that I got off, all waiting to board.

The air is as stagnant inside as it is out, and many of the passengers waiting are fanning themselves with magazines they purchased from the little shop in the corner of the terminal. I wonder where they're going, if they are waiting in eager anticipation for whatever summer vacation destination they have planned. Or if any of them are running away from their lives like I am.

I make my way over to the old rusty luggage carousel as it creaks to life. It would be easier for them to bring my luggage to me, being the only passenger, but I wait for my bags to appear from the chute. I lean on one hip and pull out my phone, a habit when I'm waiting for something to happen. One notification, and it's from Spencer.

Spencer: Let me know when you arrive. xx

Ally: Just landed! Waiting for my bags

I only have time to send a quick update when I notice the first of my bags come careening down. The first one makes its way past me and I heave it over the side while the next one comes out and bumps onto the conveyor belt. As I pull another bag over, I remember I have four more coming and realize I am going to need more luggage carts.

You wouldn't be able to tell that I was the sole passenger of the plane, with all the luggage making its way around the terminal. I don't even know why I bothered to bring all of my clothes with me; I bought most of them before going on Stolen Love , and judging by the weathered appearance of the airport already, I won't have a use for my fancy dinner dresses here in Heartwood. They are now just a painful reminder of that chapter of my life. Maybe one day I'll be able to reminisce on this time and laugh, but not today. Right now, all I feel is the sting of failure and the sour taste of false promises.

I push the two luggage carts piled high with my six suitcases and one garment bag full of ball gowns flopped on top over to the rental car desk. There's a cheerful and pink-cheeked woman sitting behind the counter, her eyes going wide as she looks up over her computer screen and sees me peeking over my mountain of luggage.

"Staying a while?" the woman says with a warm chuckle.

"I hope so." I give her a shy smile as her nails clack against her keyboard.

"Well then, welcome to Heartwood. Unfortunately, I only have one vehicle that will fit all those bags you've got." She turns in her seat and examines the big board behind her, searching for the right set of keys among the thirty or so pairs that hang from tiny gold hooks. "Ah, here we go."

She turns back to face me and hands me an old-looking set of keys, the only one with a rabbit foot for a keychain.

"It'll be the red truck at the end of that line of cars." She points down the row of cars in the lot outside the airport terminal.

I wheel the toppling luggage cart through the parking lot, sweat beading on my forehead in the heat.

This has to be a joke, I nearly say out loud as I reach the end of the row and examine the old red pickup truck. The side mirrors are off-kilter, and patches of the paint have peeled and rusted. I am not sure I trust that the old beater will turn on.

I eye the Jeep Wrangler sitting next to it. It's not new, none of the vehicles in this lot are new, but right now it's looking more reliable than the rust bucket I've been given. It's the kind with only two doors but has a hard top and plenty of space in the back for my luggage. I consider heading back to the airport and asking if I could take the Jeep instead, but I think better of it. The woman had been so friendly and kind to me that the thought of telling her I don't like the truck makes me queasy.

These are your first impressions here; don't want to ruffle any feathers. I huff a breath, readying myself to load the suitcases into the bed of the old truck.

I make the thirty-minute drive from the airport into the town of Heartwood. The truck, although it looks old and beat up, gets me around fine. I paid for a month's rental, which buys me some time to find another solution for transportation. The truck will do for now.

By the time I reach the main drag, winding through a couple of quiet streets, I've already seen most of the town. Houses spread out around the street which has a small grocery store, a pub and liquor store, some quaint and cozy restaurants, a bookstore, and a café, which will be my first stop. The flight was so short that they didn't have any snacks on board, and I was so eager to leave the city that I forgot to eat before I boarded. The growling in my stomach isn't letting me forget that fact.

I pull the truck up next to a similar one, only blue, and not as beat up. Putting the truck in park, I hop out and peer up at the wooden sign above the door, Thistle + Thorne.

The bell above the door jingles as I enter the café and the door shuts behind me. A friendly brunette with wavy hair cut in a short blunt bob waves from behind the espresso machine.

"Welcome!" She smiles, her eyes bright and cheerful. She goes back to the drink she's making, and the espresso machine hisses as she's obscured by a cloud of steam.

The café is warm and inviting, and not at all like the modern hipster coffee shops I'm used to back in Vancouver. No, this café could be someone's home. The furniture doesn't match but somehow still goes together. There are a few tables with an odd assortment of antique-looking wooden chairs, and some armchairs positioned strategically for conversation by the window. A bookshelf lines the wall on one side but doesn't only house books; it also stores a variety of board games. Pictures adorn the walls in mismatched frames. Some of them are wooden, and others are brass, but all of them contain paintings and artwork made by people in the town. I know this from the small cards in the corner of each one. It doesn't matter who made it; some are doodles done by children, and others are professional-level-looking photos.

I step up to the counter when the bell chimes again behind me. The café is quiet, but it's not because of a lack of customers. I skim over the menu, which is handwritten on a dusty old chalkboard. I'm so hungry that everything sounds appealing.

The brunette behind the bar continues making the coffee she was working on, pouring the steamed milk into a large ceramic mug and using careful motions to create a beautiful leaf pattern on top. A second barista comes out from the back room and greets me by the till.

"Hi there! What can I get for you?" He's young, in his late teens judging by the way he hasn't quite filled out his lanky frame, and his toothy smile full of braces.

"Is the only difference between the ham sandwich and the ham-on-rye the bread?" I ask, and the words coming out of my mouth make my mouth water.

"Uh, yeah. I guess so. And the ham-on-rye has Swiss cheese instead of cheddar," he answers. I tap a finger on my chin, considering.

"Do they both have mustard?" I fucking hate mustard.

"The ham-on-rye has Dijon," the barista says, a hint of impatience in his tone.

"Can I get it without the mustard?" I ask.

The young barista opens his mouth to answer when I hear a short huff of breath from behind me. I turn to see a man waiting, arms crossed in front of him. I'm stunned by the sight of the most remarkably square and defined jawline, softened only by the shadow of stubble. A muscle twitches in his jaw, evidence of his insufferable impatience.

"Is there a problem?" I ask him. The soft, dark waves on his head bounce as he nods his head. His deep brown eyes are cutting right through me.

"Yeah, I'd like to get my coffee. Sometime today would be great," the man mutters back. His voice is deep and rumbles through my chest, warming it on the way through. He's tall and well-built, the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel button-down showing off his muscular forearms. I might even think him attractive if it wasn't for his abrupt and gruff attitude. But I have no time for rudeness. Manners and politeness go a long way in my world. It's a simple and effective method to ensure that those in my vicinity are at ease.

I shoot him a disapproving glare, but with my big blue eyes and bright features, I'm not as intimidating as I hope. I turn back to the barista to ask another question about the sandwiches, but the man cuts in front of me.

"She'll have the Thanksgiving turkey sandwich." He orders for me, and blood rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment and rage.

"You can't order for people just because you're in a hurry." My hand instinctively goes to my hip, a quirk that always makes me come across as a little more brazen than I feel.

"I can, and I did. You'll thank me later." The arrogant jerk has the audacity to wink at me. "It's the best sandwich on the menu, anyway." I make a sound that can only be described as a squeak.

"Play nice, Mason," the brunette behind the espresso machine warns. "He is right, though, the Thanksgiving sandwich is to die for."

I narrow my eyes at Mason before turning back to the kid behind the till to finish placing my order.

"Fine. I'll have that and a medium latte, two honeys." I ignore the man as he scoffs behind me.

"That'll be eleven fifty," Braces informs me. I reach into my wallet and pull out my credit card to pay."Uh, sorry, our machine is down today. Cash only."

"Okay, no problem. I'll have to use some change." I rifle through my wallet, pulling out a few coins.

"Hurry it up, Honeybee." My shoulders tense at the voice behind me. This guy won't quit, and now a demeaning little nickname. Get real.

Mason reaches around me and smacks a ten-dollar bill down on the counter as I'm counting out enough loonies to pay for my order. My mouth falls open, but he smiles back, a stupid, arrogant smile.

I move a few paces over to the end of the counter and wait for my order, but his stare is still burning the back of my neck.

"You're welcome," he says behind me, and I ignore it. I refuse to spend any more of my time and energy on Mason.

He releases me from the grip of his gaze, and I hear him order a drip coffee, black. Typical. Anyone who drinks their coffee black seems to possess some kind of moral superiority complex. I make a silent prayer that the town is bigger than it seems on first impression because I am going to do whatever I can never to run into him again.

The woman behind the counter starts working on my order, expertly multitasking as she strikes up a conversation with me. It's a welcome distraction. At least most people in Heartwood seem friendly and polite. Mason seems to be the exception.

"I take it you're new around here." She looks at me with doe eyes from under feathery curtain bangs while the steamer hisses in the metal carafe.

"Uh, I am. How can you tell?" The woman raises her eyebrows at me like it's obvious.

"Well, for starters, you're much more put together than most people in this town." I glance down at my outfit. I'm not done up, but I do like to be polished, and I guess my white silk blouse and ballet flats don't scream small town. "And second, you haven't met our resident grump." The woman's eyes dart over to where Mr. I'm-better-than-everyone-because-I-drink-black-coffee is standing, paying for his order.

"Fair," I concede. "I just moved here. I'm starting a new job."

"Oh? It's not every day that people come here looking for work. There isn't much to do around here except for logging, and I would be willing to bet that you're no logger." The corners of her eyes crinkle as she giggles at her own joke. "What do you do?"

The woman turns to the panini grill and starts heating the Thanksgiving turkey sandwich as I pick up the latte she slid across the counter.

"I'm a nurse. I'll be starting at the clinic here," I say, and she whirls around, but she doesn't look back towards me. Her eyes bore a hole through Mason, who is still standing at the counter, placing the lid on his black coffee. His gaze is already fixed on me, though, creating this uncomfortable triangle of awkward staring.

"Ah. Well, that's a pleasant change …" the barista says, her voice trailing off. She's still looking at Mason, who is still looking at me. The barista's glance shifts between us. What on earth is happening here? Is this the twilight zone? My eyes dart back and forth in time with hers.

As if shaking himself out of a trance, a low growl comes out of Mason's throat as he turns on his heel and storms out of the café, leaving his still steaming coffee on the counter.

I don't know what has happened, but I can't bring myself to ask as I stand in front of the counter, slack-jawed.

"Don't mind him," the woman behind the counter says before I can even formulate a response. "Mason's a bit territorial and more than a bit protective of the town, especially with newcomers. He can come across as a bit standoffish, but he'll warm up to you in no time."

Ha. That's a good one , I think to myself, but outwardly I nod. There is no way I'll be spending enough time around this man for him to warm up to me. Not if I can help it. The whole point of me moving to Heartwood was to get away from pompous assholes that think they can speak for me. I've had enough of that with Nate; there's no way I'm going to befriend his Heartwood personality doppelg?nger.

"In the meantime," the barista continues, "welcome to Heartwood. My name's Poppy Thorne. I own this place and the little plant shop next door." She gestures towards the archway that connects the two retail spaces, leading from the café to the little shop on the other side that is bursting at the seams with all varieties of plants. "Come in any time if Mason gets on your nerves." She chuckles as she passes me the Thanksgiving turkey sandwich in a to-go container.

The sandwich that Mason ordered for me.