Unlocking Her Chastity (Polar Bear, Alaska)

I nod, wondering how she knows my name and why she's acting like we're friends. I realize maybe I have been here a long time. Maybe I could have been doing a bit better of a job being friendly with the locals. I smile at her. “Well, I appreciate it. Can you show me where they are?”

“Of course.”

I follow her, and considering she's being so nice to me, I decide to grab both the snowman and the reindeer. She looks surprised. And then she guides me down to the ornaments. “Now, do you have a star for the top of your tree or are you more of an angel sort of man?”

“Am I an angel or a star kind of guy? Honestly, I've never been asked that before.”

She smiles. “Jacob, you're so serious. Well, this girl you're trying to impress, what do you think she'd prefer?”

I know that answer right away. “A star,” I tell her, “because she's a beam of light.”

“Wow,” she says, “she must be something special.”

I nod. “I think she is. Her name is Juniper Jones and she—”

Judy cuts me off. “Juniper Jones. Oh, I know all about her. She just made it into town yesterday. You know, for being such a famous author I'm shocked that she came here all by herself. I mean, I assumed someone like her would have huge entourage.”

“She's a famous what?”

“A famous author. Oh my goodness. You didn't know?”

“No, no. I thought her name sounded familiar, but—”

“Oh, yes. I mean, she's a bestseller. There's been like three movies made based off her books. They were blockbuster hits.”

I nod. “I think I might remember seeing something about that…”

“It's a whole fantasy world set in Winter Fallhaven, with these polar bears who are kind of like giant and, oh, Bellissima, she's the main character. And she has just the most tortured story of all time.” Judy smiles. “So how do you know Juniper?”

I frown, running a hand over my beard. “Actually, we just met.” I take the ornaments and the star from Judy’s hand and wonder if I'm making a terrible mistake. This woman sounds totally out of my league.

She smiles. “Anyways, the books are to die for. And I heard she's here researching her next one which makes sense. Because we have the polar bear sanctuary here. And now you have a date with her?”

“Something like that,” I say, feeling like I am more than a little over my head.

I admit to spending the next hour waiting for our dinner date to roll around, drinking a peppermint mocha and Googling her. Yes, she's the same Juniper Jones I met at the grocery store this morning.

Same fiery red hair, same bright blue eyes, same vivid smile.

I didn't know that she’s 25, that she’s a bit of a recluse who lives in Western Washington in what seems to be an enormous mansion. I didn't know that she’s devoted to her fans who loyally follow her.

And I didn't know that she has written a world that’s so mesmerizing, so developed, that she has a following worldwide.

I download the first book while I sit here at the cafe, drinking the mocha. And by the time I've read four chapters on my phone, I’m hooked. I understand. I may have wondered who Juniper was before I went into town this afternoon, but now I know she is complicated and mysterious and beautiful and wise.

She has a way with words, a way of understanding people and human emotions and grief and loss and beauty and me. I want to know her, everything about her.

What makes her who she is, and why.

I have to force myself to put my phone away and go to the Icicle Inn.

But now I'm sitting here waiting, looking around five minutes after the hour, then 10, 15. By the time it's 20 minutes after six, I realize something isn't right. Maybe it's me.

I walk to the front desk, and I ask, “Have you seen Juniper Jones today? I think she's saying here, and we were meeting for dinner at six.”

The person at the front desk types in the computer before replying to me. “I'm sorry, sir. I haven't seen her all afternoon actually.”

“We were planning on having dinner tonight at the restaurant. Can I have her phone number?”

The desk clerk frowns. “Hmm. I'm sorry. Um, I'm not really allowed to give you her number.”

“No, I understand,” I say. “Can I leave her a note? Maybe I misunderstood the time or the day?”

“Of course.” She hands me a notepad, and I jot down my phone number and my name, trying to keep it brief and not get all sentimental. Not say things like, I want you bad. I need you now. Instead, I simply tell her, I still would love to meet you for dinner when you're free. Yours, Jacob, and I leave my phone number.