Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“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.
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.”