Too Cold for Comfort

by Nisha J. Tuli

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

The arctic heats up when a photographer who rarely holds anything back is forced to share a private wing with a grumpy lodge owner who holds everything in.

Photographer Aadya Williams has trekked all the way to northern Canada to nab a career-making shot of a polar bear . . . and to put 1,500 miles between her and a messy breakup. Despite expecting freezing temperatures, nothing’s colder than the welcome she gets from Reid Doerksen, the gruff owner of the Northern Wilderness Polar Bear Lodge. Even worse, the lodge is overbooked, so now she has to share the private family wing with him for the next two weeks.

At least Aadya has plenty to keep her occupied when she’s not out searching for the perfect photo op. But when a storm strands Aadya and Reid together at the lodge, it’s impossible to avoid the heat simmering between them. As the snow comes down, so do Reid’s walls, and Aadya begins to realize the most important shot of her life may not be one she takes with her camera.

Release date: November 10, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

My breath catches as the Twin Otter hits the solitary runway with a lurch, engines whirring as the roar of the wind envelops us like we’ve just ripped through Velcro. The tiny aircraft hurtles along the pockmarked pavement, wings tipping and tilting before slowing down and coming to a gentle stop.

I peer out the small oval window, taking in miles of blank white tundra rolling in every direction, like a painter’s canvas, ready for its first dip of color. But spring is ages away, and this landscape will remain mostly unchanged for the next six months.

At first, it would be easy to think there’s nothing out here. Just snow and rocks and spindly trees, and you’d mostly be right as long as you don’t count the thousand-pound mammal covered in white fur that’s now regarding me and my fellow passengers with a pair of curious black eyes.

He definitely counts.

“Folks, we’ll have to wait this out,” our pilot, Andy, says, slinging an elbow over his seat and smiling at us like a polar bear blocking our way is the most normal thing in the world.

He looks exactly like a bush pilot who lives at the edge of nowhere should. A full reddish beard that’s due for a trim, sun-kissed skin with freckles bridging his nose, and one of those plaid hats with the floppy things that go over the ears, lined with sheepskin, of course.

I’ll say this for northern Canada—they’ve got their branding down pat.

Andy sports only a thick plaid jacket, suggesting a seasoned immunity to the cold. Conversely, the plane’s other six passengers and I are bundled into parkas with fur-trimmed hoods.

Andy scratches his chin and wrinkles his nose, watching the polar bear watch us. “Hopefully, Hector won’t hang around long.”

The bear’s expression seems to suggest we’ve very rudely interrupted his afternoon nap.

Meredith and Wesley, an elderly white couple from New Zealand, occupy the two seats in front of me and have their faces pressed to the window. We met in Churchill’s tiny airport before we boarded the half-hour flight to the middle of nowhere.

Meredith picks up the iPad on her lap, flips open the case, then holds the tablet up with one hand while trying to keep it steady enough to snap a clear picture with the other.

The passengers on the far side of the plane have unbuckled their seatbelts and are now leaning over the aisle, trying to get a better look at the bear. I also release mine with a click and twist to face the window.

Unsurprisingly, Hector is massive. He’s all bulk with limbs like tree trunks, a giant round butt, and paws the size of dinner plates. He swings his massive head toward us and sniffs the air to the sounds of wonderous gasping at this rare glimpse of untouched nature.

“This is one of the biggest boys you’ll find wandering out here,” Andy tells us, pride in his voice. Like this monster is a blue-ribbon pet he’s lovingly raised and plans to enter in the local polar bear show.

More phones and cameras find their way out of coats and bags and are aimed through the tiny, slightly fogged airplane windows. The blonde woman leaning over me tugs off her mitten with her teeth, smacking me across the cheek.

“Ouch,” I say, rubbing the spot where the plastic toggle on the wrist caught the corner of my eye. She either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care that I’ve been aggressively assaulted by her winter gear because all she does is lean closer, her entire body crowding my arm and shoulder and thigh. I sigh and press myself against the wall of the plane, resigned to my fate with another inconsiderate tourist of the world.

My own camera and a variety of lenses are stored safely in the bag at my feet, but a photo snapped through a hazy plastic window is not the shot I’ve traveled 1,500 miles to get.

What I need is something award-winning. Nature-channel worthy, to make women and children weep. Something that will inject a dose of life into my wilting career.

If it also proves to Christopher that my decision to choose my travel writing and photography over my relationship with him was the right one, well, then I’ll happily kill two birds with this stone. Metaphorically, of course. I respect nature in all its forms.

Wesley, the elderly man from the first couple, turns to Andy and asks, “How big do they get?”

“Anywhere around a thousand pounds and up,” Andy replies. “The females are a bit smaller. If we’re lucky, we might see a mom and her cubs this week, but they won’t be anywhere close right now. The males see the babies as tender little appetizers, so the moms avoid them after giving birth.”

A round of gasps circles the cabin while the woman pressed against me straightens up, relieving the pressure on my internal organs. I inhale a gusty breath, glaring at her, but she still doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

“How long is this going to take?” the woman asks, framing it as a question that sounds more like a demand. I roll my eyes. There are two types of people in the world. Those who understand the wild can’t be poked or prodded into compliance. That nature doesn’t live by our rigid, man-made rules or schedules. And those who want to experience the wilderness but don’t actually want to be inconvenienced by the wilderness.

After going on dozens of these trips, I know there’s always one. Usually more. And I can already tell this lady is going to be their ringleader.

“As long as it takes,” Andy says with a wink that could be called rakish if we were starring in a Regency period drama. This guy is the perfect type for this job. Calm. Cool. Collected. Fazed by almost nothing. Even Karens in overstuffed Gore-Tex who would like a word with the manager. She huffs and drops back into her seat across the aisle.

“Steve, tell me when something interesting happens,” she says to the man seated in front of her, who I presume is her husband. She digs into her pyramid scheme–brand backpack, pulling out a domestic thriller in which the fed-up female protagonist plots to murder her philandering husband and get away with it.

“Yes, my bride,” Steve says with what sounds like several decades of threadbare weariness.

In front of them sit two other women, probably in their mid-thirties, a few years older than me. One holds up an expensive camera and points it at the window. She has pale white skin and short, straight blonde hair cut in a bob. After snapping a photo, she frowns while checking the screen on the back of her camera, probably realizing this isn’t the ideal vantage for photos.

“Get a few with your phone, Erica,” she says to the other woman, who has deep brown skin and corkscrew curls pulled into a high knot on top of her head.

Erica pulls her phone from the chest pocket of her navy Canada Goose parka and aims it at Hector. “We’ll get more later,” she says before pecking the blonde woman on her cheek. “We can’t leave until you make full use of that ridiculous thing. It’ll be the only way to get our money’s worth.” Her words are pointed, but there’s affection in her tone. The other woman grins and goes back to fiddling with the buttons and knobs on her camera.

I turn to the window to find Hector, who’s still watching us through lowered eyelids like he can’t quite figure out what we’re doing on his runway. Fair enough, dude. I’d be annoyed if a bunch of strangers dropped into my bedroom too.

He settles his giant furry butt onto the tarmac and then raises an eyebrow that suggests he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Andy huffs out a noise of frustration and cranks open the window on his side of the plane. “Go on, Hector. Get outta here.”

Hector shifts his black eyes to Andy, regarding him haughtily for a brief moment before they slide closed again. Dismissed.

“Wake him up,” the Karen says, looking up from her book. “I didn’t spend so much money to sit in a tin can all day!”

Andy grins, sloughing off her ire like a phoenix rising from the ashes. “Patience… what’s the name?”

“I’m Stacy,” she snaps.

“Stacy,” Andy says, rubbing his hands. “This is the wilderness. The great outdoors. The thing you really paid for. Mother Nature is the boss out here, and she doesn’t move to anyone’s clock.”

Stacy narrows her eyes, and even I can feel the stinging heat of her wrath. But Andy is only a red-blooded human, and his smile finally slips before he spins around to grab the airplane radio. “Okay then, let’s see if we can get another bear guide out here to shift old Hector, shall we?”

He gets on the radio, mumbling something against the crackle of the line. It’s impossible to decipher everything he’s saying, but it sounds a lot like “unhappy” and “get out here,” and I swear I’m not imagining it when he says “Karen.”

I cover my mouth, stifling a laugh. Stacy shoots me a dirty look, finally noticing me, I guess.

While everyone watches Hector, we wait a few minutes before we hear the roar of a quad flying at breakneck speed from the opposite direction. A man with short black hair and medium-brown skin, swathed in a bright red parka, straddles the machine and brings it to a skidding halt just short of the plane. He hops off and slings a silver rifle over his shoulder before circling around to the other side of the aircraft.

“Like me, Sandeep here is a trained bear guide,” Andy tells us. “The guns are for our protection, but in twenty-five years of operation, the Northern Wilderness Polar Bear Lodge has never had to fire a single shot, thanks to our extensive preventative measures. When approached correctly, there’s no reason for the bears to turn on us. We do everything we can to ensure their preservation and protection. Nature is to be respected out here, not tamed, and certainly not controlled.”

His gaze flicks to Stacy for a fraction of a second, and it’s clear where he’s directing that final statement.

Sandeep rounds the plane and approaches Hector slowly while keeping his distance. It’s obvious he’s relatively comfortable around the bear, despite the fact that it could likely squish his head with its enormous jaws.

Hector perks up, looking at Sandeep like a puppy who’s just heard the key in the front door. Sandeep reaches down, picks up two palm-sized rocks, and clicks them together.

We’re all watching so intently that the windows begin to fog with our breath.

Steve, Stacy’s partner, makes a scoffing noise, folding his arms awkwardly thanks to the bulk of his puffy coat. “What is he doing? He’s planning to scare him off with a couple of rocks? That’s ridiculous.”

Andy grins and gives Steve what I’m coming to decide is his signature wink before Hector suddenly heaves himself onto his enormous paws. He stretches out, a ripple running over the hairs on his back, then he yawns, his giant snout opening to reveal a set of sharp white teeth. Everyone starts gasping, murmuring, snapping photos at light speed.

Hector flicks his head as if waving “see you later” before he turns around and pads away.

Steve blinks, his mouth dropping open and his face turning red.

“I guess these guys know what they’re doing,” I say. He pins me with a frown, a deep line forming between his eyebrows that I sense has been thoroughly worn, thanks to Stacy.

Sandeep is talking into the radio secured to his shoulder, and a few moments later, two large vans trundle over the horizon like a pair of white horses here to deliver us to our castle.

“Okay, everyone out!” Andy says. “It’s just a short walk to the lodge.”

“Walk?” Stacy asks, wrinkling her nose. “Why can’t we take the vans?”

“That’s for your luggage. Don’t worry—the fresh air will do us all some good.”

Stacy harrumphs, her pink cheeks puffing out, clearly not buying that shit for a second.

The main door to the plane swings open, and Erica and her partner are the first two to exit, followed by Meredith and Wesley. Steve leaps out, not waiting for his wife, and Stacy finally scoots out of her seat, grabbing her bag and stuffing her book into a pocket.

“Steve! Where are you going? Wait for me!”

I dig out my bag from under the seat and hop off the plane, my boots striking the pavement, before I inhale a deep breath of fresh air. I close my eyes while the cold breeze kisses my cheeks, and I embrace the stillness of my surroundings. Immediately, my shoulders relax, and the tight knot of anxiety I’ve been carting around since I fled New York three days ago eases from the center of my chest.

It was a long journey that included a flight from LaGuardia, with a layover in Montreal, to the city of Winnipeg, in the province of Manitoba. There, I boarded a train for a forty-eight-hour ride through mostly unpopulated prairie and boreal forest to the small, coastal town of Churchill, known as the polar bear capital of the world. Nestled on the southwestern shore of Hudson Bay, it boasts a population of a mere nine hundred residents, who welcome visitors from dozens of countries every summer and fall, thanks to its proximity to some of the best wildlife viewing in the world.

A moment later, Stacy shatters the silence, yelling at Steve in the too-near distance. He marches a few steps in front of her, his head down and his collar turned up, while she trots behind him with her backpack bouncing from an elbow.

Heaving my camera bag over my shoulder, I trudge behind the group, staring up at the clear sky. It’s a pale blue streaked with gentle whisps of clouds, like puffs of locomotive smoke. A bird screeches in the distance, its cry both beautiful and mournful, and I absorb another cleansing breath into my lungs.

I’m so relieved to be away from the city for the next twelve days. I was suffocating there. My skin felt too tight between Christopher and my mother, and the constant noise. Like I’d been stuffed into a pair of wrong-size pantyhose and couldn’t yank and pull them in the right direction to stop them from pinching.

I once craved the bustle of the city, but it’s beginning to feel more and more like living in a cardboard box without holes to let in air or light. When this assignment came up, it was an answer to a wish I’d forgotten to make.

While I’m terribly sorry Barry Ferguson tripped and fractured his fibula on the Spanish Steps, he can have one of the next life-changing assignments reserved mostly for the elder millennial and middle-aged white dudes.

Before making it official, my editor, Grant, was sure to mansplain everything about this trip and the story and photos he wanted in great detail—as if I haven’t done this a hundred times before. Though truthfully, it has been awhile.

I catch up to the group and pass Stacy and Steve, who are busy bickering. Or rather, she’s doing the bickering, and Steve just looks like he wants to die.

As we crest the gentle slope, I catch my first sight of the lodge up ahead. It’s bigger than I thought, based on the photos I looked up online. It sprawls out in all directions, crawling along the flat landscape of the taiga, where we’re currently standing. I learned this from my research. We aren’t technically in the tundra this far north; we’re just south of it, in a subarctic area known as the taiga. But most people tend to refer to it as the tundra anyway.

Mansplain that, Grant.

The lodge is made entirely of different shades of wood, with peaked roofs and decorated gables. Smooth stones inset along the bottom half give it that rustic aesthetic. I read that since there are no roads this far north, everything had to be trundled in on huge vehicles with treads like tanks instead of wheels. I can’t imagine what a feat of planning and organization that must have been.

A high chain-link fence surrounds the entire building, giving it the slightly menacing air of a prison compound, except for the fact that I know the lodge inside embodies the very best in top-notch luxury.

The fence is to keep the bears out, not the inmates in.

We arrive at the gate, and Erica and her partner enter first, followed by Meredith and Wesley.

On the wide steps up to the lodge stands a white man with wavy, dark brown hair that falls just past his chin. He has light gray eyes, tanned skin, and the kind of cheekbones and jawline you see in GQ magazines. A day or two of dark scruff covers his chin, and I can’t help but note the tantalizing swell of biceps and thighs encased in a light denim shirt and fitted jeans.

Rugged is the first word that comes to mind. Windswept is the second.

Hello. Who is this?

He’s absolutely fucking gorgeous. Instinctively, I start smoothing the nest of my black hair around my face, trying not to appear like I just spent the last two days traveling. Hopefully, he can’t smell me from this distance.

It seems I’ve ceased walking because I hear Stacy say, “Oh my,” as she stops and presses a hand to her chest. I’m not sure why that annoys me. I glare at her and then turn back to the man, who’s now staring at me. Except it’s definitely not with the same approving interest.

If anything, it’s more like flesh-melting lasers shooting from his eyes.

I turn around, wondering if someone else is behind me, but nope, it’s just me. When I turn back again, he’s still watching me, his arms crossed, and his forehead furrowed. Stacy is now lurching up the steps, her posture supplicating, her hand held out.

“I’m Stacy,” she says, a little breathless, and fuck, I can’t even blame her for that. He looks down at her because he’s rather tall and nods.

“I’m Reid,” he says, not deigning to shake her hand. “Welcome to the Northern Wilderness Polar Bear Lodge.”

His voice is emotionless, but Stacy doesn’t seem to notice as she nods eagerly and enters through the door that he’s now holding open. She disappears into the lodge, and then Reid turns back to me, gracing me with one more angry look before he disappears through the door and lets it slam shut with a definitive thud.

I blink. What the hell was that? Someone claps me on the shoulder, and I jump, finding Andy, who’s grinning at me.

“Don’t mind him. He’s all bark, no bite.”

I frown, staring at the door. “Who is he?”

“He’s the owner of this fine establishment,” Andy says, rubbing his thick red beard.

Right. I read about him online. Reid Doerksen. Age thirty-four. Grew up in this area and has been the lodge’s general manager for the past ten years. Four years ago, he inherited the business from his parents, Cam and Belinda Doerksen. There were definitely no pictures, because that’s a face I would’ve remembered.

“I see,” I say, hoisting my heavy bag onto my aching shoulder. I really need something more ergonomic, but it’s been my companion all over the world and is infused with years of sentimental value.

The van with our luggage pulls up to the gate a moment later.

“Go on inside,” Andy says. “Have a drink and get something to eat. The food up here will blow your socks off. Best cooks you’ll find in a thousand miles. We’ll get your rooms set up, and tomorrow, we’ll go looking for some bears.”

He claps me on the shoulder one more time and then walks away. I ascend the stairs, pulling on the iron handle of a wide wooden door. It swings open smoothly, blasting me with heated air before I step inside. The scent of warm food makes my stomach rumble, reminding me it’s been awhile since I’ve eaten.

A dozen pairs of winter boots sit lined up against the wall. I toe off my own, setting them next to the others before walking up two more steps in my thick wool socks to reach the main area.

We’re in a massive room filled with plush, suede sofas, many of which are turned to face the large picture windows lining the walls. A huge stone fireplace sits in the center of the room, surrounded by more cozy chairs covered in colorful, handmade quilts, while thick white fur rugs lie scattered over the polished wooden floors.

To my left is a bar, currently covered in tumblers of red and white wine and martini glasses full of a bright blue concoction. About twenty people fill the room, including my airplane companions and several lodge staff wearing dark green polo shirts embroidered with the Northern Wilderness Polar Bear Lodge logo.

Reid, the glaring Adonis, is standing at the edge of the bar with his back against the wall, one ankle over the other, and his arms crossed over his chest. The sleeves of his denim button-up are rolled up now, and I can’t help but ogle his thick forearms just the tiniest bit. The corners of his full mouth are turned down like he’s wishing the floor would open up and swallow either him or all of us.

A young Indigenous woman carrying a clipboard and wearing a harried expression weaves through the crowd and approaches him, her hands and elbows flying. He tips his head imperceptibly, listening to her speak, his expression neutral despite her obvious agitation.

Turning away, I unzip my jacket and hang it on a coat hook anchored to the wall. I stash my camera bag underneath the row of parkas, which hang like the colorful discarded skins of selkies.

I grab my phone from the pocket and look at the screen. With only one bar of 3G service, it doesn’t seem like any new messages have arrived. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I’ll “forget” to connect to the lodge Wi-Fi so I can spend the next two weeks in peace, evading a stream of texts from Christopher and my mother. You’d think I butchered a kitten with the way they’re both behaving.

Unfortunately, I also need to keep in touch with my editor, so I can’t entirely eschew the trappings of modern communication.

Or maybe I’ll move out here to get away from everyone for good. Build myself a log cabin on the tundra and dig a moat with a drawbridge so I can control who comes and goes like the queen of my own tiny island. I wonder where I can find myself a fire-breathing dragon for protection. Or maybe a hot knight with a very big and girthy sword.

No, I’m off men for now. Maybe forever.

I turn around to face the room, studying the chatting crowd. Our group comprises sixteen lodge guests, all here for a ten-day polar bear excursion, where we’ll spend our time trekking over the tundra, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive creatures. Since the Twin Otter wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone at once, . . .