by Teri Wilson
She decided to go ahead and fess up. They’d find out eventually.
“He’s blond, blue-eyed and Nordic looking.” She cleared her throat. “Not that it matters.”
“Nordic looking?” Clementine lifted an inquisitive brow.
“You know, like a Viking or something.” Anya ignored the flush still simmering in her cheeks and focused intently on her knitting. “Like I said, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Sue said, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
Anya looked up from her tangle of yarn and sighed. “Seriously, you two. Other than what he can do for my dog, I have no interest in Brock Parker.”
In fact, things would probably be easier if he wasn’t so flawlessly handsome. Because in the end—no matter what they looked like—all men did the same thing. At least the ones Anya had known. They left.
“Seriously,” she repeated for emphasis. “You both know I don’t date.”
Clementine’s fingers stilled, and her yarn stopped moving. “Wait. We do?”
“Of course you do,” Anya said.
Clementine hadn’t yet moved to Aurora when Anya was dumped on national television, but Anya was certain she’d mentioned it to her during the course of their friendship.
“No, I don’t.” Clementine shook her head. “You don’t date? What on Earth does that mean?”
Okay, so maybe she hadn’t mentioned it. Although it was a pivotal moment in her life to be sure, it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing she revisited often. Or ever, really.
Anya sighed. “I had a rather ugly breakup a few years ago, that’s all.”
“How ugly?” Clementine frowned and glanced back and forth between Anya and Sue.
“It was televised,” Sue chimed in, much to Anya’s relief. She’d rather not be forced to tell the entire dreadful tale herself.
Clementine furrowed her brow. “How does a breakup end up on television?”
“I was dating my high school sweetheart, who was a champion skier. A downhill racer.”
“Speed Lawson,” Sue said.
“Speed?” Clementine snorted. “What kind of a name is Speed?”
“The kind for men who beat a hasty trail out of town when the opportunity arises.” Anya’s gaze bore into her knitting. Maybe if she concentrated on the in-and-out of her needles and the twisting of the yarn around her fingers, she could get through this with a modicum of dignity still intact.
“Is that what happened? He just up and left?” Clementine rested a hand on top of Anya’s.
“We’d been dating two years when the Olympic Trials came to Aurora. The night before his event, Speed told me he loved me and wanted us to build a life together.”
Anya still felt ridiculous when she thought about it—the night she’d poured her heart into that boy in a way only a girl who’d never known the love of a father could. And he’d thrown it away. For all the world to see.
“What happened?” Clementine cast a worried glance at Sue.
“He made the team as an alternate,” Sue said. “It was big news around here.”
“The biggest.” Anya nodded. “ESPN interviewed him afterward, right there on the mountain. They asked him about skiing, living in Alaska, the ordinary questions...then they wanted to know if he had a girlfriend or any plans for the future.”
“And what did he say?” Clementine lowered her voice to a near whisper.
Anya appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t matter. Everyone sitting at the table knew the story. Was there a soul in Aurora who didn’t? “He said, and I quote, ‘There’s no one special.’”
“Oh, Anya. He was young. Don’t you think they may have caught him off guard?” Clementine’s word echoed every desperate thought that had entered Anya’s head in the aftermath of the interview.
She’d stood right there, hurt and humiliated, with the rest of Speed’s hometown crowd and listened to him deny her very existence. She’d pretended that the tears streaming down her cheeks were a product of the cold Alaskan wind rather than the pain of her heart breaking. But she hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all herself.
Worse than that, in the instant he’d uttered those words—no one special—something inside her had turned hard and bitter. Just like her mother.
It was that dark thing she felt brewing inside that frightened her the most. So she’d done the only thing she knew to keep it at bay. She stayed as far away from men as she could.
“I never heard from him again,” Anya said tersely. She left out the part about the local media questioning her about Speed’s comments and the Yukon Reporter article that had called her Speed’s “broken-hearted hometown honey.” Clementine knew enough now to get the picture. “And that’s why I don’t date. Anyone. Most especially a hotshot like Brock Parker.”
“Well, I for one hope you give the lessons with Brock another chance.” Sue gave her shoulder a pat before rising and heading to help one of the knitters who seemed to be having trouble casting off.
“Me too.” Clementine nodded. “I’m sure he can help Dolce. There has to be a method to his madness.”
A method to his madness.
Anya turned the phrase over in her mind. He was mad all right. She just hoped there was a method involved. That’s what really mattered, not his looks.
The fact that those chiseled features of his made her stomach flip was an inconvenience she’d have to grow accustomed to.
That’s all.
* * *
Brock was forced to trudge through what he estimated to be two and a half feet of snow to get to his truck. He’d shoveled the sidewalk from his front door to the driveway late the night before, but by morning it was once again indistinguishable. Nothing but snow stretched out before him—an unspoiled blanket of white glittering in the morning sunshine.
Welcome to Alaska, he thought as he cranked the truck engine to life.
There was a time when Brock would have found it beautiful, before snow had become an enemy to be conquered. Sometimes he had to struggle to remember how it had felt back then—building a snowman on the first day of winter, snowball fights that left his fingers prickly and numb, sledding down the hill behind his elementary school, shouting out to his brother to be careful of the trees. His memories of childhood snow days were so tangled up with his memories of Drew that it was hard to separate them. Then Drew had disappeared. Taken right from his bedroom window, according to the police. The snow had kept on falling and, inch by inch, swallowed up any evidence that could lead to Drew’s whereabouts.
They’d never found Drew, never found who’d taken him. Unable to concentrate his rage and confusion onto an actual person, Brock had instead focused it all on the snow. He supposed in a way, he still did.
He maneuvered his truck through what passed for downtown in Aurora. Nestled between a lake—frozen completely over at the moment, of course—and the foot of the Chugach Mountain range, the hub of the small town appeared to be the Northern Lights Inn. Judging from the staggering number of cars in the parking lot, it was Aurora’s hotspot. This struck Brock as odd, considering the ski area boasted its own chalet-type quarters, complete with gingerbread trim and old-world, fairytale charm. He narrowed his gaze at the ordinary-looking hotel, wondering what the draw could possibly be, and turned onto the road leading to the tiny log cabin that served as the Ski Patrol headquarters.
The three full-time members of the Aurora Ski Patrol Unit were already waiting for him when he arrived. They sat around a sturdy wood table that was loaded down with bagels and coffee, grinning at him as if he were the answer to all the town’s prayers. Which he probably was.
Brock had never felt comfortable being the object of adoration. And no matter how many finds, no matter how large the number of people he’d saved, he still didn’t.
“Good morning,” he said and shifted from one booted foot to the other.
“Mr. Parker.” The man in the center rose. “I’m Cole Weston, senior member of the ski patrol. We’re delighted to have you. Welcome to Aurora.”
Brock nodded. He recognized Cole’s voice from their numerous telephone conversations. “Call me Brock. Please.”
“Of course.” Cole smiled and introduced him to the men on either side of him—Luke and Jackson, respectively. “Have a seat, please.”
Brock poured himself a cup of coffee and eyed it suspiciously before lowering himself into one of the chairs.
“So how do you like the snow?” Cole, unaware he’d asked a very loaded question, grinned and bobbed his head in the direction of the window where flurries swirled against the pane.
Brock blinked. How was he supposed to come up with an answer to that? He chose not to and took a sip of his coffee instead.
Not bad, he mused. Not bad at all.
Hands down, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had since leaving Seattle.
“So Brock, have you given much thought to what we discussed about making your position here in Aurora permanent?” Cole pushed the plate of bagels toward him.
Brock had to give him credit. Cole had certainly cut to the chase faster than most of the ski resorts where he’d done consultant work. Of those resorts, one hundred percent had offered him permanent positions at one time or another. They typically waited until they’d seen his work firsthand, though. Or at least until he’d finished his first cup of coffee.
“I have to be honest, Cole. Permanent relocation is not something I’m considering at this time.”
He swallowed, hoping his answer—which had been fine-tuned through years of practice—didn’t constitute a lie. Relocation implied that somewhere out there he had a permanent residence, which he most definitely didn’t. Brock didn’t do permanent.
“The offer still stands.” Cole’s gaze flitted briefly to Jackson and Luke, who both nodded their agreement. “We’re short-staffed here, and as you know, the mountains surrounding Aurora are made up of miles of avalanche terrain. We could really use your help. Permanently.”
There was that word again. Brock shrugged out of his parka. The small room was beginning to feel rather warm. “Don’t worry. I’ve brought with me two fine pups—Sherlock and Aspen—who are coming along nicely with their search and rescue training. They’ll both be staying here long term after I’ve gone. I’ll make sure everything is up and running before I leave. You have my promise on that.”
“Very well then.” Cole nodded grimly. He looked somewhat resigned, but not as much as Brock would have liked. Something told him he hadn’t heard the last of the offer.
Luke crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “How long do you estimate it will take to establish an avalanche rescue unit here before you go?”
“It depends. The dogs need a few months to become acclimated to the mountain, and the four of us will need to meet for training exercises daily. All in all, I’d guess you’ll be good to go in three or four months. Perhaps sooner.”
“Then it looks like we have three or four months to change your mind about staying.” Jackson reached for a bagel. “Once you’ve had a chance to familiarize yourself with the town, you might find that you like it here. Alaska is rather, ah, unique.”
“Yea, we’ve got our annual Reindeer Run coming up. That’s always a good time.” Luke grinned.
Don’t hold your breath.
Brock took another bite of his bagel to stop himself from saying it out loud. Aurora, Alaska, no matter how quaint or picturesque, surely couldn’t have more to offer than Banff, Canada, Mont-Tremblant, France, or Cortina, Italy—all places he’d lived in the past two years. And even if he did find something special here, it would probably make him all the more determined to leave.
Unbidden, the memory of Anya Petrova’s eyes flashed in Brock’s mind. That deep, welcoming violet filled him with a sudden rush of warmth.
He frowned and wondered what that was all about.
Chapter Three
Anya ran her dishcloth in circles over the coffee bar as she peered at the screen of the computer she typically used for ringing up customers. Not so typically, the monitor was now fixed on an image of Brock Parker. Minus the bear suit and standing on a mountaintop overlooking the Swiss Alps, he looked every inch the hero that countless websites professed him to be.
She took in his broad shoulders, apparently strong enough to dig through several feet of hard-packed avalanche snow, if the internet was to be trusted, and tried not to gape. When Brock wasn’t whittling or reading aloud to his dogs, he was apparently traveling the world and saving people’s lives. Anya was having trouble reconciling this information with the man she’d met the night before. He’d rarely even looked her in the eyes. She’d noticed that he seemed to prefer focusing on her forehead, hardly a habit that bespoke of bravery.
“You missed a spot,” a voice called from somewhere beside her.
She tore her gaze from the computer and aimed it at the counter, shiny as a mirror after all her absent-minded polishing. Perfect...except hers wasn’t the only face she saw looking back at her in the reflection. Brock’s heroic image was right there across from hers.
He sent her an upside down wink.
Anya’s head flew up, and nearly as quickly, her fingers flew across the computer keyboard. She banged on the keys, willing a different website to flash on the screen. She didn’t care which one, so long as it wasn’t devoted to Brock.
Why, oh why did I take Clementine’s advice and Google Brock?
“Were you just Googling me?”
Anya glanced over at him. His lips were curved into a rare smile, making him even more pleasant to look at. Her knees grew wobbly, which she found more than a little irritating. “No.”
“No?” He tilted his head.
“No,” she said, a little too emphatically.
“Are you sure? Because that guy looked familiar.”
She waved toward the screen, which had somehow landed on the Northern Light Inn’s homepage. Thank You, Jesus.
“You mean him?” She pointed at the website’s picture of a stuffed grizzly bear, one of the many examples of Alaska’s finest taxidermy that graced the hotel lobby. “I guess I do see the resemblance.”
“Good save.” He smiled again and glanced at the actual bear, frozen in a threatening pose on its hind legs and looming beside the coffee bar. “But I know what I saw.”
She chose to ignore this comment. Because really, what choice did she have? “What brings you here this afternoon, Brock?”
He paused, taking in the coffee bar with its smooth burled wood counter, the refurbished brushed-nickel Gaggia espresso machine—Anya’s pride and joy—and, last but not least, the stuffed bison head that watched over everything from its place overhead. Anya had taken to calling him Spiderman because of the copious amount of cobwebs she was often forced to untangle from his shaggy coat.
Brock’s gaze snagged on Spiderman for a beat, then returned to its usual place of concentration—Anya’s forehead. “I just came from a meeting up on the mountain where I had a fantastic cup of coffee. Cole Weston told me it came from here.”
Anya breathed a sigh of relief, pleased the topic of conversation had moved away from her Google search and onto a more mundane topic. Coffee. “Alaska Klondike Roast. Yep, he came by earlier and picked up a box. It’s a local favorite.”
“You brewed it?” He narrowed his gaze at her.
“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”
“No reason.” He looked longingly at the grinder, which just so happened to be filled with Alaska Klondike beans. “It was just really good coffee. The best I’ve had in a while.”
Anya’s cheeks grew warm. Pathetic. Peo
ple came in here all the time complimenting her coffee and she didn’t get all starry-eyed. It was coffee, not rocket science. Why should it be any different with Brock? Just because he was a hero and had that perfect face...
Ugh. Get a clue. He’s just another man. Picture him in that crazy bear suit.
“Would you like a cup?” she asked.
“That would be great.”
She poured him a to-go cup, hoping he would get the hint and leave. He took a sip but seemed in no hurry to go.
Super.
Anya went to work washing the tiny collection of coffee cups that had accumulated in the sink behind the counter. She was contemplating washing them again, just to have something nonmale and nonheroic to focus on, when Brock spoke up.
“Is that a flyer for the Reindeer Run?” He pointed to the stack of brochures at the end of the coffee bar.
“Yes. Why?” She bit back a smirk. “Are you thinking of participating?”
He shrugged. “I doubt it. Some of the guys at the ski patrol were talking about it this morning, so the name caught my eye.”
“You should do it. Actually, now that I think about it, the Reindeer Run is right up your alley.”
He gave her a questioning glance. “Why do you say that?”
“People get really into it. They dress up, wear nutty hats.” Anya scrunched her brow in faux concentration. “Call me crazy, but I get the impression that’s your sort of thing.”
Brock leveled his gaze at her over his cup of coffee—actually looked her right in the eye this time. There was a subtle smile in his eyes, even if it didn’t make an appearance on his mouth.
Upon being fully appraised by those glacial blue eyes at last, Anya’s first instinct was to look away. She scrubbed at an invisible spot on the counter.
She could feel him watching her. It was unsettling. Unsettling in a weak-in-the-knees sort of manner that Anya was in no way accustomed to dealing with. Even Speed had never made her feel this way—all nervous and fluttery.
