Nome-o Seeks Juliet (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance, #2) Read online

  Now I’m embarrassed that I fantasized about us opening a practice together someday or volunteering at the Iditarod together. I feel dirty when I remember the handful of times I slept with him. A twenty-four-year-old student sleeping with her forty-something college professor. What a fucking cliché.

  “I’m really sorry, Jules,” says Silvia. “I know that girl Candace. She’s a total slut.”

  “Not exactly front-page news, Sil.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Her eyes are sympathetic. “So you told him that you were returning the grant?”

  “Nope.” I’m sitting at my desk, and Silvia is sitting on my bed with a bag of chips. I turn around to face her, bracing myself for her reaction. “Stay calm, but...I need your magazine. The Odds Are Good.”

  Chips go everywhere as she throws the bag into the air.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! You’re going to do it! You’re going to write back to Nome-o?”

  She runs out of my room, and I hear her racing around our small apartment to find her laptop bag, and there is actually a part of me scared that she’ll bang into a wall or pole, like a cartoon character and flatten the entire front side of her body before sliding to the floor. She doesn’t. She returns to my room holding the worn magazine like a trophy.

  “What are you going to say?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But can you vacuum up the chips?”

  “Who cares about chips?” she says, opening the magazine to Nome-o’s ad and placing it on my desk. She resumes her seat on my bed, her voice going all dreamy as she lies back on my pillow. “Are you going to send a picture? Play up your part as a damsel in distress?”

  Um, no.

  “I was thinking I’d just be honest,” I say with a light shrug. “Tell him I’m a vet student who has a grant and needs a subject. See if he’s interested in being that subject.”

  “Um. No,” Silvia says, blinking at me in disapproval. “He’s searching for a partner, Juliet. He’s not asking to be studied.”

  “Okay. Fine. What’s your advice?”

  “He’s pretty clear about what he wants, Juliet. I think you should say you want to race.”

  Silvia’s cat, Emilio, walks into my bedroom and bunts my legs, marking me with the scent glands in his cheeks.

  “Hey, beautiful boy,” I say, reaching down to pick him up. His purring intensifies, and he licks the back of my hand with his scratchy tongue.

  Cats and dogs are so easy to understand, I think for the millionth time of my life. Bunting, purring, and grooming? A cat showing love. Wagging, whining, and licking? A dog showing love. How come it’s so much harder to read humans?

  “He’s going to miss you,” says Silvia, reaching for her baby. “Come here, Emilio. Momma’s here. Only mean, old Juliet is leaving you.”

  I transfer the rescue tabby to my bed, and he curls up next to Silvia, still purring, with his eyes at half-mast. She strokes him absently as she purses her lips in thought.

  “You can’t write that stuff about him being your subject,” she says. “If you want him to choose you, you have to be what he wants. You can come clean later...after he chooses you.”

  “That’s dishonest.”

  She sighs, exasperated. “It’s a little white lie.”

  “It’s a big, dark-gray lie.”

  “Not necessarily,” she says, her eyes all wide and innocent. “Change your study a little. Learn to race and the study can be about the relationship you form with the dogs.”

  Interesting. It’s not a bad angle, actually, but I’d definitely be switching gears.

  “I’m not in shape to race,” I say, considering it, but unconvinced it’s a good idea.

  “You swim,” says Silvia.

  “Only three times a week and mostly for relaxation.”

  “Will you just trust me? If you want this to work,” she says, sitting up, and using a no-nonsense tone, “you need to do it my way.”

  “Fine,” I say, because—let’s face it—I do need this to work. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “Yes!” She jumps off the bed and pushes at my shoulder. “Get up! Let me sit down and work my magic!”

  I stand behind her as she cracks her knuckles and gets started.

  “Dear Nome-o,” she types. “Meet your Juliet...”

  Chapter 2

  Cody

  Dear Nome-o,

  Meet your Juliet.

  No, really.

  My name is actually Juliet.

  I’m originally from Montana, where my father is a veterinarian, and for the record, I love dogs.

  I’m really intrigued by your ad and would love to know if you’re still looking for a woman to race with you. If so, I’m twenty-four years old, in decent shape, and seeking adventure – I think we could be a good team. That said, I don’t know very much about sled dog racing, so I’ll need to take you up on the training. I can be in Nome by September 30.

  Can you also offer a place to stay during training? Or make a recommendation for an inexpensive place nearby?

  I’m glad you placed the ad.

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  Juliet Sanderson

  Missoula, Montana

  I read the email through, and then start at the top and read it through again.

  It’s almost too good to be true.

  Unlike a few of the other responses I’ve received, this one includes punctuation, which is a plus. And instead of talking ad nauseam of herself, she speaks specifically to the important points of my ad: She likes dogs. She’s young and fit. She’s interested in racing and ready to be trained. An additional bonus? She mentions nothing about love or romance. Thank God, because a few responses seemed a little confused—like they didn’t notice I’d placed the ad under classifieds and not personals.

  I think I’ve found a winner...and just in the nick of time. The entry form for the Qimmiq Mixed Doubles 200 is due this weekend.

  “Wanna ‘nother, hon?”

  I look up at Rita Beaudoin, the owner and bartender of the Klondike Tap Room. “Yes, please.”

  She grabs an Alaskan Husky from the fridge under the bar and pops off the cap. “Here ya go.”

  “Thanks, Rita.”

  “You’re welcome, Cody,” she says. It’s early at the Klondike, and most of the regulars haven’t shown up yet. She flattens her hands on the bar and leans forward a little. “What’s gotcha buried on your phone, there?”

  “I think I found a partner for the Qimmiq,” I say, raising the bottle to my lips and letting the high-octane IPA slide down my throat.

  “That right?” she asks. Rita’s eyes and hair are dark, like most indigenous folks from Yupik, and if you listen carefully, you can tell from a slight accent that English isn’t her first language.

  “Maybe.”

  “Almost missed the deadline.” Her eyes slide to the flyer hanging on the bulletin board across from the bar. “Looks like you found her just in time.”

  “Found who?” Rita’s husband, Jonas, sits down on a barstool beside me. “Evening, Cody.”

  “Hi, Jonas.”

  “You fixed up that bear cub, Dr. Beaudoin?” asks Rita, opening another bottle of Husky and setting it down in front of her husband.

  Jonas, who co-owns the Klondike with Rita, is also the local veterinarian. He shakes his head. “Nope. Both front legs were broken. Had to put her down.” He sighs. “Damn these drunk drivers.”

  “That’s a real shame,” says Rita, grimacing for a moment before moving down the bar to help another customer.

  I don’t say anything, but it hurts like hell to hear this exchange. I can’t stomach stories about animals suffering or in pain. In fact, I keep my military-issued sidearm in the glove compartment of my truck just for such mercies.

  “So, Cody,” says Jonas, turning to me, “who’d you find?”

  I’m still thinking about that cub. “Sorry?”

  “Who’d you find just in time?”

  “Oh.” My chee
ks flare with heat, not because I found a racing partner, but because of the way I found her. Lord help me if any of my fellow mushers find out that I placed an ad in The Odds Are Good. Classified or not, I’ll never live it down. “Um, a girl. For the Qimmiq.”

  “Ah-ha! Good for you, son!”

  The Qimmiq, in its inaugural year, is trying to promote dog sled racing in a new way: as a co-ed team sport. Every team must have two members—one male and one female.

  Fun fact: Dog sled racing is already popular with women racers, who often make up 25–30 percent of a race-entry roster, but this race will boast a guaranteed 50 percent female participation rate, the highest on the Iditarod qualifying circuit.

  “So,” says Jonas, “who’d you get? Brenda Briggs? Jessie Ungalaaq?”

  “Juliet Sanderson.”

  “Never heard of her,” he says. “Where’s she from?”

  “Lower Forty-Eight.”

  “Wisconsin? Maine?”

  “Montana.”

  “Eh. Race to the Sky country.”

  “Her father’s a vet in Missoula.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sanderson.”

  “Sure. Right,” says Jonas. “Rings a bell...but I don’t think I know him.”

  I shrug, taking another sip of my beer.

  Because I only have five fingers—my thumb and pinkie on my right hand, and my middle, ring, and pinkie fingers on my left—I have to use both palms to lift and hold the bottle, but Jonas doesn’t look at me funny. Nor does Rita, for that matter. Neither of them bothers me about my mangled hands and missing fingers. It’s part of the reason I like Rita and Jonas so much: because they don’t make me feel like a freak.

  “So...Juliet, huh? I guess that makes you Romeo?”

  Placing that ad was a last resort for me and using a stupid play on words like “Nome-o,” to be eye-catching, makes me blush with embarrassment, but finding Juliet—if she’s qualified to train with me—will make the whole thing worthwhile.

  “I’m no Romeo,” I mutter, setting down my beer.

  “You’re tough on yourself, son,” says Jonas.

  I rest my hands on the bar, the three fingers of one hand resting on the back of the other. It makes my hands less conspicuous that way.

  “I know who I am,” I say softly. And how I look.

  “Someone who got dealt a rough blow.”

  I was drunk the night I told Jonas my sob story. That was four years ago. I haven’t been drunk since.

  “I need you to come out and look at Topeka sometime,” I say, changing the subject. “I think something’s wrong with her right hock.”

  “Sure thing,” says Jonas. “What’s your guess?”

  “Sprain,” I say, “but I’d like to be sure nothing’s torn.”

  “How much is she favoring the left leg?”

  “Some.”

  The door to the Klondike opens, and a group of men step inside the bar. They’re unfamiliar to me, and since Nome is such a small town, that means they’re probably not from here. It’s possible they’re gold dredgers or guys from a tanker in port to refuel, but either way, it’s my cue to head home. I grab my cap from the bar and mash it onto my head, then slide off the barstool.

  “Hey. Stay a bit,” says Jonas, glancing at the men. “They won’t bother us none.”

  “Got to get back to my dogs anyway.”

  I pull my wallet from my coat pocket with my three fingers, steady it between my thumb and pinkie, and pull out a twenty. All of this takes a lot longer than it once did, and I’m trying to move fast, which makes me careless. I drop the wallet on the floor.

  “Let me help,” says Jonas, hopping off his stool.

  “No,” I growl, frustrated with myself and maybe even a little bit with him for trying to help when I hate feeling helpless. “I got it.”

  I reach down and scoop it up with both hands, clumsily shoving it back in my pocket.

  “Rita’ll get you change.”

  “I’ll get it next time,” I say, hiding my hands in my coat pockets. Now that they’re out of sight, my ugly claws, I feel calmer. I even exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  “Hey,” says Jonas, his eyes kind, his voice level. “How about Thursday for me to come out and see Topeka?”

  I glance at the group of men, who’ve taken over two high top tables at the front of the bar. They’re rowdy. Celebratory. I don’t begrudge them whatever good thing is going right in their lives. I remember being young.

  I also remember being able to make a fist.

  “I’d appreciate it, Jonas,” I say. “See you Thursday.”

  “Sure, Cody. See you Thurs...”

  I’m out the door and back to the safety of my truck before anyone can touch me.

  ***

  Fun fact: You may start the Iditarod in Wasilla with a maximum of sixteen dogs or a minimum of twelve. No more may be added during the race. And you must cross the finish line in Nome with a minimum of five dogs.

  I have nineteen.

  Dover, Boston, Juneau, Phoenix, Denver, Augusta, Jackson, Helena, Concord, Bismarck, Salem, Providence, Nashville, Olympia, Cheyenne, Raleigh, Austin, and Topeka are sled dogs.

  Viola, a Siberian husky–German shepherd mix, is a retired sled dog and my best friend.

  You’d think, with that many dogs, that maybe I wouldn’t know each one very well—that the fact that Olympia needs extra behind-the-ear scratches, or Phoenix likes her meat in frozen strips, or Topeka’s favoring one leg over another wouldn’t catch my attention. But these dogs are my teammates, my friends, and my family.

  I love every one of them.

  And not one of them gives a shit that I have five fingers on two hands.

  That’s the thing about animals: they’ve got their priorities in order. They know what’s important—ear scratches, food, doctoring—and what’s not. Ten times out of ten I’d choose a dog over most humans I know, and that’s the truth.

  Except...in this particular instance...I need a human.

  Of the female variety.

  And Lord help me, I don’t want to fuck this up. I messed up my dates and missed the entry deadlines on two other races. The female racers I know picked the best male racers in Alaska to be their teammates, and I’m still considered a rookie. I need to make this work with Juliet Sanderson from Missoula, Montana. Why? Because if I don’t enter and finish the Qimmiq, I won’t qualify for the Iditarod.

  And frankly, the most important goal in my life is running the Iditarod in 2020. It’s all I’ve been living for these past five years. I’ve been training hard with my dogs and gradually upping my races from one-hundred- to three-hundred-mile stretches in preparation for the big one-thousand-mile show.

  Poetically speaking, the Iditarod is the sun in my universe, and I’m one small planet circling its glory.

  With Viola curled up on the bed beside me, I open up my laptop, click on my mail program and begin the long and painstaking process of typing out a complete message via chicken scratch.

  Dear Juliet:

  Thank you for your response.

  I’m glad you like dogs.

  I can teach you how to race.

  We need to get started soon.

  The race is called the Qimmiq, it takes place in Jan, and it’s co-ed.

  We race separately; scores are averaged.

  I need for us to finish so I can qualify for the Iditarod.

  I hope you will take all of this as seriously as I do.

  As for a place to stay...

  My fingers hover over the keyboard.

  A place to stay.

  Here’s the thing: I could find her a place to stay in town, of course. There are people who’ll rent a room. But one, I really don’t want anyone in my business, and two, what if she decides she doesn’t like staying in town and leaves? If she’s staying here, with me, I can do whatever it takes to be sure she’s comfortable.

  I clear my throat, then reach up and rub the beard on my
chin.

  Comfortable. Hmm.

  Glancing up from my laptop, I slide my eyes around my bedroom, taking it in, trying to look at it, and the rest of my home, from a stranger’s po—no, a strange woman’s point of view. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Houston, we may have a problem...

  I bought this land almost ten years ago. A mile north of downtown Nome, I wanted plenty of space to myself where I wouldn’t be bothered, where I could live quietly, where I could start over. Once I found the lot I wanted, the rest was easy—the same day I found it, I bought it with cash taken right out of my savings and handed over to the seller.

  My house—a modular, two-bedroom, log cabin/chalet-style home—took several months to design, several more months to build in Oregon, another month being shipped to Nome, and another month of actual construction here before I could move in.

  But it’s lasted me nine winters, and I’m gearing up for a tenth. It keeps the cold wind out and lets the sunshine in. This house may be small, but it’s my castle, my sanctuary, and the bones are as solid as they come.

  That said...

  It looks like a dump, I think, huffing softly.

  Viola lifts her head, and I grimace at her. Her ice-blue eyes scan my olive green.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I tell her. “Just sizing things up.”

  It’s been furnished with whatever I could find at church rummage sales, local tag sales, the pawn shop in town, and swap meets. Plus odds and ends purchased at AC’s, a local, overpriced, “everything” store, and via Amazon Prime over the years. It’s a mishmash of stuff in various styles, most heavily used before it found its way to me.

  My queen-sized bed, painted aqua blue? Rummage sale. The scuffed, faux-cherry nightstand missing a brass handle? Tag sale. The bright-green crystal lamp? Local pawn shop. Light-gray area rug with black and red stripes? A Prime Day bargain. The mustard-yellow velvet chair in the corner with a spring just starting to peek through the seat? Traded for lawn furniture I never used. There are no curtains on my windows, and I watch TV on my laptop. A lopsided 8 × 10 picture of me and my dogs finishing the Copper Basin 300 is the only decoration on one wall, and there’s nothing on the other.