Nome-o Seeks Juliet (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance, #2)

by Katy Regnery

Gray sky. Gray sea. Gray beach.

  Gray roads and gray sidewalks.

  Suddenly I wish I’d spent more time sunbathing this summer instead of working inside at my father’s veterinary practice.

  It’s just temporary, I tell myself. You’re only here for a few months.

  We land smoothly, then deplane, and using a rolling staircase, I walk toward the terminal. I drag a hand through my snarly hair, wishing that instead of drinking vodka and mooning over Cody’s lips during the flight, I’d brushed my hair or put on some makeup. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. in Minneapolis to catch a 7:00 a.m. flight to Seattle. I’ve been traveling for eighteen hours. I’m sure it shows.

  Fuck it, Juliet. It’s too late to primp now.

  The terminal is the size of my Minneapolis apartment, so almost as soon as I’m inside, I’m walking through the security turnstile into the main airport terminal. Ahead, there’s an Alaska Airlines sign and one check-in desk, and to my right, there’s a small conveyor belt where arriving passengers can collect their luggage. Because I shipped all my things directly to Cody, I only have my carry-on backpack to worry about.

  I look around the small waiting area for Cody, but he’s not here yet.

  Hmm. I hope that’s not a bad sign.

  No, I reassure myself. He’s probably just running late. We’ve corresponded enough that I trust he’ll be here to pick me up at some point, and in the meantime, I can catch up on emails and texts from home. I sit down and put my backpack on my lap.

  A quick peek at my phone reveals texts from my mom, my brother, Silvia, and Glenn. I’ll write back to my family and Sil later. Pursing my lips in annoyance, I swipe open Glenn’s message.

  GLENN:

  I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, Juliet, but believe it or not, I

  never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry. I really would like to stay in touch and hear all

  about your adventures in Nome. Take care of yourself. Xoxo

  The Xoxo at the end makes me roll my eyes and sigh loudly. What an asshole. I hate him. Except...I don’t. Not totally, I guess, because his words tug at my heartstrings a little too much. I picture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at me, the soft touch of his fingers whispering over my skin, the pressure of his hips pressing down on mine, the way it felt when he—

  “Juliet?”

  My neck snaps up, and my blue eyes slam into Cody Michael Garrison’s green.

  “Green,” I hear myself whisper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your eyes,” I say. “They’re green.”

  Because that’s the way normal people greet each other: by pointing out the color of one another’s eyes. I’m mad smooth.

  “Yep. Hazel,” he says, nodding at me. “You been waiting here long?”

  My gaze slides down to his lips.

  “Nope,” I murmur.

  Why, hello, Brad Pitt’s doppelgänger. I am happy to report his musher’s photo was not air brushed, and he is every bit as hot as I expected him to be.

  “Um...are you okay?” he asks.

  Shit. I blink at him, standing up from the seat where I’ve been ogling him. “Yeah. I’m good. I’m—”

  I forgot I opened my backpack to take out my phone so when it tumbles from my lap to the floor, everything falls out of it: my iPad, a cherry Chap Stick, spearmint gum, a romance novel I bought in the Anchorage airport, several tampons, a hairbrush, a tangled mess of earbuds and chargers, half a package of dark chocolate almonds, a half-eaten can of Pringles, my passport, my wallet, and a bottle of water.

  “Crap!”

  I kneel down on the ground, grabbing at my things, trying to keep them from rolling away or getting stepped on.

  And what does Cody Garrison do?

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  He doesn’t squat down to help me, or even pick up something small like my Chap Stick and hand it to me. No. He just stands there, towering over me in jeans, a parka, and ski gloves, staring down at me with this pissed-off expression on his face, like I’ve thrown the contents of my bag all over the floor for shits and giggles.

  Wow, I think, scrambling around on the floor as I shove my belongings back into my bag. You’re an asshole. I don’t care how cute you are. Anyone with a little decency would’ve offered me a hand.

  “Thanks for the help,” I say, zipping my bag closed and hauling it up onto my shoulder. My cheeks are red. I can feel the heat in them, a combination of embarrassment and anger.

  He stares at me for a second, flexing his jaw once like he’s considering offering me an apology. Ultimately, I guess he decides against giving it.

  “My truck’s out there,” he says, gesturing to the parking lot with his gloved hand, then heading toward the exit.

  And me? I’m left wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into as I trudge into the parking lot behind him.

  ***

  Cody

  When I wear ski gloves, it’s almost impossible to tell that my hands are disfigured, which was my big strategy for delaying the inevitable.

  I just didn’t fucking expect her to drop her bag on the floor and need my help in picking up all her stuff.

  So instead of taking off my gloves with my teeth and offering what pathetic help I could, I let her crawl around on the floor by herself.

  Fuck. I feel like a giant asshole.

  I’m already wondering if this was a mistake, and we haven’t even left the airport parking lot yet.

  She looks pissed as hell, and you know what? I get it. I asked her up here to be my teammate, and the first time she actually needs my help with something, I stand there like a lump and let her handle it alone.

  Great teamwork, Cody.

  Shit. Fuck. God damn it.

  We are not off to a good start.

  She sits down in the passenger seat with a little huff, and I turn over the engine. It’s only ten minutes to my house from here, but we’ll pass through downtown, so maybe I should order a pizza. We could grab it on the way home. It could be sort of a peace offering.

  “You had dinner?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says, her voice cool. “But I’m not hungry.”

  “You should eat something.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I can get a pizza,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer, and hell, I can’t force feed her. If she doesn’t want food, I’m not going out of my way to get something special. I can heat up soup for myself later at home. Whatever.

  I take Seppala Drive so she can see a little of the downtown area and try to make a little polite conversation.

  “All your boxes came.”

  “Great.”

  “I put them in your room. They’re, uh, waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” she mutters, crossing her legs away from me and looking out the window.

  Her legs are covered with jeans, and she’s wearing some cute leather boots with fur sticking out the top. They look warm and practical, which is good. But, damn, she’s making me nervous. I don’t know what I expected—truth be told, I don’t think I ever stopped to wonder what she looked like—but she’s extremely attractive.

  Almost as tall as me, she’s sturdy and athletic, like a strong breeze won’t blow her away. I’m guessing she runs or swims regularly because she’s obviously fit, though I don’t think she’s heavily muscled, because her chest is full. It’s probably creepy that I checked out her tits, but fuck, I’m a guy, right? And frankly, it’s been a long time since I was this close to the pert swell of young, rounded breasts.

  Without asking if she minds, I crack my window a touch. It’s hot as hell in here.

  When I glance over at her, she’s still angled toward the window, but now she’s got her phone in her hands and she’s typing fast. Probably telling one of her friends that her future racing partner is a total jerk and she wants to go home.

  Her blonde hair’s twisted into a long braid at the nape of her neck, but a few strands have gotten lo
ose around her face. They catch the breeze and curl up next to her cheek, kissing that soft, freckled skin. The light blue fleece she’s wearing is the same color as her eyes, and there are tiny diamonds in her ears that sparkle when they catch the dying light.

  I’m sure she’s regretting her choice to come here.

  Fix this, Cody. Fucking fix it or you’ll be racing the Qimmiq alone.

  “I, uh...” When she doesn’t even look up, I feel like an idiot, but I keep going. “I should have helped you out back there...um, at the airport...when you, um, dumped all your stuff out on the floor.”

  “I didn’t dump my stuff out. It was an accident.”

  “I—I know that.”

  She slips her phone into the backpack at her feet and crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s waiting for me to say something else.

  “Ummm,” I hum, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to say. Maybe I should give her a compliment? “You got it all tidied up real quick.”

  “Yeah. And you were such a big help. Thanks, again.”

  I grimace, staring out the windshield as I turn left onto Bering Street.

  “I’m...I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I...It happened so fast...” Fuck, I’m not good at this. “I didn’t mean to...”

  “It’s okay,” she says, looking over at me, her pinched features finally relaxing.

  Wait. What just happened?

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Forget about it.”

  The apology, I realize belatedly. Saying “I’m sorry” made it a little better.

  I’ve been away from women for so long, I’ve forgotten how they operate. Hopefully, it’ll start coming back to me now.

  “Sure you don’t want dinner?” I ask her.

  “Pretty sure,” she says, her voice slightly less chilly. “They served a snack between Anchorage and Kotzebue.” She pauses for a second, then says, “It’s almost eleven o’clock at home. Honestly, I just want to go to bed, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Thank God for Rita and Jonas, who came over yesterday. They helped me open all the boxes that arrived from Amazon, put together the few pieces of furniture that required a hammer or screwdriver, and Rita set up everything real nice in the loft. It looks like a bedroom now—cozy and comfortable—and with the heater running, it’s toasty too. By far, it’s the nicest room in my house, although I did straighten up the rest of the place as best I could.

  I put up some shelves in my living room for the rest of my books and Rita knew a local gal who made some matching slipcovers for my two sofas. I bought a cheap, secondhand TV from the folks at the Seventh Day Adventist church so Juliet can watch TV in the living room if she wants. I spruced up the bathroom a little bit too, per Rita’s orders. New towels, and a fully stocked cabinet under the sink, with tissues and toilet paper and all that nice stuff that women need.

  My room still looks like shit, but she’ll never be in there, so who cares?

  I feel good about what I can offer her. I feel like I’m holding up my end of the bargain.

  But when I turn into my driveway and look over at her, I’m not too sure.

  She stares out the window, her face blank, saying nothing, unmoving, and for a second I wonder if she’s about to turn to me and shriek, “Take me back to the airport!” but she doesn’t.

  I follow her gaze and realize she’s looking out at the fenced dog yard, where I keep my racing dogs. And, of course, on account of my pulling into the driveway, they’re all going completely nuts, howling and barking like it’s Christmas morning.

  When she turns to look at me, her eyes are sparkling, and I swear to God, I’ve never seen anything as pretty as Juliet Sanderson in my entire life.

  “Those are your dogs,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can I meet them?” she asks, like she’s asking for an audience with the Queen of England.

  “Uh...yeah.” I nod and gulp. “Of course.”

  In a flash, she’s out of the truck, leaving her backpack behind as she hurries from the driveway over to the dogs.

  They’re organized in three rows of six, with a separate small area for each dog. There’s a stake to which they’re chained and a small doghouse with fresh hay where they sleep. They each have a food bowl attached to their house, and their names, lovingly burned into wooden plates, are affixed over the doghouse opening.

  Behind their kennels, in the same fenced yard, there is also a grub shack where I store and prepare their food, two snowmobiles, and a golf cart for practicing. In the shipping container where I placed most of the junk from the loft, I keep my practice and racing sleds.

  She opens the gate, and I follow her over to the first house, where she stands at a respectful distance from Austin, who stands on top of his house, howling and wagging, hoping for some love from our visitor.

  “That’s Austin,” I say.

  “May I pet him?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Go for it.”

  She steps forward in her clean jeans and pretty blue fleece, giggling with glee when he puts his dirty paws on her shoulders to get closer.

  “Get down, boy,” I tell him, and he minds me, but Juliet is already running her hands through his soft, thick husky fur. I gesture to the dog next to Austin, who’s also standing on top of his house. “This is Dover. He’s one of my lead dogs.”

  “Alpha male?” she asks.

  I nod. “He is.”

  “Hi, Dover,” she says, letting him sniff her hands before she scratches him under the collar.

  “This is Augusta,” I say, leading her down the row to the next dog. She shifts her weight back and forth, eyeing Juliet warily. I squat down beside Augusta, hugging her against me as we face Juliet together. “She’s a little younger than Austin and Dover. Newer to all of this.”

  Juliet seems to understand what I’m trying to say: that Augusta may not be as mannerly. She offers her hand to Augusta so that she can smell it but doesn’t try to pet her or get in her face.

  “I’ll win you over, pretty girl,” she says gently, and yes, I believe she will.

  Cheyenne is standing proudly on top of her house as we approach, but she wags her tail with excitement as Juliet comes closer.

  “Miss Cheyenne, meet Juliet. Juliet, this is the pack’s de facto momma, Cheyenne.” I lean a little closer to Juliet and whisper, “Her vote counts twice.”

  “Alpha female. Gotcha,” whispers Juliet, averting her eyes and bowing her head with respect as she approaches one of my most important dogs.

  There is a moment—a very specific moment—when you know that another human is the same kind of devoted dog person that you are. And when Juliet steps forward and offers her hands to Cheyenne before getting a lick on the face, I freeze for a second, waiting to see if Cheyenne’s wet greeting will be accepted.

  A split second later, with giggles of glee, Juliet’s face is buried in Cheyenne’s fur and Cheyenne can’t lick her new friend fast enough. She’s bathing Juliet in kisses, and I’m standing aside, watching these two beings connect on a level that is profound and otherworldly. I’m watching the momma bear of my pack, of my tribe, welcome her newest member.

  On down the line we go, dog after dog, with Juliet, who now smells of Cheyenne’s approval, being easily accepted by each dog. She asks good questions about a dog’s age or personality. She notices things other than pretty markings: if an animal favors one leg over another or seems lethargic. It’s dark and frigid by the time we finish our visits with Boston, and by now, most of the dogs are about ready to go into their houses and sleep for the night.

  Juliet, in her thin fleece, must be freezing, but she hasn’t complained once. I know she’s tired too—she said as much in the car, but she’s given every dog a few minutes of her time. I’m grateful for the care she’s taken in greeting them. More than that, even: I’m impressed.

  So it touches my heart almost beyond bearing when she turns to face me and says, “You said you had ninet
een dogs. We’re missing one.”

  “Viola,” I say, feeling a little choked up by her thoughtfulness. “She’s inside.”

  “Then I haven’t met everyone yet,” says my new teammate. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 4

  Juliet

  After a long day of grueling travel and a less-than-perfect first meeting with Cody, the only thing that could have brightened my mood is time with his dogs. And meeting those eighteen beauties didn’t disappoint. I can’t wait to get to know each and every dog better over the next few months, and I thoroughly intend to make Augusta my biggest fan.

  I swing back over to the truck to grab my backpack, then follow Cody into his house, which is a cross between a log cabin and a chalet with a covered front porch and warm light beaming from the windows.

  As we enter the house, we’re greeted by Viola, whom I can see at first glance is an older dog. Her muzzle is gray, and her gait is slow and deliberate. She looks up at Cody with frank adoration and, after sniffing my hand, lets me scratch behind her ears.

  “Outside, Vi,” he says gently. “Outside, girl. Go ahead.”

  She lumbers out the door to do her before-bed business as I look around my new home.

  I’m standing in a good-sized living room with two sofas covered in some sort of Western zigzag fabric, a coffee table and TV set from the 1990s. A potbelly fireplace in the corner of the room throws off a good amount of heat, and the wall to my left is floor-to-ceiling bookcases, crammed with more books than I could read in a year. Above me is an antler chandelier and exposed log beams. Straight ahead is a small kitchen with a bar area for eating and a staircase along the right-hand wall must lead to a second level.

  The windows have no curtains and the floors have no rugs, but the planking beneath my feet is sparkling clean and the curtainless glass is shiny. Cody’s no interior designer, that’s for sure, but he obviously cares about his home, and I appreciate that.

  When he clears his throat from behind me, I look at him over my shoulder.

  “You get the upstairs,” he says. “Everything up there is, um, new.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “My bedroom’s back there,” he says, gesturing in the general direction of the kitchen with a gloved hand.