A Fairbanks Affair (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance, #3) Read online

  A

  FAIRBANKS

  AFFAIR

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  K A T Y R E G N E R Y

  A Fairbanks Affair

  Copyright © 2019 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery

  D2D Version

  Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher

  This book is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. References to real people or places are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com

  Cover Designer: Marianne Nowicki

  Developmental Edit: Tessa Shapcott

  Formatting: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  First Edition: December 2019

  A Fairbanks Affair: a novel / by Katy Regnery—1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-944810-50-4

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  ALSO AVAILABLE from Katy Regnery

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Autumn and Tree.

  I love you two.

  xoxo

  And for the lady at Ka-Fo,

  who said I could stay.

  Chapter 1

  Faye

  A FAIRBANKS AFFAIR

  Tall, dark, and single. 31.

  Clean, safe, and solvent.

  Seeking a discreet holiday companion

  for an intimate New Year’s weekend.

  Three nights. Two of us. One hotel room.

  Zero chance of love.

  All expenses paid for the chosen candidate.

  Please include photo with reply.

  It’s not that I look at the ad intentionally.

  No, no.

  Absolutely not.

  I am not the type of woman who skims the personals.

  Here is what happens:

  When I sit down in the waiting area of Dr. Lafferty’s office, a magazine is open on the loveseat beside me, and the word “Fairbanks” catches my eye. And only then, I’m sure, because my company is trying to buy North Star Spirits, the premiere distillery of northern Alaska, which is located in Fairbanks.

  When I realize that I’m looking at a personal ad, I snap my eyes up and forward, focusing on a poster about Invisalign.

  But while the minutes drag on, I find my eyes drawn back down to the words “A FAIRBANKS AFFAIR,” and eventually curiosity gets the better of me.

  Tall, dark, single. Thirty-one.

  I purse my lips and roll my eyes.

  Of course he is.

  Though I must admit, I appreciate that he swaps out the usual “handsome” for “single.” I certainly hope he’s single, seeing as how this is a personal ad, but I would think it presumptuous if he declared himself handsome. Also noteworthy? At thirty-one, he’s just a year older than me, which means I’m not the only person on the face of the planet about to spend the holidays alone.

  Clean, safe, and solvent.

  Interesting choice of words and information.

  By “clean” and “safe,” I assume he means to share that he’s free of disease and won’t physically harm the applicants, which is always a good thing when seeking a love interest.

  And “solvent” means, well...that he has money. Enough of it to be comfortable. Good for you, I think, giving him extra points for the correct use of an unusual word.

  Seeking a discreet holiday companion...

  Discreet.

  Why? I wonder.

  If he’s single, why does he require secrecy? Or maybe he means that he’s seeking someone mature and tactful? Or maybe—my imagination is running away with me a little now!—he’s famous and doesn’t want to draw unwanted attention? It’s a mystery.

  My eyes slip back to the text...

  ...for an intimate New Year’s Weekend.

  Intimate. I blink at the word. Oh my. It’s just so...bold. So brash and confident and yes, a little cheeky too. He’s placed this personal ad to find someone—a stranger—willing to be intimate with him for a weekend. He’s essentially seeking an anonymous sex partner, right? My skin prickles. Why wouldn’t he pay for such services if he requires them? Wouldn’t that be easier? But maybe, I think, my inner voice breathless, not as much fun.

  Three nights. Two of us. One hotel room.

  Well, if the previous line didn’t spell out his intentions, this one certainly does.

  My cheeks flare with heat, and I clear my throat, glancing around the dentist’s office waiting room like I’ve been caught doing something naughty, which is a laugh, because I haven’t done something naughty in...in...Lord, I can’t actually remember the last time I threw caution to the wind! And certainly I can’t remember a time I’ve ever spent three nights in a hotel room with a strange single man. Likely because you’ve never found yourself in a situation even remotely similar, Faye. The simple fact is this: I’ve never spent a night with any man, anywhere, at any time.

  Zero chance of love.

  “But why?”

  The whispered words escape my lips in a rush, without permission.

  “Excuse me?” I look up to find the receptionist eyeing me, one eyebrow raised. “Did you say something?”

  “Oh!” I say with a soft, self-conscious chuckle. “I’m just...no, nothing. I was just...reading.”

  She smiles back. “It’ll only be another minute or two, Ms. Findley. Sorry for the wait.”

  “No worries.”

  I wait until she’s concentrating on her computer screen again, then slide my eyes back to the ad, staring at the words “Zero chance of love” for a long moment, fascinated that he’s so forthcoming and so final. How can he know there’s zero chance of love? Because he doesn’t want it? Or because he’s immune to it? Maybe he thinks he’s not worthy of it? Or perhaps he’s just monumentally busy and doesn’t have time—at this point in his life—to nurture attraction into love?

  For reasons I cannot begin to explain, it makes me terribly sad.

  I certainly haven’t had much luck with love over my three decades on earth, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. I’d like to think there’s still a chance for me to find love, even if it isn’t an epic, heart-pounding, life-changing love. At this point, I think I could be happy with someone kind and understanding, who wanted to build a partnership together. Maybe even someone who could be happy with gender roles reversed; I would happily make the money if he would do the shopping and make dinner, take care of our home, and plan social events for us to attend. Doesn’t someone like that exist? He’s got to be out there—someone bright and sweet: a good, strong man who isn’t intimidated by a successful woman.

  “Ms. Findley? Dr. Lafferty will see you now,” announces the receptionist. “Exam room four, please.”

  “Oh!” I chirp, startled out of my runaway thoughts. “Yes. Thank you.”

  I stand up then freeze, glancing back down at the ad and feeling a connection to it, however surprisi
ng and unlikely. It’s not for me to answer it, of course, but I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Fairbanks will find a discreet woman to be his New Year’s companion and, if so, how she will comply with his ultimatum about love.

  “Ms. Findley? They’re ready.”

  “Yes! Sorry.”

  I start walking toward the door that leads back to Dr. Lafferty’s exam rooms, then turn around and hurry back to the loveseat. Without thinking, I snatch up the magazine and jam it into the murky depths of my enormous purse, then continue on to exam room four.

  “Good morning, Ms. Findley,” greets a chipper dental hygienist.

  “Hello,” I say, holding my purse close like I’ve shoved a rare Ming vase into it and don’t want to be caught red-handed.

  “You can put your bag on the chair,” she says. “Dr. Lafferty will be with you in a moment to numb things up, and then we’ll get started.”

  “How long will this take?” I ask, zipping the top of my purse closed before taking a seat in the dental chair.

  “Looks like we have...two cavities? Hmm. Well, ten to fifteen minutes for the Novocain. Thirty minutes for each filling. Then a little filing. Maybe ninety minutes all together?”

  “I have an important meeting at one,” I tell her as she clips a bib around my neck.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” she tells me.

  Cheerful Christmas music is piped into the room, and “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” starts as Dr. Lafferty enters the room.

  “Faye! Good to see you!”

  Is it me, or do dentists try too hard to be cheerful? I really don’t want to be here, and we both know it. Cut it out with the holly jolly hello, and let’s get on with the stabbing and drilling.

  “Happy holidays, Dr. Lafferty.”

  “And to you!” He opens a file. “Two cavities today, eh?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Let’s see what’s going on here.” As I lean back and open wide, he rubs a Q-tip on my gums. “We’ll give that a second. It’s a topical anesthetic.” He smiles at me. “So...what’s new? Any big holiday plans?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Harry’s coming home, right?”

  He’s referring to my younger sister, Harriet, who is ten years my junior and also his patient. Harry’s a junior at Cornell University in Upstate New York, about a six-hour drive from where I live in Newton, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston. Not that it really matters where she goes to school or where I live, because she won’t be in either place for Christmas or New Year’s.

  “Um. No,” I say. “Actually, she was invited to Vail with a friend for winter break. So she’ll be heading out to Colorado on Friday.”

  “But surely...” he begins, then closes his mouth and gives me a sad smile. “I guess I just assumed you ladies would spend the holidays together.”

  “Not this year,” I say softly.

  My feelings were a little hurt when Harriet chose friends over me for Christmas and New Year’s, but I can’t blame her. The reality is that she’ll have a much better time with her friends. As she pointed out, last Christmas, we slept in, opened presents, and had lunch at my country club, after which I went up to my study to work while she hung out alone in the TV room watching Christmas movies. I’m sorry it ended up that way, but one of our major champagne suppliers had a transportation issue that could have precluded them from getting a massive shipment to California in time for New Year’s. I needed to iron it out or risk the reputation of my family’s company. I just wish Harry could have tried harder to understand.

  “I remember the last Christmas your parents were alive,” he says, his voice gentle. “They were great people, Dave and Margaret.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, swallowing over a small lump in my throat. Their memory is bittersweet.

  My parents died eight years ago when their private plane hit stormy weather between Nantucket and Manhattan, leaving me—just twenty-two at the time—the guardian and caregiver of my twelve-year-old sister. Because I was in grad school and didn’t feel I had the luxury of dropping out to be a full-time parent—especially since the future of Findley Imports rested on my young shoulders—I enrolled Harriet at Deerfield Academy, from which both my father and I matriculated.

  “I guess you’re ready for that shot now,” says Dr. Lafferty. I open my mouth, and he sticks his gloved hands inside to give me the Novocain injection. “So how will you spend Christmas this year, Faye?”

  “Uhhhh.” I wince at the weird sensation of Novocain spreading out along my gums. “I a-n’t de-ci d yeh.”

  “Haven’t decided yet, eh?”

  It’s remarkable to me that dentists understand garbling so well. It really is a skill.

  “Well, I guess you’ve still got a week or so to figure it out.” He rubs my gums to spread the analgesic. “I watched a great show on the Travel Channel recently...all about Christmas festivals around the world. There’s one in Hyde Park I’d love to see sometime.”

  “Im Lon-non o-ah New Yor?”

  “London. And of course in Germany, they’ve got a Christkindlmarkt in just about every city. I didn’t know, but Budapest has an enormous festival, as well.” He gestures to his assistant. “She’s ready. Let’s get started.”

  I stare up at the bright light over the dental chair as various instruments slide in and out of my mouth. A Christmas festival. Hmm. That’s not such a bad idea.

  Our offices are closed from December 24 to 26 and again from December 31 to January 2, and I haven’t taken a vacation in four years. While Harry’s and my Christmases aren’t super exciting, I always looked forward to having her home for a week. Being alone in my big, old house over Christmas and New Year’s sounds like Miss Havisham–levels of depressing.

  “In Finland, there’s a place called Santa Claus Village,” Dr. Lafferty continues. “Beautiful spot.”

  “Im app-ann?”

  “Uh-huh. In Lapland,” he answers, the whirr of the drill strangely soothing when it isn’t accompanied by pain. “That looked pretty cool. Ha ha. Literally. Snowy Nordic weather, you know? Moose. Reindeer.”

  I close my eyes as he drills and fills, thinking about the last time I was in Finland, just a few months ago. It was to visit distilleries, however, not Santa Claus.

  I’ve spent a good deal of time in Scandinavia, where some of the best vodkas in the world are made. I like Copenhagen and Stockholm especially, and I briefly consider the option of spending Christmas in either, though the thought leaves me feeling figuratively—well, and literally, I guess—cold. I don’t speak Danish or Swedish very well, and all my contacts in both cities are business-related, not personal friends who might include me in their holiday celebrations.

  “Speaking of cold places, did you know there’s a town in Alaska called North Pole? Yep. Adorable. They do a whole festival there called ‘Christmas in Ice.’ The northern lights. Santa’s house. Ha ha. Cute for the kids, I guess.”

  He packs some composite on the now-cleaned cavity, then uses an ultraviolet light to harden the polymer while I sit back and think about this.

  No, I didn’t know there was a place in Alaska called North Pole, but I’m unaccountably intrigued.

  “Oo oo oh whe-ah it is?”

  “North Pole, Alaska? Yes, I do. About twenty minutes south of Fairbanks.” Again, Dr. Lafferty has mad skills with the garbling. It’s uncanny.

  Twenty minutes south of...Fairbanks.

  Hmm. Is it just me, or do all roads point to Fairbanks today?

  Fairbanks, of North Star Distillery and North Pole fame, is also the home of a certain bachelor seeking holiday companionship.

  How about Christmas in the North Pole and New Year’s in Fairbanks?

  The question slides through my mind like the slow-motion replay of a puck sliding across the ice, and I watch the letters appear one after the other, until the question is crystal clear and lingers, like the light of a camera flash, in my mind.

  As Dr. Lafferty preps the second cavit
y for filling, the following internal conversation ensues:

  No. I couldn’t.

  Why not?

  Because...I’m not that sort of woman.

  The sort who has sex with strangers?

  The sort who has sex with...anyone.

  But perhaps, my insistent mind continues, this could be a chance to remedy that.

  Virginity is not a disease, I fire back. It doesn’t require a goddamned remedy!

  My mind lets the dust settle before asking,

  Are you sure about that?

  “How does that feel?” asks Dr. Lafferty. “Any pain?”

  I’ve been so consumed with my thoughts, I’ve ignored everything else going on around me, but now I snap out of it.

  “None,” I manage through numbed lips.

  “Terrific,” he answers. “I’m just going to do a little smoothing and you’ll be good to go.”

  “Perfect.”

  “The next time you come in,” says Dr. Lafferty with a warm smile, “you’ll have to let me know what you decided to do.”

  “To do?” I ask, horrified that he’s somehow overheard my conversation with myself.

  “For the holidays,” he says. “And when you talk to her, please give Harry my very best.”

  ***

  “Dr. Lafferty sends his best.”

  “Who? The dentist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um...great. I guess.”

  I’m sitting on the loveseat in my bedroom, talking to my little sister on the phone, a glass of very good red wine in my other hand. Chatting with Harriet has always been a struggle for me—never organic like with sisters in movies or on TV, who never have enough time to say everything and can’t wait to catch up with one another.

  Our parents had only intended to have one child: me. When my mother discovered she was pregnant with Harriet at forty-six years old, it was a tremendous shock, though one my parents received with gratitude and instant love.

  At first, I resented my little sister, annoyed to have to share my parents after having them all to myself for so long. But honestly, the age difference, a full decade, was so significant, I needn’t have worried. In a weird way, we were both like only children. Sibling rivalry was almost impossible.