Would he stay in Alaska?

Or would he be ready to finally try something new?

“What’d you tell him?”

He chuckles. “I don’t have that kind of money. Plus, I don’t wanna be stuck behind a desk all day long for the next thirty years. I like the way things are right now. No matter what, though, I told him I’d take over running Wild for as long as he needs me to.”

Much like my dad took over for my grandfather, when he started his treatment.

I swallow the growing lump in my throat. “That’s nice of you, to be willing to do that.”

“Yeah, well, Wren’s family to me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” He clears the gruffness from his voice.

My chest tightens at the rare hint of emotion. “Do you think he’ll get through this?”

“I think . . . that if there’s any way you can stay longer, you should.”

“I could,” I blurt out, without thinking.

Jonah turns to regard me, his eyebrow arched in question.

I shrug. “I got restructured out, so I don’t have a job to get home to right now.”

His gaze roams my features. “Then you should stay another week or two. Or even longer, if you can grow a pair and deal with how things work around here.”

I give him a flat look.

But there’s no hint of humor on his face. “Trust me, Calla, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.”

He sounds so definitive.

Does that have anything to do with regrets from his own past, with his father?

And what would that even mean? A full month in Bangor, Alaska?

Would my father be okay with a house guest for that long?

Jonah’s gaze drifts over the soft pink cardigan I’ve wrapped around myself. “I called over to Anchorage to check on your stuff before I came home. Sounds like they’ve got a mechanical problem with the plane. Your suitcases won’t be coming today.”

I groan. “Seriously?”

“Roll with it.” He leaves me stewing, strolling out the door and across the lawn toward his house, a little bounce in his step.

The kitchen door creaks open, and I look over my shoulder in time to see my dad step through.

“Long day, huh?” He’s been at work for almost fourteen hours.

“They all are.” With a tired-sounding sigh, he tosses some paperwork on the counter and then rubs his eyes. “Something smells good.”

I dump a handful of pepper slices into the bowl. “I’m making us dinner. Chicken Greek salad with homemade dressing.” That should be bottled and marketed as liquid gold for what it cost me in basic ingredients plus cab fare. “It’ll be ready in five. I hope you like black olives.”

“That’s . . . Yup. Sure do.” There’s a long pause, and I can feel his gaze on me. “Thank you, Calla. This is nice.”

“No big deal.” It’s just the first meal I’ve ever made for us, I think with a small smile. One of those seemingly small and inconsequential things in life that I’ll probably remember for the rest of my life.

“How was your day?”

I’m itching to tell him about the plan to build a website for Wild.

I’m desperate to ask him if he’s truly considering retiring.

Where exactly do I start?

Quick footfalls pound up the front porch stairs, and a moment later the door flies open. Mabel bursts through with a wide grin on her face, out of breath, as if she ran down the driveway. “Just in time!”

“Hey, kiddo.” Dad’s face instantly softens with a smile. “What d’you got there?”

“My specialty.” She holds up the foil-covered glass dish in her oven-mitt-clad hands, announcing with dramatic flair and an energy that I don’t think I could manage on my wildest day, “The cheesiest, sauciest, most delicious pasta you’ve ever had. Just came out of the oven.” Setting the dish down on the table, she peels the foil back, letting the long strings of cheese dangle in the air. “I’ve finally perfected it!”

My digestive system would explode if I ate that.

“Wow. And there’s enough here to keep me fed for a week,” my dad chuckles. To me, he explains, “Mabel has discovered a passion for cooking. She’s been experimenting in the kitchen a lot this past year, and using me as her guinea pig. I think this is the . . . eighth week you’ve made this?”

“Ninth,” she corrects proudly. “But this is the one, I’m telling you.”

“Nine weeks in a row of cheesy pasta.” He gives me a pointed look, and I stifle my laugh, even through the distinct twinge of offense I feel inside. This clueless twelve-year-old girl has inserted herself into one of only a handful of nights I have with my father. I don’t live across the road. I can’t just trot down the driveway with dinner in my hands anytime I wish. I’m supposed to be making dinner for him.

She’s only twelve and I doubt she’s barged in on my night with my dad with malicious intentions, and yet I can’t help feeling this resentment for her right now.

This does, however, explain the empty fridge. And how my dad survives on a regular basis.

“Calla, wait until you try this.” Mabel pulls three plates from the cupboard.