I could admire that face for hours, but Tyler has an alarm set, which means he wants to rise. He needs to rise to care for his dogs. And he’s not so much as twitching. I’ve always thought these competitive mushers are a crazy lot for what they put themselves through. After days of catching an hour here, an hour there, bundled and lying on straw among his dogs in the wilderness, his body has said no more.
I check my watch, and gasp when I see that it’s almost five a.m.
I should have been up hours ago. Why didn’t anyone wake me sooner? The flames in the stove are fading, no fresh logs added in some time, which means Pyro Terry hasn’t snuck in to cook us out. The air is on the cooler side, though still comfortable enough.
I hesitate for only a second before I whisper, “Tyler.”
He lets out a soft, guttural sound but otherwise doesn’t stir.
“Tyler.” I place a hand against his shoulder, his body firm and hot beneath my palm, and shake him gently.
He shifts, slipping his arm from deep within his sleeping bag. His fingers weave through mine to clasp my hand. He pulls my knuckles to his mouth.
I giggle, even as my stomach stirs with the feel of his lips against my skin. He must have slathered on ChapStick or Vaseline before he went to sleep because they’re soft and sticky and warm, and such a contrast to his bristly jaw.
A part of me isn’t in a rush to ruin this moment by waking him, but I know I have to.
I pull my hand from his grasp. Before I have the chance to call his name again, he’s rolling onto his side and reaching for me, his hand sliding over my hip, over my back, to collect a fistful of hair at my nape as his face burrows against mine. The softest murmur of “love you” escapes him, and then he’s pressing his lips to mine in a sleepy but intimate kiss that deepens by the second. His weight shifts onto me as he works to get closer, until I’m half pinned beneath him.
My heart races as I find myself responding.
He’s clearly used to reaching for someone in his sleep. At this moment, every physical inch of my body wants to be her.
But those words aren’t meant for me.
And when that truth registers in my head, I break free from the kiss and say loudly, “Tyler. It’s time to wake up.”
He stirs with a sharp inhale, as if startled awake by a dream. Or a nightmare.
Time in the cozy, dim tent seems to hang for several beats, both of us frozen, inches apart, staring into each other’s bewildered eyes, equally confused by the current situation but surely for distinct reasons. I feel the tension radiating through his body as he processes the reality he woke up in.
Finally, he releases me and rolls off, settling onto his back. “Christ,” he whispers under his breath, rubbing his palms over his unshaven face. With a quick tap of his finger, he quiets the alarm on his watch, and then sits up and looks around. “Where is everyone?” His voice is groggy and deep, his hair a wild mess.
“I don’t know.”
He stares at a spot on the tent wall for so long that I wonder if he fell asleep with his eyes open before leaning over to collect a piece of wood. “This needs another log,” he whispers, more to himself.
I admire the way his clingy shirt stretches over his cut arms and the web of muscle across his back. Not until he shuts the stove door do I ask, “What are you doing in this tent?”
He groans as he flops back, his arms stretching over his head. “Fucking Hatchett.”
Of course. I should have known it had something to do with his nemesis. “What did he do?”
“What didn’t that idiot do? I was asleep in the mushers’ tent for maybe two hours when he came stumbling in with his shit and dropped his sleeping pad right beside me so he could be close to the stove. He stepped on me, twice. Don’t even try to tell me that was accidental because I caught his smile the second time.”
I wince. These mushers bank on their twenty-four-hour rest to catch up on much-needed sleep so they can make it to the finish line.
“And then he jammed the stove with so much wood, he turned the tent into an oven. I was sweating so bad, I thought I’d have to strip down.”
My gaze flitters over his torso. Yes, that would have been terrible. “Are you sure it was Harry who did that?” Because it sounds like someone else I know.
“Yeah, I watched the prick do it. I went outside to cool off. Both literally and figuratively, because I was ready to choke him—” His jaw ticks with tension. “I ran into Terry, and he sent me in here. I couldn’t see who was in the bag next to me. I didn’t know it was you.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but no words come out.