Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“The airport’s like five minutes away. See?” I zoom out on the map. “It’s the same distance as Wild is to you here.”

He rolls onto his back, his gaze settling on the ceiling tiles above us. “I’d love to have my own airstrip.”

“What do you mean? Like, a private airport?”

“Nah. Just a simple airstrip. A gravel stretch on my own property with a hangar to keep the planes, so I can come and go as I please, not have to deal with all the bullshit of using public airports. No one tellin’ me what to do.”

“Do places like that even exist?”

“In Alaska? Sure. All you need is enough land.”

I know without checking that none of the listings I’ve looked at have enough property to land a plane. “What would something like that cost?”

“Around Anchorage?” He sighs. “Too much.”

“Well … we can always rent a place and invest in some land for later?”

“I told you, Calla, I don’t wanna pay anyone’s mortgage for them, not when we can afford to buy. Do you?”

“No, but …” Simon has now jumped onto the “rent first, buy when you’re sure about Alaska and Jonah” train, whether upon my mother’s insistence or because he felt obliged. Regardless, it’s more difficult to dismiss his advice than it is my mother’s.

But I’m turning twenty-seven this year. When will I stop letting them influence me so much?

Especially when Jonah doesn’t seem to have any doubts about us.

Neither should I, I realize, because how can this work if I keep making contingency plans for it not working? “No, I think I’d rather buy, too.” I consider alternatives. “So maybe in a few years, after The Yeti is established, we can look at moving to a house on more land?”

He shoots a severe glare my way. “We’re not goin’ with that name.”

“We’ll see …” I mock in a singsong tone, closing out the tab, ready for Jonah to begin disturbing my clothes. That’s become his pattern, within five minutes of his body hitting the mattress, no matter how long his day has been—me, naked.

My blood races with anticipation.

But he doesn’t make a move yet. “Aggie had an interesting conversation with Barry earlier today.”

It takes a moment to connect. “The farmer down the road?”

“Yeah. He’s interested in buying our houses. This one and Wren’s.”

“Really?” They’ve already got a nice two-story home.

“Business is booming and he wants to expand his crops.”

“Well … that’s good, right? We were afraid it’d take forever to sell.”

“He wants the land, Calla. He might demo the houses.”

It takes a second to process. “What, you mean, like, tear them down?”

“Yeah.” I feel Jonah’s gaze on me. “What do you think about that?”

Houses where my father and grandparents lived for decades, where my mother and father lived and loved, where I lived, a place that still wears my mother’s hand-painted flowers from almost twenty-seven years ago. These two simple modular houses on this cold expanse of tundra—one a mossy green, the other a buttery yellow—that meant nothing to me when I first saw them, now feel like a lost childhood somehow rediscovered.

And Barry Whittamore wants to make them disappear?

But do I even have a right to be upset? Jonah and I are leaving Bangor, starting our lives elsewhere.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I should think. What do you think?”