I never dreamt of running away to Alaska. Now, of three things I was certain:


1. Waking up in bed with a stranger wasn't the fun it might sound like on three vodka's and a dare. (And, no. I hadn't done either.)

2. Looking in the mirror and not knowing who you are? Sucked.

3. Rolling out of bed with enough bumps and bruises to make a linebacker cry, meant I had no choice.
I had to make a break for it, even if the stranger in bed did look like the boy next door grown up. Even if escape meant hopping a ferry to the farthest place I could think of (small town Alaska, Population 21), in the hopes of buying enough time to regain my memory.

But was escape really an option? It turns out even paradise has  its problems. One: Finding out I was the daughter of a Senator and yet, no one appeared to be looking for me. Two: Building a life on a lie and then falling in love with that life. And three: The realization that the whole thing was bound to go up in flames at any second and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

Or was there?


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