by Addison Fox
“To everyone?”
“Well, the men mostly,” her friend added. “But several of the women do, too. Like Chooch.”
“Where did she get that nickname?” Sloan probed, anxious to know how the sweet woman she’d met could possibly have a name like that.
“She doesn’t say. I think it’s private.”
Sloan nearly choked on her coffee at that news. Private?
Although she knew names were personal—hers had always been a source of conversation as it wasn’t the most typical name—but for no one to know where a fellow townswoman had gotten her name? “But why would it be private?”
“Likely on account of the pillow talk,” Bear added, his face a blazing shade of red as he reached quickly for his coffee cup.
“Excuse me?” Sloan had the sudden feeling she’d fallen into some parallel universe. What kind of pillow talk could possibly result in a name like Chooch?
“You know, pillow talk. Don’t tell me a big-city girl like you has never heard of it.”
A long, slow roll of desire filled her as Walker Montgomery’s deep, husky voice registered somewhere around her stomach. “I think I’ve heard of it.”
“Then you know how it works.” Walker dropped into the booth next to her and Sloan quickly made way for him as his thigh touched hers. “Private moments. Private conversations.”
“If it’s so private, how does Bear here know how Chooch got her name?”
A slight frown marked Bear’s forehead—Sloan wasn’t sure if it was the conversation or Walker’s arrival that had put it there—but his affable smile didn’t take long to return. “Hooch brags about it pretty often.”
“Ah.” Sloan nodded, the image of the couple she’d met engaging in sex rapidly forcing a subject change.
The waitress arrived with her breakfast and Bear glanced at the meal being set down, then back up to Walker before his gaze settled on Sloan. “Well, I’ll let you get to your breakfast.”
“You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
Bear eyed Walker, looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it. “Thank you, but I’ve eaten. I just wanted to come over and introduce myself properly.”
“It was lovely to meet you, Bear.” Sloan held out her hand to shake his, fascinated when her hand disappeared in his palm.
“You, too.” Bear got to his feet. “Walker.”
“Bear.” Walker’s voice was smooth, but the note of implacable steel was evident underneath.
Sloan watched the interesting byplay between the two men and knew there was some sort of unspoken pissing match going on. Although she was tempted to say something, a small voice reminded her she wasn’t back home any longer.
This was a different sort of place and she was fast coming to realize she wasn’t entirely sure of the rules.
As Walker ordered his breakfast and Bear headed toward his companions to retrieve his coat, her thoughts drifted to an image of Trent, with his smooth words, practiced smile and two-hundred-dollar haircut.
The epitome of the suave, wealthy American male. If she hadn’t known him well—or his reputation—she’d likely have thought him charming. The man who had a ready quip and quick comeback for any situation.
Her gaze caught on Bear’s large, burly frame as he exited the diner and then on to Walker’s linebacker-sized shoulders as he stood to slip out of his coat, and she realized these men had a different sort of charm.
Rugged.
Weathered.
Real.
Walker took Bear’s spot and reached for a glass canister of sugar. “So you’re curious about nicknames?”
She watched, fascinated, as he dumped the equivalent of four spoonfuls into his coffee.
The waitress returned with Walker’s stack of pancakes and a side of bacon, dropping off both along with a wink for Sloan.
With a mental head shake and the acknowledgment that nothing seemed to escape anyone’s notice, Sloan refocused on Walker. “Lots of people seem to have them.”
“I guess. You just get used to them. I remember lots of guys from college who had them, too. It’s not exclusive to Indigo.”
The syrup bottle came next as Walker covered his pancakes in about twice the amount of sugar he had just shoveled into his coffee.
“No, but you have to admit it’s a bit unique.”
When he only shrugged, she added, “Where’d you go to school?” Sloan reached for the syrup, indulging the sudden urge to add pure sugar to the light layer of butter that had melted into the stack.
“Dartmouth for undergrad. NYU for law school.”
“Really?” She cut a small bite of pancake and almost groaned in ecstasy as the first fluffy taste of carbohydrates hit her tongue.
Walker kept his gaze level on hers as he reached for his coffee and took a large sip. “Just because I live here doesn’t mean I never wanted a chance to see something else.”
“That’s fine. I was only wondering. I’d have likely said the same thing if you were from California.”
“Not likely.”
Her eyes widened as his words registered. “I’m sorry?”
“You came here with a set of preconceived notions. Admit it.”
“I did not.”
Even as she defended her comments, Sloan could admit he had a point. While she wasn’t one of those people who believed anyone outside Manhattan couldn’t possibly be interesting, she also didn’t expect to come to Alaska to drink Rothschild, look at a Chihuly and flirt with a Dartmouth grad.
Which didn’t make her a snob, damn it.
“Sure you did. It’s okay. We get it all the time.”
“If you’d pull that prickly stick out of your ass, you’d see that I was simply making conversation.”
Coughing around a bite of bacon, Walker let out a belated chuckle. “Prickly stick?”
“Sure. You’ve got a few preconceived notions yourself. About my expectations and the fact I’m a city girl and all.”
Walker leaned forward, his broad shoulders taking up her entire field of vision, just as they had the evening before. Fascinated, she couldn’t help the quick peek she gave them—measuring their width with her eyes—before turning her gaze back to him.
He was so large. So imposing. So undeniably male. Talk about a strong sexual presence. She tried to refocus her scattered thoughts.
“Are you going to make me change my preconceived notions, Blondie?”
“You don’t think I can?”
“Are you signing up for the competition?”
Dropping back against the padded vinyl of the seat, Sloan let out a small groan at how neatly he had boxed her in. “Are you back to that? Why do you care so much?”
“I think it’ll be good research.”
“Or a raging humiliation.” Where the hell did that come from? Sloan wanted to slink down lower in the booth as he keyed in on her slip.
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m not scared. Not exactly.”
“It sounds like it.”
“If there’s any fear, it’s fear of humiliation.”
He kept his gaze on his plate, forking up his last bite of pancake, but Sloan didn’t miss the speculation in his tone. “It’s all done in fun.”
“Fun for who? Because it doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun to drag heavy pails of water down Main Street.”
“We don’t make you go very far.”
“We?”
“I meant the collective we,” Walker said, pointing his fork outward. “As in the town.”
“Well, then. From the collective we, I hear, there’s a dinner dance and bachelor auction after all this not-so-horribly-difficult set of tasks. Are you participating?”
“I’ll be there to support my grandmother, but I don’t go on the auction block.”
“Oh no?”
“No.”
Sloan didn’t miss the hard edge to his words. “So who does participate?”
Walker�
�s gaze followed the same path as his fork, skipping around the room. “The guys. Bear. Skate. Tommy Sanger. Chuck Bartlett. Pretty much that entire row of booths back there.”
The urge to turn around was strong, but Sloan kept her attention on Walker. “Not afraid of a little competition, are you?”
“I don’t go on the block. It’s a matter of principle.”
“A lawyer with principles?”
“Damn good ones, too,” he growled into the top of his coffee cup.
“Are you embarrassed, Counselor?”
“It’s undignified.”
Her mouth fell open at his pronouncement. “This from a man who thinks it’s all right to compete in bachelorette events up and down Main Street.”
“It’s not the same. It’s not your grandmother watching the proceedings like a hawk.”
With an unladylike snort, she reached for her coffee cup. “I’d pit my mother against your grandmother any day.”
Sloan didn’t even realize the import of her words until Walker’s dark chocolate gaze turned assessing. “Would you, now?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t you know, dahling”—Sloan dropped her voice to a mock whisper—“it’s simply scandalous that Winifred McKinley’s daughter is still single. An absolute horror.”
“And what would Winifred McKinley think about her daughter competing in something as crass as a bachelorette competition?”
Sloan forked up another bite of pancakes. She’d already sinned for the day—might as well enjoy every last, delicious bite. “She’d be mortified.”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
The dare hung between them, like a live wire sparking in a puddle.
Sloan had never used her mother’s behavior as a catalyst for her own, but in that moment, the thought of doing something so outside the bounds of propriety suddenly seemed like a very good idea.
Inspired, actually.
Sort of like the pancakes, only better.
More delicious.
More sinful.
As her gaze roamed over Walker Montgomery, she realized something else. While there were implications to her behavior in front of Scarsdale’s elite, no one here knew her.
Or cared about her background. Or, frankly, cared about her future. They just seemed pleased she was here now.
Oddly enough, she suddenly realized, that made all the difference.
“Tell you what, Counselor. If you’re in, I’m in.”
Aside from the fact that Mick would brand him a traitor to the cause and that his grandmother would think she’d finally won in their annual battle of wills, Walker considered the challenge.
Maybe it was the sleepless night, courtesy of Blondie here.
Or maybe it was finding Bear sitting opposite her with damn cupids floating in his fucking eyes that set him off.
Either way, something deep down inside him—something primal—had him unwilling to leave her exposed to the rest of the men in this town, all of whom were eyeing her like a brand-new Zamboni for the town rink.
A bright, shiny Zamboni with a heartbreaking smile, warm blue eyes and truly superior breasts.
And that, my friends, was the sign of a man completely losing it.
That he’d dare compare the woman to a Zamboni was bad enough. That she’d torqued him up so much he was willing to concede to his grandmother . . .
Well, fuck.
“I’m in.”
Those blue eyes widened at his words. “That’s it? You’re in?”
“It’s relatively simple. In or out.”
“For someone who’s pushed back on this annual tradition for so long, you’re awfully quick to concede.”
“Maybe I’ve just never seen such healthy competition before.” Or a reason to jump in with both feet.
One perfect eyebrow rose above that cool blue gaze. “You already said the women don’t compete with the men. They compete with one another.”
“Yes.” Walker leaned back in his chair, unable to keep the satisfied smile from his face. “You’re all competing for me.”
Although he’d always had a fairly healthy ego, even he wasn’t smug enough to think that wasn’t going to get a rise out of her. Which is why her burst of laughter—loud and husky and so damned sexy that his body went on red alert—shocked him.
“Well, there’s one stereotype I got right.”
“What’s that?”
“The ‘I’m man enough to live in the wilderness and nothing can touch me’ stereotype. Rugged, wild and God’s gift to women, despite long stretches without bathing or general grooming.”
“Hey. I showered this morning. And so did the guys back there.” Walker shot a look toward the back of the restaurant, satisfied to see that everyone looked reasonably clean. “Well. Most of them, anyway.”
“Yep. Ego and long stretches of loneliness are a dangerous combination.”
“I’m not lonely.” And he wasn’t. He could find female companionship when he wanted it. He lived life on his terms. He was happy.
And damn it, he wasn’t lonely.
The laughter had stopped, leaving in its wake a broad smile that lit up her face. “Then you make up for it with ego.”
Walker couldn’t resist smiling back. “You have that right.”
Their waitress arrived, putting down the check. He reached for it automatically, causing another raise of those sleek eyebrows.
“I’m here for research. I can get it.”
“You were here to eat. With me. So I’ve got it.”
“Walker.” She extended a hand. “I don’t want to make a stupid deal out of this, but I am working.”
He already had the cash out of his pocket and the bill back to their waitress before Sloan could protest any further. “So come on then and work. I’ll give you the downtown tour. I need to walk off these pancakes.”
Without waiting for her to agree or disagree, he stood and shrugged into his coat, then held hers out to her. “I see you remedied your coat situation.”
“Just this morning. Sandy was more than happy to oblige.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. Did she rake you over the coals?”
“It’s a price I paid willingly.”
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Sucker!”
Even as the word lingered between them, Walker knew the moniker was far more applicable to him.
Sloan ignored him and pulled her hair from where it was stuck in her collar, the long fall of blond drawing his attention like a compass to true north. Mouth dry, he struggled for some response that wouldn’t give away how thoroughly she affected him.
And as they stepped out onto Main Street a few minutes later, he was still trying to come up with something.
Chapter Seven
“Tour” wasn’t really the right word, Sloan thought reflectively a half hour later as they passed a monument that stood at the far end of town. A love letter would have been a better description of her walk through the town of Indigo with Walker Montgomery.
He’d guided her from one end of Main Street to the other pointing out landmarks, from where the town’s most ardent moose liked to come cozy up while looking for love, to the place he, Mick and Roman got drunk (and sick) for the first time.
It was interesting, she mused, as they neared the far end of town, how much pride she could hear in his voice when he spoke of these things.
He loved living here. Really, truly loved it.
“What’s the monument for?”
She expected him to say it was a war memorial and yet again, had to change her expectations at the answer.
“Love.”
“Really?”
“The grandmothers commissioned it.”
“An entire monument?” Sloan had to tilt her head back to see the top of it. Who did that?
“Julia’s husband died when she was only thirty-six.”
Pulling her gaze away from the top, she turned toward him. “Losing a spouse at any age would be hard, but to lose someone that yo
ung—it must have had a huge impact on her.”
Walker nodded and an unexpected softness tinged the hard edges of his jaw as his mouth curved into a slight smile. “It had a huge impact on all three of them.”
Sloan moved forward to look at the monument, glancing over her shoulder as her boots crunched on the snow. “Is that where the competition came from?”
“In part. They wanted a celebration to kick off the unveiling of the monument. And at that celebration, my mother and father hooked up after the dinner and dance that was tied to the festivities.”
“So you’ve got quite a legacy to live up to.”
“At times.”
As she walked around the base of the monument, she couldn’t stop the warmth that filled her as she observed the smooth lines and curves of the granite. Again, another assumption blown to bits. She’d seen the monument from a distance and immediately thought it was a war memorial.
And instead it was the antithesis.
The monument suggested a man and a woman wrapped around each other, even though it was more an abstract sense of movement than two clearly defined bodies. Long, curving lines matched with hard-edged corners. A sensual feast chiseled out of one of the most unyielding substances on earth.
As she simply stood and soaked in the sensuality the piece evoked, she wondered if she was as unyielding as the granite that arched before her. How could she have—even for one moment—thought it was a war memorial?
It was yet another testament to assumptive thought and a stubborn close-mindedness that seemed to have gripped her since stepping off the train the evening before.
“Do you like it?” Walker’s breath puffed out in front of him, the husky timbre of his voice magnified by the biting cold.
“It’s beautiful. And unexpected. Pretty much like everything else in this town.”
“You haven’t been here that long.”
“And hardly anything is what I thought it would be.”
“What were you expecting?” Sloan turned his words over in her mind, unable to decipher a lick of snark in them. He must have sensed the question in her gaze because he added, “And there’s no prickly stick in my ass prompting the question.”
