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

by Katy Regnery

  That slight, secretive smile stays securely in place as she nods her head once. “Understood.”

  Her one-word answers are maddening because I can’t help feeling that she has some ironclad agenda that will somehow undermine my current determination. It’s unsettling.

  “Prosecco for you,” says Brandy, returning with a full flute of bubbles. “Come and meet my mom and dad, Faye.”

  I watch Faye move around the room, admiring her as she accepts hugs from strangers with grace and warmth. But I’m downright astonished when Brandy introduces her to Ping, and she greets him in Mandarin and wishes him, I assume, a Merry Christmas.

  “Wow! Wow! Wow! An English lady who speak Chinese!” he exclaims in English, clasping her hands in his. “Miss Faye, you are most welcome!”

  “Syeh-syeh, Ping sheng,” she says with a small bow. “I am so grateful for your kindness and hospitality.”

  By the time she returns to my side and sits down, her glass is empty, and Brandy takes it back to the bar to fill it up.

  “Nicely done,” I tell her. “You’re a hit.”

  “I travel a great deal,” she tells me, reaching for a plate of dumplings and putting one on her plate. “It always helps to be able to say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ in the language of my host.”

  “So...do you actually know Chinese?”

  “Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I just learned a few phrases for tonight.”

  “That was thoughtful. How?”

  “The internet,” she says with a little shrug.

  “You’re industrious.”

  She grins as she takes a bite of the dumpling.

  “But I’m still not selling, Faye.”

  “We’ll see.”

  ***

  My brother texts me that he’s too tired to drive down to North Pole after spending the day at my parent’s house and that he’ll see me in the office at some point tomorrow.

  Although I love Baz, I’m relieved he’s not coming. I’ve been enjoying myself, sandwiched between some guys from the North Pole fire department and Faye Findley.

  I barely know her, of course, but there’s something about meeting her last night and sitting next to her today that makes me feel connected to her. Like...I don’t know—she’s not my date or anything, obviously, but I wouldn’t mind if she were. It’s a shallow but delightful feeling, likely fueled more by cider and Christmas than any actual sentiments I have for her.

  All I know is that seeing my brother would shatter the illusion that I’m just a normal single guy spending Christmas with a roomful of friends, with the good fortune of being seated beside a smart, beautiful woman.

  Several hours later, as the evening winds down and guests take turns loading dishes and platters in Ping’s industrial dishwasher and wrapping up leftovers to take home, I nudge Faye with my elbow.

  “Need an escort back to your digs?”

  She starts to yawn, then covers her mouth quickly and laughs. “Sure. Thanks.”

  We say goodnight to Ping and his family; Denny, Brandy, and their folks; the guys from the fire department and ambulance corps who came by for leftovers; and other friends who stopped in for a glass of Christmas cheer. I help her with her coat and hold the door open as we step outside into the cold.

  “Wow, it’s chilly!” she exclaims, zipping up her parka and pulling mittens out of her pockets.

  “Welcome to Alaska in December,” I tell her.

  “Thank you,” she says, with a light chuckle. “But you know what? It’s no worse than New York City the day before yesterday, actually.”

  “No way that’s true.”

  “It is!” she insists. “The way the wind whistles down the streets and avenues? It’s freezing. Have you ever visited?”

  “To New York?” I shake my head. “Nope. Chicago is the closest I’ve ever been.”

  “You’re missing out,” she tells me. “There’s nowhere in the world like New York.”

  “Then I’ll have to add it to my agenda.”

  “If we go into business together,” she says, “you’ll have a good reason to come east, and you’ll be able to write it off.”

  “Business together?” I ask. “Your acquisitions guy—”

  “Karl Franklin,” she supplies.

  “Yeah. Karl. He never said anything about working together. Only about you buying us out.”

  She takes a deep breath. “There’s always room for negotiation.”

  With everything? I wonder. Would anything have made a difference yesterday? Would anything have enticed you into my bed?

  I instantly grimace at the direction of my thoughts for two reasons:

  1. Because now that I know Faye is Faye Findley, she’s a business associate, and I don’t shit where I eat. I would never get involved romantically with someone who could directly affect the success of North Star. And...

  2. Because when I got home last night, the first thing I did was write a message to Faith Crawford about her upcoming trip to Fairbanks. Though Faith and I have no commitment to one another aside from spending New Year’s weekend together, it would weirdly feel like cheating to get involved with Faye in the interim...or with Faith directly after. I paint a wide line now when it comes to cheating, and even though I technically wouldn’t be cheating on anyone, it just doesn’t feel right.

  In fact, as attracted as I am to Faye, I’m relieved that she turned me down yesterday. I enjoy her—that’s for sure—and I’ve noticed that I haven’t been brooding as much since meeting her yesterday, but we can’t have a romantic future if we’re business associates. I won’t let it happen, and I’d be willing to wager, neither would she.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing your distillery tomorrow,” she says.

  “The distillery you will never own,” I say, baiting her for a snappy comeback.

  “I already own so many,” she says airily. “What’s one more?”

  “Or less?”

  She laughs. “You’re tenacious.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “I just know what I want,” she tells me.

  And fuck but her words—which I’m sure aren’t meant to be sexy—affect me like an aphrodisiac. There’s something about her that’s both sweetly innocent and insanely arousing. I’m fairly certain that no one in the world banters like Faye Findley. No one. It’s an art form with this woman.

  No wonder she owns so many distilleries. I bet a lot of her negotiations start with a no, and then somehow, before the poor bastard can figure out how the hell it happened, he’s signed on the dotted line, ready to sell his soul to her. She’s good at what she does...not that that was ever in question. Findley Imports didn’t become the company it is today because its leader is feckless.

  We get back to her hotel way too soon for my taste and stop in front of the entrance, facing each other.

  “Well,” she says, “this is me...for tonight, at least.”

  My heart clutches. “Are you leaving soon?”

  “I’m moving to a place called the Chalet Blanche tomorrow,” she tells me. “I did some research, and I think it’s a little more my style.”

  I try to keep my face impassive, but I don’t know if I succeed.

  The Chalet Blanche is where Faith Crawford and I will be trysting this weekend, and I’m suddenly, incredibly uncomfortable about these two parts of my life possibly colliding. My whole point in arranging to meet Faith was to have a discreet affair with a beautiful woman at a posh resort where I’d know no one. It’ll hardly be discreet if my lover and I are sharing the four-room, extremely intimate boutique hotel with Faye Findley, with whom I may be doing a business deal. There’s no doubt we’d run into one another...at the hotel restaurant or lobby bar or spa. My God, our rooms could technically share a wall. My mind whirls, and my stomach flips over.

  “Hey. Are you okay?” Faye asks me, placing a mittened hand on my arm.

  “How long are you staying there?”

  “A few day
s,” she says, sliding her hand from my arm. “Do you know it? The Chalet Blanche?”

  I nod, feeling discombobulated. “Yes. It’s...mostly for tourists, of course, but yes. I know it. It’s very nice.”

  “Oh. Good.” She glances over her shoulder. “No offense to the North Pole Inn, but I’m tired of being referred to as ‘Faye Kringle,’ and I’m definitely looking forward to the spa at the Chalet Blanche. I read that it’s very intimate.”

  Shit. This isn’t good. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Maybe I should rebook Faith and myself to another hotel? But there’s no other place in Fairbanks that comes close to the Chalet. It’s the only five-star lodging in the area, and I promised Faith Crawford a luxury weekend. I think of her standing on that sailboat, wearing Chanel sunglasses and a Longines diamond watch. I can’t take a woman like that to the Hampton Inn.

  Faye is still grinning at me, no doubt thinking about high-end spa treatments.

  I wish I could circle back to how long she’s staying at the Chalet Blanche, but I can’t think of a noncreepy way to ask her if she’ll be gone by Friday, so I leave the whole thing alone. She can’t be staying for another week, right? Her whole point in coming up here was to take a peek at my business and make me an offer.

  Aha! That’s it!

  As soon as our business is finished, she’ll be headed back to New York. Which means that the length of her visit is completely under my control. That’s comforting...and makes me want to get down to business as soon as possible.

  “So...how about I pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Works for me.”

  “I’ll give you a tour of Starling Farms, where we grow the potatoes we use in North Star vodka, and then take you to the distillery and tasting room.”

  “Perfect.”

  Without warning, she rises up on tiptoes and quickly presses her lips to each of my cheeks in a gesture that throws me completely off-balance. Yes, I understand it’s an acceptable farewell in Europe, but we’re not in Europe. We’re in North Pole, Alaska, and no one does that.

  “Merry Christmas, Trevor Starling,” she says softly, that mysterious little smile back in place.

  Before I can find my voice, and with the echo of her lips still brushing my skin, she’s back inside her hotel, leaving me peering through the glass once again like a lost little boy who has no idea how he got there.

  ***

  Faye

  I’m waiting in the hotel lobby with a cup of coffee when Trevor Starling pulls up in a shiny black Jeep Grand Cherokee, puts it in park, hops out of the driver’s side, and has the passenger door open before I step off the curb.

  “Good morning!” he says.

  “Hi!”

  “Want me to hold your coffee?”

  I hand it to him, climb into the butter-leather tan passenger seat and fasten my seat belt. He hands me my coffee, slams my door closed, and circles the car.

  “Cold out this morning,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

  “Twelve degrees,” I lament.

  “Now tell me that New York is just as cold as Alaska.”

  I take my phone out of my purse and check the weather in New York. “Nope. It’s a balmy thirty-six there.”

  “Are you warm enough?” he asks, reaching for the climate knob on the console.

  “Yes. It’s toasty in here.”

  “Then we’re off,” he says, grinning at me as he pulls out from under the porte cochere and onto the road in back of the hotel. “Bright sun, though. A nice clear day for you to check out everything.”

  I glance over at him and quickly assess that he is, without question, the best-looking man of my acquaintance. His thick dark hair is slicked back and his mint-colored eyes outshine the morning sun. Though I’ve met Trevor twice now, and both times I would have called him handsome, he looks especially delicious this morning: freshly shaven, freshly showered, and brimming with vim and vigor.

  “Something tells me you’re a morning person, Trevor.”

  “Yes I am, Faye.” He glances at me. “Are you?”

  “Naturally? No. Out of necessity? Yes.”

  “How often do you allow yourself to sleep in?”

  “Oh...” I shrug. The truth is that Christmas morning was the first time in years that I’ve slept in. “Not often. Every now and then.”

  “I can’t imagine it’s easy, what you do. Managing one of the largest liquor importation and distribution companies in the country.”

  “I surround myself with good people,” I tell him. “But yes. The buck stops with me.” For no good reason I can fathom, I add, “I lost my parents when I was young. Just out of undergrad. I...well, I guess I wanted to make them proud.”

  “Your father started Findley Imports?”

  “Yes. With my grandfather.”

  “But you kept it going.”

  Hmm. “Why do I feel like I’m being interviewed?”

  “I spent some time online last night looking into you.”

  “Fair enough. Due diligence?”

  “No,” he says. “I’d only do due diligence if I were going to sell to you...which I’m not.”

  I can’t help chuckling because this is becoming a familiar theme between us. “Then...?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “Let’s see. You were the adult heir to your father and grandfather’s company and fortune, but you have a younger sibling.”

  “Mm-hm. My sister, Harry.”

  “Harry? Your sister’s name is Harry?”

  “No. Her nickname is Harry. Her name is Harriet.”

  “Ah. Right. Hmm. Let’s see. You went to Cornell University in New York.”

  “True.”

  “You were born in Boston.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t still live there.”

  “No,” I say. “I moved out of the city some time ago.”

  “I see. And, um, well, you’ve tripled the size and profitability of Findley Imports since taking the helm.”

  “Also accurate.”

  “You are unmarried, and according to Wikipedia, you are not involved with anyone. Romantically.”

  Inside, I bristle a little at this. It’s true, of course, but it embarrasses me too, which puts me on the defensive. How exactly was I supposed to triple the size and profitability of my family’s company while also nurturing a healthy relationship?

  Trevor must sense my discomfort. He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

  “No,” I say. “No. It’s fine.” I smooth my tan wool slacks and fold my hands on my lap. “It’s not untrue. I haven’t”—I clear my throat—“dated much.”

  “Shit,” mutters Trevor. “Insert-foot-in-mouth disease. Some days I’ve got it bad.”

  I shrug. “Like I said, it’s not untrue.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of romances,” says Trevor.

  I turn my head to look at him. “Are you?”

  “Um...well, yes. You’re young and pretty. Incredibly successful. You’re probably just very discreet.”

  It feels good when he calls me “pretty,” but his use of the word “discreet” makes me think about Mr. Fairbanks’ ad and my impending affair, which—for no good reason—dims the brightness of his compliment.

  “Yes. I know how to be discreet...but honestly, I haven’t had many romances.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. It’s really not an appropriate conversation to have with a possible business partner, but Trevor Starling and I have had quite a few inappropriate conversations at this point. How can another hurt? “My life has been consumed by work since my parents passed away. Well, that and...I think I’m a late bloomer.”

  “A ‘late bloomer’? What does that mean?”

  “I haven’t had any,” I murmur. “Romances.”

  I’d imagined the words being spoken in my head. It’s with a bit of horror that I realize I’ve said them aloud.

  “What? What do you
mean?”

  I look up at him. “N-Nothing.”

  “When was your last relationship?” he asks me.

  “Well...I have many relationships. My sister. My employees. Friends—”

  “With a man.”

  Never. “It’s, um...been a while.”

  We’re stopped at a red light as we approach Fairbanks, and Trevor turns to me, his wide, minty eyes scanning my face. His lips part in surprise as my cheeks flush with heat, and I turn away from him, looking out the window.

  “Are we—ahem—almost in, um, Fairbanks?”

  He doesn’t answer, but I can feel him staring at me. Like I’m a freak.

  My breathing speeds up, and my cheeks are almost unbearably warm, but I don’t look at him. We’re perilously close to him asking if I’ve ever had a boyfriend, which I haven’t. I stare out the window, willing him not to say something that will make me want to die on the spot.

  “You’ve given up a lot,” he whispers in a rush.

  I snap my neck to the left and face him. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t,” he says evenly, turning back to look out the windshield. “But aren’t you lonely?”

  “No,” I say quickly. But, fuck, of course I’m lonely, and Trevor Starling and I seem to have a knack for engaging in inappropriate subjects, and somehow it’s making things not more uncomfortable between us but less. Somehow, against all odds, our strange experiences—his proposition and my vomit and our realization that we’re in the same business and sharing Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner together as virtual strangers—have drawn us closer together, have created an intimacy between us that I find I...like. “Yes, I am. Sometimes I’m very lonely.”

  “What are you going to do about that, Faye Findley?”

  Something about the way he asks this question—it could be the way he words it like a challenge or the teasing tone of his voice—makes me smile from ear to ear. And my plan to meet Mr. Fairbanks doesn’t feel quite a tawdry as it did a moment ago.

  “I’m working on it, Trevor Starling.”

  “Well, I won’t bet against you,” he tells me, turning off the main road and into a driveway with a large sign overhead that reads, “Starling Farms.” “That’s for sure.”

  Chapter 7