by K. A. Tucker
“Skip must be almost here.” I do a poor job hiding my disdain. It’s time to wake up Terry, before I get stuck facing off with the old musher again.
“I was hoping it was Hatchett.”
“He’s not far behind.” I scribble my name in Tyler’s dog diary. “Go get some sleep.”
“I plan on it. As soon as I see the look on Hatchett’s face when he rolls in.” He grins as he collects the book from my grasp, our fingertips grazing in the exchange, stirring something inside me.
“I’m sure you’ll find it gratifying.” Harry was that kid who threw baseball bats across the base in a fit of frustration when he struck out. After how obnoxious he was in Rohn, a part of me wants to watch this showdown unfold, but then I’ll be stuck playing his sounding board, and I’m not choosing sides in this neighborly spat. “Have a good night.” I pull my gloves back on, savoring that lingering spark against my skin as I walk away, accepting that, despite our rocky introduction, I’m attracted to this guy.
“Hey!”
I turn back—too fast and too eager for my liking.
“For what it’s worth, I met Skip at the drawing banquet, and he’s a fucking idiot. I don’t doubt you made the right call.”
Another apology of sorts. And something I needed to hear Tyler say. Whether ingrained through my father or simply the way I am, my reputation as a veterinarian has always been important to me. To a fault sometimes.
The last dribs of our terrible first impressions of each other seem to be melting away in the frigid cold.
He watches me quietly, waiting for my response.
“Of course I did.” I walk away, not giving him a chance to ruin the moment.
Tyler’s soft chuckle follows me toward the tent.
And thoughts of him take up residence in my mind as my body sinks into a peaceful slumber.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An alarm pulls me from a deep sleep. It’s a soft, repetitive chime, like that of a watch.
At first, I ignore it, because staying burrowed in your sleeping bag and ignoring everything around you is the only way you can get a decent rest while working these checkpoints. People are always filtering in and out of tents and cabins, finding any little spot they can.
But the alarm continues to ding, and so I unfurl from my arctic cocoon to investigate.
And come face-to-face with Tyler.
He’s lying directly beside me on his back, our sleeping pads butted up against each other. His chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic wave as he sleeps soundlessly, tucked into his sleeping bag, oblivious to his alarm.
I went to sleep thinking about Tyler Brady, and now he’s lying here. I frown, wondering for a moment if I’m awake or dreaming. It’s like he materialized from my thoughts. But what the hell is he doing in this tent? The mushers have a tent where they can crash. This one is meant for the veterinarian volunteers.
Did no one direct him?
How long has he been here?
I push those questions aside as I study his form in the dull glow of the woodstove. His features are relaxed and innocent, his lips parted slightly. He peeled off his outer clothes and hung them on the line to melt and dry out, and then crawled into his sleeping bag in his base layer. The collar of his fitted moisture-wicking shirt frames a long, columnar neck, just below a sharply jutting Adam’s apple.
I could admire that face for hours, but Tyler has an alarm set, which means he wants to rise. He needs to rise to care for his dogs. And he’s not so much as twitching. I’ve always thought these competitive mushers are a crazy lot for what they put themselves through. After days of catching an hour here, an hour there, bundled and lying on straw among his dogs in the wilderness, his body has said no more.
I check my watch, and gasp when I see that it’s almost five a.m.
I should have been up hours ago. Why didn’t anyone wake me sooner? The flames in the stove are fading, no fresh logs added in some time, which means Pyro Terry hasn’t snuck in to cook us out. The air is on the cooler side, though still comfortable enough.
I hesitate for only a second before I whisper, “Tyler.”
He lets out a soft, guttural sound but otherwise doesn’t stir.
“Tyler.” I place a hand against his shoulder, his body firm and hot beneath my palm, and shake him gently.
He shifts, slipping his arm from deep within his sleeping bag. His fingers weave through mine to clasp my hand. He pulls my knuckles to his mouth.
I giggle, even as my stomach stirs with the feel of his lips against my skin. He must have slathered on ChapStick or Vaseline before he went to sleep because they’re soft and sticky and warm, and such a contrast to his bristly jaw.
A part of me isn’t in a rush to ruin this moment by waking him, but I know I have to.
I pull my hand from his grasp. Before I have the chance to call his name again, he’s rolling onto his side and reaching for me, his hand sliding over my hip, over my back, to collect a fistful of hair at my nape as his face burrows against mine. The softest murmur of “love you” escapes him, and then he’s pressing his lips to mine in a sleepy but intimate kiss that deepens by the second. His weight shifts onto me as he works to get closer, until I’m half pinned beneath him.
My heart races as I find myself responding.
He’s clearly used to reaching for someone in his sleep. At this moment, every physical inch of my body wants to be her.
But those words aren’t meant for me.
And when that truth registers in my head, I break free from the kiss and say loudly, “Tyler. It’s time to wake up.”
He stirs with a sharp inhale, as if startled awake by a dream. Or a nightmare.
Time in the cozy, dim tent seems to hang for several beats, both of us frozen, inches apart, staring into each other’s bewildered eyes, equally confused by the current situation but surely for distinct reasons. I feel the tension radiating through his body as he processes the reality he woke up in.
Finally, he releases me and rolls off, settling onto his back. “Christ,” he whispers under his breath, rubbing his palms over his unshaven face. With a quick tap of his finger, he quiets the alarm on his watch, and then sits up and looks around. “Where is everyone?” His voice is groggy and deep, his hair a wild mess.
“I don’t know.”
He stares at a spot on the tent wall for so long that I wonder if he fell asleep with his eyes open before leaning over to collect a piece of wood. “This needs another log,” he whispers, more to himself.
I admire the way his clingy shirt stretches over his cut arms and the web of muscle across his back. Not until he shuts the stove door do I ask, “What are you doing in this tent?”
He groans as he flops back, his arms stretching over his head. “Fucking Hatchett.”
Of course. I should have known it had something to do with his nemesis. “What did he do?”
“What didn’t that idiot do? I was asleep in the mushers’ tent for maybe two hours when he came stumbling in with his shit and dropped his sleeping pad right beside me so he could be close to the stove. He stepped on me, twice. Don’t even try to tell me that was accidental because I caught his smile the second time.”
I wince. These mushers bank on their twenty-four-hour rest to catch up on much-needed sleep so they can make it to the finish line.
“And then he jammed the stove with so much wood, he turned the tent into an oven. I was sweating so bad, I thought I’d have to strip down.”
My gaze flitters over his torso. Yes, that would have been terrible. “Are you sure it was Harry who did that?” Because it sounds like someone else I know.
“Yeah, I watched the prick do it. I went outside to cool off. Both literally and figuratively, because I was ready to choke him—” His jaw ticks with tension. “I ran into Terry, and he sent me in here. I couldn’t see who was in the bag next to me. I didn’t know it was you.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but no words come out.
Uncomfortable silence ha
ngs in the tent. That mistaken kiss seems to have left both of us off-kilter.
I try to shake it off. “Did Harry say anything to you when he arrived at the checkpoint?”
“No.” After a moment, a slow smile spreads across Tyler’s handsome face, blossoming into a grin. “But he showed up just in time to see them hand me my gold and take a picture with my trophy, and he looked a little stiff.”
I chuckle. “He is very competitive and convinced he’s going to win this year.” But would Harry disrupt another musher’s much-needed sleep like that on purpose? Yes, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t put it past him, especially where Tyler is concerned.
What an asshole. It reeks of unsportsmanlike behavior, and yet it’s not blatant enough to get him kicked out of the Iditarod.
Tyler stands with a stretch. “I better get out there. The dogs have been sleeping for almost eight hours. They’ll be up again soon.”
I try not to stare as he dresses but fail miserably. I’ve only ever seen Tyler in bulky outer clothes but now, in his fitted base layer, with the fresh log aglow, its steady burn illuminating the tent, I have a prime view of his fit, athletic body.
And thanks to the snugness of his long woolen underwear, little is left to the imagination, both from the back and when he turns around.
I close my eyes and listen to him slipping on his ski pants. I don’t need these visuals burned into my brain while I’m still reeling from that kiss.
“You on duty soon?” he asks, drawing my eyes open again, just in time to see him tug his wool sweater over his head.
His question reminds me that I’m not here to make out with and ogle mushers. “Yeah. I should have been out there hours ago. Terry was supposed to come and get me.” I peel myself from my cozy sleeping bag and reach for my own ski pants.
“The last I saw him, he was heading into the hut.” Tyler’s attention drifts over my wool leggings and shirt, stalling on my chest for a brief second before he ducks his head to pull on his boots.
We finish dressing in awkward silence, like two people who woke up next to last night’s drunken mistake and are attempting a swift exit.
He pulls on his knit cap. “Will you do rounds of the teams again?”
“Yeah, I’ll check them out to see how they’re holding up.” If I can read Tyler at all, he’ll go straight to his dogs with nothing more than a quick stop to the outhouse—or a snowbank—to relieve himself. “Do you want me to grab you a coffee? I’m sure there’s a fresh pot brewing.” It’s a guarantee. Karen’s militant volunteer schedule requires it.
“That would be great. Black, please.” His hand is on the zipper to the door when he stops. “And about earlier … I didn’t mean for that to happen—”
“It’s fine. You were asleep. And … confused.” And I let it go farther than I should have—I enjoyed it way too much.
His head turns halfway toward me, showing off the rigid line of his tense jaw. “Yeah.”
I hesitate, unsure how to word this. “Is there anyone who would be upset if they heard about it?” A girlfriend, or wife, who will accuse me of trying to move in on her territory? I’ve had enough of that.
He opens his mouth but then falters on his answer. “No. There’s no one.”
A wave of relief hits me, followed quickly by a surge of anticipation. Regardless of who he might have been saying those words to, Tyler’s just confirmed he’s single.
He pauses. “What about you? Am I gonna have someone showing up at my house, threatening to beat my ass?” He studies me over his shoulder, his expression oddly somber for his words.
“No, no one like that.”
His gaze drifts over my bundled form before settling on my face. “Good.”
Good that there’s no one—that I’m single—or good that he won’t have to deal with an angry boyfriend?
Tyler chuckles as I work through possible meaning in that single word, as if able to read my inner turmoil. “See you out there.” With that, he ducks out of the tent.
And I take a few minutes to calm my heart and my burgeoning hopes.
* * *
Steam rises from the paper cup as I trek along the path from the hut, my head lamp guiding my way through the darkness. It’s eerily quiet with only the odd crackle from the blazing firepit and my own boots crunching through the snow to keep me company. But Rick, the guy manning the kitchen while Karen rests, confirmed that along with the twenty or so volunteers on-site, sixty-seven dogs and their mushers are asleep here tonight. The next team is expected to arrive in a few hours with the dawn. Thankfully, Skip came and went, aiming to get to Ruby for his big rest and the cash prize.
The closer I get to the glowing light in the distance, the more the flutters in my stomach stir. I haven’t felt this sort of reaction to someone since … well, Jonah.
Tyler already has his cook pot going when I reach him. The dogs are up and stretching their legs as far as their lines will allow them, eager for their second soupy meal of kibble, meat, and broth, before they curl up for another eight-hour stretch of sleep. They’re the only ones who eat and sleep well during this race, the mushers and volunteers running ragged at their beck and call.
Tyler looks up at the last minute, his eyes far more alert now than they were in the tent, but still lined with bags. He accepts the coffee from my mittened grasp with his bare hands and a murmur of thanks. “Did you find Terry?”
“Yeah, he decided to let me sleep and then crashed in your old spot.” Rick confirmed that he went down right after the last check-in a few hours ago. “He likes an uncomfortably hot tent, too, so it’s a win-win for all of us.”
“He can spoon with Hatchett if he wants.” Tyler takes a long draw from his cup.
I can still feel those lips against my knuckles. And my mouth. “I doubt he’ll get as good a wake-up as I did, though.”
Tyler coughs on his coffee. “So that’s where we’re at? Joking about it already?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “What else are we supposed to do?”
“Good question.” A secretive smile disappears behind another sip.
What I would do to read his thoughts at this moment.
I shift my focus to one of his wheel dogs, straddling her body so I can stroke her front legs the way mushers often do, warming up and loosening her muscles. She thanks me with a swipe of her nose against my chin.
“You have a team?” Tyler asks, tearing open the bag of kibble and pouring it into the lined-up bowls.
“Of sled dogs?” I chuckle. “I can’t even commit to a goldfish, let alone a pile of dogs.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Well, yeah. I grew up in the sled dog capital of Alaska with a veterinarian for a father. Of course I do. But I’ve never been interested in the racing side of it. Just the athletes.” I give the gentle husky one last scratch before shifting to the next.
“You’ve gone mushing, though, right?”
“A few times. Short runs, usually once the snow is on the ground and the dogs are starting their seasonal training, so I can watch them move.”
“Let me guess, with Harry?” He says that name with scorn.
“Yes, with Harry. With his father, Earl, before him.” He was a nice man.
Tyler makes a noise. “How do you put up with that arrogant little punk, anyway?”
“I’ve known him forever, and he’s not all bad. And the Hatchetts have been loyal clients to my family for decades.” I hesitate. “Plus, I have a lot of bills to pay, and he has a lot of dogs.” It feels like a betrayal to my profession to admit that I’m with him, in part, for the money, but it’s the truth. And the way Harry has been behaving, it’s becoming the only respectable excuse. “I’m sure Frank Hartley would go out on the trail with you for the right price.”
“Yeah, I’m noticing he likes to nickel and dime, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” he says dryly.
“It’s not my fault you didn’t do your research.” I give Tank my bar
e hand to sniff, but he dives for my glove instead, nipping at the thumb. I manage to pry it from his teeth with a soft scold. It’s always a good sign, though, to see a sled dog’s playfulness.
From the corner of my eye, I feel Tyler watching me.
“Maybe I should switch veterinarians. What would you think about that?”
I think that would be a huge problem for my steadfast commitment to never date a client again. I school my expression. “You’d have to make sure your new veterinarian can handle having you on her roster. She might be too busy.”
He ladles hot water into the dishes. “She wouldn’t be too busy for me.”
I chuckle. “You sound pretty confident about that.”
“Am I wrong?”
I search for the right answer. How hard to get should I play? Who am I kidding? I don’t have time for games. “No, you’re not wrong.”
He smiles as he passes the bowls out to the dogs. Tank abandons all interest in my gloves. “Seriously, though, you should try mushing. There’s nothing like being in the wilderness, just you and your dogs.”
I shift out of his way, collecting my coffee from its perch on his sled. “I’m sure it’s an experience.” My attention wanders over the frozen tundra before us. I can’t see much in the dark, but I’ve seen it in the daylight, and I know there’s a whole lot of nothing between us and any other living person.
“Come out with me when I train for next year’s race, so you can see what I mean.”
“You haven’t even finished this race, and you’re already planning the next one?”
“As long as this team wants to run, I’ll keep them running.” He pats each dog’s head as they dive into their meals.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I hope you do. My runs aren’t short, like Harry’s, though. I go all night.”
I wasn’t expecting that, and I choke on my coffee, coughing and sputtering.
My shocked reaction earns a chuckle from Tyler as he leans down to shift two bowls apart, separating the dogs. He meant exactly what his words imply, and I’m not sure we’re talking about him hiring me as his veterinarian anymore.