“You should stop distracting me, then, so I can hurry up and feed them.” His gaze skates over my face, stalling on my mouth. I see raw curiosity, interest.
Is Tyler flirting, or is he this way with everyone? I don’t know him at all.
But a part of me admits that I want to.
I take my time with my medical checks to make sure they’re thorough while Tyler shifts to food preparation, examining the kettle he set up to melt snow for water and then hauling his weighty drop bag of food to his sled.
The dogs whine and bark as they watch him pour kibble into fourteen identical red bowls and mix it with chunks of meat and warm broth that he prepared in a cooler. Only when each dog has a bowl in front of it does Tyler step back and take a breath. The fur ruff that protected him from the harshest elements is frozen, caked with snow and ice.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted,” he admits. “I can’t wait to sleep.”
Which he’ll get to do soon, based on how all the dogs are inhaling their meals. With full stomachs and beds to rest, they can easily log eight hours without stirring. “Your team looks healthy.”
He nods, his shoulders sinking with relief as if he was anxiously waiting for me to declare that. “Good.”
The checkpoint is buzzing again as volunteers spill out from the communal hut.
“Skip must be almost here.” I do a poor job hiding my disdain. It’s time to wake up Terry, before I get stuck facing off with the old musher again.
“I was hoping it was Hatchett.”
“He’s not far behind.” I scribble my name in Tyler’s dog diary. “Go get some sleep.”
“I plan on it. As soon as I see the look on Hatchett’s face when he rolls in.” He grins as he collects the book from my grasp, our fingertips grazing in the exchange, stirring something inside me.
“I’m sure you’ll find it gratifying.” Harry was that kid who threw baseball bats across the base in a fit of frustration when he struck out. After how obnoxious he was in Rohn, a part of me wants to watch this showdown unfold, but then I’ll be stuck playing his sounding board, and I’m not choosing sides in this neighborly spat. “Have a good night.” I pull my gloves back on, savoring that lingering spark against my skin as I walk away, accepting that, despite our rocky introduction, I’m attracted to this guy.
“Hey!”
I turn back—too fast and too eager for my liking.
“For what it’s worth, I met Skip at the drawing banquet, and he’s a fucking idiot. I don’t doubt you made the right call.”
Another apology of sorts. And something I needed to hear Tyler say. Whether ingrained through my father or simply the way I am, my reputation as a veterinarian has always been important to me. To a fault sometimes.
The last dribs of our terrible first impressions of each other seem to be melting away in the frigid cold.
He watches me quietly, waiting for my response.
“Of course I did.” I walk away, not giving him a chance to ruin the moment.
Tyler’s soft chuckle follows me toward the tent.
And thoughts of him take up residence in my mind as my body sinks into a peaceful slumber.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An alarm pulls me from a deep sleep. It’s a soft, repetitive chime, like that of a watch.
At first, I ignore it, because staying burrowed in your sleeping bag and ignoring everything around you is the only way you can get a decent rest while working these checkpoints. People are always filtering in and out of tents and cabins, finding any little spot they can.
But the alarm continues to ding, and so I unfurl from my arctic cocoon to investigate.
And come face-to-face with Tyler.
He’s lying directly beside me on his back, our sleeping pads butted up against each other. His chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic wave as he sleeps soundlessly, tucked into his sleeping bag, oblivious to his alarm.
I went to sleep thinking about Tyler Brady, and now he’s lying here. I frown, wondering for a moment if I’m awake or dreaming. It’s like he materialized from my thoughts. But what the hell is he doing in this tent? The mushers have a tent where they can crash. This one is meant for the veterinarian volunteers.
Did no one direct him?
How long has he been here?
I push those questions aside as I study his form in the dull glow of the woodstove. His features are relaxed and innocent, his lips parted slightly. He peeled off his outer clothes and hung them on the line to melt and dry out, and then crawled into his sleeping bag in his base layer. The collar of his fitted moisture-wicking shirt frames a long, columnar neck, just below a sharply jutting Adam’s apple.