A Fairbanks Affair (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance, #3)

by Katy Regnery

  As my head stops throbbing, I feel a little better and grab my phone off the bedside table. I check my e-mail first and am thankful there are no pressing issues at work. There is, however, a follow-up message from Mr. Fairbanks.

  I bite my lower lip in anticipation even as T’s face flashes through my brain. Hmm. T, the brokenhearted potato farmer. I hadn’t remembered him until now. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see T again, but I was certainly attracted to him. I fervently hope that I will be attracted to Mr. Fairbanks too.

  Dear Faith:

  Merry Christmas if you celebrate. Happy Monday if you don’t.

  Now that formalities are out of the way and we have an agreement on the table, I wanted to give you the details of our meeting.

  I have booked us a suite at the Chalet Blanche, a luxury lodge located just north of Fairbanks, for our weekend together. The chef there will be preparing our meals, so if you have any dietary restrictions, I hope you will feel comfortable sharing them with me in advance so that we may anticipate your needs. Our room will be ready at 3:00 p.m. on Friday. Should you require transportation to and from the airport, please let me know.

  In addition to enjoying one another in an intimate fashion, I would also be happy to show you around Fairbanks. The Alaska Railroad is quite scenic, and I would recommend we spend an afternoon at Chena Hot Springs. If you are interested in these attractions, please let me know. I am happy to schedule day trips for our amusement.

  Have a wonderful holiday, and see you soon.

  Mr. Fairbanks

  My toes curl under the covers.

  There’s something about him that’s so confident, so commanding, and yet so mindful of my needs and wishes.

  Will he be like that in bed?

  My God, I hope so.

  A pleasant tremor rocks my body, and I let my phone fall to my chest as I slip my hand into the waistband of my pajama bottoms, smoothing my palm over the flat plane of my stomach and then lower. My middle finger slides between the petals of my folds, and I gasp lightly as its pad touches on the little nub of erect flesh located there.

  For all that I am inexperienced with men, I know my body. I know what excites me. I know how to pleasure myself. As I rub my clit, slipping my finger lower to slicken it in my juices, I close my eyes, picturing T’s face. I have no idea what Mr. Fairbanks looks like, but I bring myself to orgasm thinking of T’s face and hoping that our banter at the bar is the sort of conversation I’ll enjoy with my first lover. My hips buck off the bed as I climax, shiver, then sigh, riding out the sweet waves of pleasure before picking up my phone again.

  Since I last looked, a red bubble has appeared over my texting app, and I’m pleased to discover it’s a message from my sister.

  HARRIET: Merry Christmas, Faye! I miss you. Please call today. xo

  I type in a quick response.

  FAYE: Merry Christmas. I don’t want to interrupt your plans, so why don’t you call me instead? I am at leisure until this evening. I hope you are enjoying Vail. xo

  Not five minutes later, my phone chirps at me, and I slide it off the bedside table to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Faye? It’s Harry.”

  “Merry Christmas, Harriet!” I say, sitting up in bed. “How’s Vail?”

  “Oh, it’s...nice.”

  Her lackluster tone isn’t lost on me. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. I just...” She sighs. “How are you?”

  I’m about to say “Just fine” when I remember thinking about Harriet last night—specifically, about how stiff and awkward our conversations are and how much I wish they were more fun, more natural.

  “Actually? I’m a little hungover.”

  She gasps loudly. “What? You are?”

  I allow myself a chuckle. “I am. I had something called a ‘scorpion bowl’ last night—”

  “Were you at a Thai place?”

  “Chinese.”

  “Oh, my God! Faye! I can’t even imagine you drunk! How did that happen?”

  I laugh again. “Well...I was at this Chinese place, and the bartender asked if I wanted to share dinner during her break. She ordered the scorpion bowl for me to try.”

  Harriet giggles. “Are you a lightweight?”

  I had over forty ounces! “For your information, Harry, I dra—”

  “Oh, my God! Faye!”

  “What?”

  “You just called me ‘Harry’!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just said, ‘For your information, Harry,’ not ‘For your information, Harriet.’”

  “Why is this of note?”

  “Because you never, ever call me ‘Harry.’ You’re always formal. Always.”

  “Surely not always...”

  “Always,” she insists.

  My shoulders slump because she’s right.

  Suddenly, I flash back to my little sister standing beside me at our parents’ gravesite. We lingered for a few minutes as extended family, friends, and business associates slipped quietly away. I remember her taking my larger hand in hers and clutching on to it as we stood there side by side. But I also remember pulling my hand away, because I had held it together all day and that one gesture threatened all of my careful composure.

  “You know what?” I say gently. “I can try to loosen up.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “So maybe we could drink a scorpion bowl together the next time I visit?”

  This is a shocking suggestion because Harriet never initiates visits, only grudgingly agrees to them when I insist. It makes me smile. It may even make my eyes water a little, but then again, we can’t lose our minds completely. We are New Englanders, after all.

  “When you’re twenty-one, yes.”

  She laughs again, and I find myself smiling even wider, because I haven’t enjoyed a conversation with my sister in years...and I’m actually enjoying this one. Very much. And that in itself is a bit of a Christmas miracle.

  “Now, you be honest with me, Harry: Did I hear a dip in your voice before? When I asked about Vail?”

  “So you know how I’m here with my friend, Jordan? Her brother, Austin, is here too.”

  “Mm-hm. Yes.”

  “He’s superhot and goes to Dartmouth, and I was, like, sure he was into me, but then this other friend of the family came over last night, and he was sort of ignoring me and spending time with her. But now, today, he’s back to giving me all this attention, and I’m just not sure...”

  “About?”

  “If I should...you know, be attracted to him?”

  “You either are or you aren’t,” I say, a flashback of T filling my brain and making me shiver. “Attraction isn’t a choice. It’s instinctual.”

  “Okay. I am attracted to him,” she says with a sigh. “But I think he might be a player.”

  “A ‘player,’” I say. “Like...someone who plays around?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re not sure...”

  “You know, whether or not to...go for it. Because he’s going to try to kiss me today. I know it. And I want to kiss him back, but if that girl comes over again and he ignores me, I’ll just feel...you know, bad.”

  I suddenly realize that I have absolutely no idea if my sister is still a virgin or if she’s far more experienced than I am, but based on this conversation, I think I should probably assume the latter. And yet for all that she’s more physically experienced, she’s not certain of what she should do in this particular situation. She’s been with men, but she’s still learning about them.

  And for the first time I can ever remember, she’s asking me for advice.

  (When what I know would fill a thimble!)

  Luckily, Brandy’s words from last night come back to me in a blazing flash of truth, and I have some wisdom to offer my little sister.

  “Harry,” I say. “Only be with a guy who’s crazy about you. Don’t settle for less.”

  She’
s silent for several seconds, and I finally realize that she’s crying. Softly. In hushed sobs and whispered whimpers.

  “Oh no. Oh dear. Harry, it’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay. There are so many other boys out there—”

  “Faye,” she weeps. “Where...h-have you...b-been?”

  The words are broken and stilted over the phone line, and they tug and pull at my heart, making my eyes burn again.

  I have been there for her in some ways: ensuring her education and making sure she never wanted for anything material. But emotionally? I’ve been a terrible guardian and an even more terrible sister. Not because I meant to be...but because I allowed other things in my life to take precedence. And I’m sorry for it now. I’m so sorry.

  “Harry, we’re going to change things, okay? I’m going to...loosen up. And we’re going to talk more. Like sisters. I promise.”

  She sniffles. “I’ve w-wanted that for so l-long, Faye.”

  So have I.

  The words slide through my head in slow motion, and though I won’t burden her with my emotional needs, I think I’m finally ready to step up and meet hers.

  “Next summer,” I say, “when you’re home, maybe we could do some traveling together.”

  “I’d love that!”

  “We could go to Scandinavia, and to Germany, of course. Maybe to some of the Eastern European distilleries that are—”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Yes! There are some real up-and-comers in Poland and the Ukraine, and I think we’d have a marvelous—”

  “You’re talking about me coming along on a business trip,” she says, her voice flatter and softer than it was a moment ago.

  “Yes! Of course.”

  “I thought...” She sighs. “Yeah. Maybe we could do that.”

  I don’t know what just happened. Perhaps my sister doesn’t like travel? But she just said she’d love to travel with me. Perhaps she doesn’t like distilleries? Or business? But that’s impossible. One day we’ll run Findley Imports together, won’t we?

  “I should go,” she says. “It’s two o’clock here, and I think we’re going skiing for a few hours before coming back for dinner.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say. “Mustn’t be rude to your hosts.”

  “Faye,” she says softly. “I’m glad you called. I’m going to think about what you said—about only being with a guy who’s crazy about me and not settling for less.”

  “I’m glad, Harry,” I say. “I think it’s good advice.”

  “Merry Christmas, Faye,” she says. “I...I...” She clears her throat. “I hope you have a wonderful day.”

  Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what. I don’t know how this conversation went from giggles and advice to her voice being so flat and sad. I wish I knew, but we don’t have time to discuss it. Her friends are waiting for her.

  “You too, Harry,” I say. “Be good. Have fun.”

  “Good-b-bye,” she says, but before I can wish her “Merry Christmas, Harry,” my phone sounds in three quick tones to tell me she’s already hung up.

  Chapter 6

  Trevor

  Over the past several years while I was dating Marlena, I didn’t attend the Golden Buddha Christmas dinner.

  She went with me the first year we were dating, but I could tell she was uncomfortable with Ping’s excited, broken English and the obscure Chinese food he made to honor the holiday for his American friends. He explained to me that wormwood dumplings, pickled jellyfish, and century eggs are true Chinese delicacies that required him to import special ingredients, but Marlena’s Western palette couldn’t stomach the strange flavors, and we stopped attending the dinner together after the first year.

  Truth be told? Ping’s “special” dishes aren’t my favorites either, but I know that he’s trying to both assimilate and show respect, and so I prepare myself to struggle through the slimy texture of his jellyfish and the cheese-like chewiness of his preserved egg yolks as I walk through the door of the Golden Buddha on Monday afternoon.

  The mouth-watering smells of typical Chinese food greet me as I step inside, with Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases and the hum of cheerful conversation rounding out the festive atmosphere.

  Ping and his sons, John and James, have moved all the restaurant’s tables into one long banquet table running through the center of the dining room, and more than half of the seats are already filled with restaurant employees and their families and friends. And on the table there is an assortment of shared food: a whole roasted turkey, a honey ham, a sweet potato casserole, and several baskets of biscuits and dinner rolls, plus trays of sushi and a full pan of lasagna. Everyone contributes something, and no one goes home hungry.

  “T!” yells Ping from the head of the table. “You come to my dinner this year!”

  In my arms I’m carrying a case of North Star vodka, and I offer it to him with a wide grin. “It’s been too long, Ping! I missed it.”

  “Merry Christmas!” he booms in his heavy accent, telling his son in Mandarin to take the case of liquor to the bar.

  Someone pinches my arm, and I turn to see Brandy standing beside me. “Hey, stranger.”

  “Hey.”

  “You get Faye home safely last night?” she asks me.

  “Sure did.”

  She nods with approval. “What’re you drinking? I’ll grab you something.”

  As she heads off to the bar to pour me a pint of hard cider, I take an empty seat near the center of the table, looking up as the bell over the front door jingles. Dressed in jeans and a fur-trimmed parka I see Faye, standing uncertainly in the doorway.

  I stand up and slide through the crowd to welcome her, grinning at her pink cheeks and hesitant expression.

  “Hi,” I say. “Remember me?”

  “Of course.” Her blush deepens. “Merry Christmas, T.”

  “Merry Christmas, Faye.”

  She unbuttons her coat, and I take it from her, hanging it up on the stand behind me. Wearing a black turtleneck sweater with pearls, she looks chic and classy.

  “How’s your head?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Thank God for Advil. Plus, I have it on good authority that I got most of the poison out last night.”

  “Yes,” I tell her, chuckling softly. “I was an eyewitness to the purge.”

  She cringes. “Sorry.”

  “Nuh-uh. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

  As we approach the table together, she places a hand on my arm. “Wait! Is this a potluck? Oh God. I didn’t bring anything!”

  “I brought a case of vodka,” I tell her. “We can just say it was from both of us.”

  “Thanks,” she says, her dark eyes sparkling as she smiles at me.

  “It’s the least I can do,” I tell her, pulling out the chair beside mine and sitting down next to her.

  “Faye!” Brandy appears behind us, holding out my cider, and Faye stands up to hug her. “Brandy, thank you so much for inviting me!”

  “I’m glad you came. What are you drinking? I have a very decent prosecco open.”

  “Sounds divine,” says Faye.

  “I’ll grab you one, and when I come back, I’ll introduce you to everyone, okay?” Brandy turns to me. “Behave yourself.”

  I hold up three fingers in a Scout’s oath. “Promise.”

  Faye sits back down, then turns to me. “Speaking of introductions, we didn’t really meet properly yesterday. I’m Faye Findley.”

  Faye...Findley. I know that name. How do I know that name? I stare at her, trying to figure out where we’ve met, but I can’t place her.

  “Your name is so familiar,” I tell her.

  “Really?”

  Faye Findley. Faye Findley.

  I nod. “What do you do?”

  “I own a company back east called Findley Imports that—”

  “Of course!” I exclaim. “Findley Imports! You’re trying to buy my business!”

  She leans back, shaking her head, h
er expression perplexed. “A...potato farm? No. I think you’re mistaken—”

  “The farm is my family’s business,” I tell her. “I started North Star Spirits with my brothers five years ago!”

  Her lips part, her mouth opening to a perfect O as she stares at me. “You’re...Trevor Starling? T is for Trevor?”

  “T is for Trevor.” I nod, holding out my hand. “It’s good to meet you, Faye Findley.”

  “Holy sh—I mean, my goodness! I had no idea...I—” Suddenly she laughs. “No wonder North Star vodka is your favorite!”

  “And yours,” I remind her. “No wonder you know so much about liquor!”

  She’s probably one of the foremost authorities in the country. Her company is one of the largest importers and distributors in the nation.

  “Your product is delicious. I wasn’t sucking up.”

  “I believe you. It’s damn good vodka,” I tease, then shake my head, marveling at this turn of events. “Last night you said you came to Alaska to meet with the owner of a company you want to acquire.”

  She nods. “That’s right.”

  “So you’re actually up here to meet...me.”

  “Yes.” She laughs softly. “I am.”

  Now this is intriguing. This woman flew all the way from the East Coast to spend Christmas in North Pole, Alaska, hoping to check out my operation and meet me. It’s certainly flattering.

  But it’s also daunting. Especially because I’m not interested in selling my company. I never have been. I’m possessive of what’s mine, and that includes North Star Spirits. That said, however, I can’t resist the urge to show it off either.

  “Are you free tomorrow?” I ask her. “I can show you the distillery operations if you’re interested.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like better,” she says.

  “But I warn you,” I follow up quickly, “this company is my baby. I’m not going to sell.”

  Her smile is enigmatic. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’m not selling.” I lift my chin and add some steel to my voice. “I won’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I lean forward, close enough to smell her perfume, which is subtle and clean and messes with my head a little. “It’s not going to happen.”