Single in Sitka (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance Book 1) Read online

“I won’t print your words,” I say. A peace offering.

  “Thanks,” he says, “and I won’t sue you for libel.”

  “Wow,” I say, opening my door. “Pretty big threat for a friendly conversation. Now who’s suspicious?”

  “Have a good day, miss. Enjoy your time in Sitka.”

  I slip out of the door and slam it shut behind me, standing all alone as he drives away without looking back. And for no good reason at all, I feel like something potentially important just slipped through my cold, wet fingers.

  Chapter 4

  Luke

  A reporter?

  Dang it.

  I’m not authorized to talk about what’s been going on with the bears in Sitka, and we sure as heck can’t afford to lose the tourists by creating a panic.

  Lord, that’s just what I need: “Local State Trooper Destroys Sitka’s Cruise Revenue Blabbing about Bear Attacks.”

  I shake my head as I put my car in gear and head back to the training center.

  She better not print anything I said. It’s not like I actually have a lawyer lined up to deal with it if she does, but hopefully my threat scared her enough to shelve my comments.

  Bad judgment, Luke, I think, hitting the steering wheel and feeling frustrated with myself for speaking so freely. You got sidetracked by her bright eyes and snappy comments. You let your guard down.

  Boy, did I ever.

  But when I think about how I first saw her, leaning against the highway guardrail, hood snug around her head and shoulders shaking pitifully as the rain thundered down on her, my face softens. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing sandals—she looked so alone, so out of her element, I had to stop.

  I thoroughly expected to find a damsel in distress eager to avail herself of my assistance. What I found instead was a grouchy little smartass with a snotty nose and perky breasts that, frankly, were bordering on obscene in a wet T-shirt that clung to every curve.

  For the first time in a long, long time, I feel my body responding to the memory of those curves in a way it hasn’t since…since…hell, I don’t even know. But my blood’s all heading south except for where it’s flushing my cheeks, and my heart’s racing like a kid reeling in his first Chinook all by himself.

  Because of her? I wonder, remembering the dark-red lock of hair that had escaped from her hood and stuck to her cheek. A skinny, moody city girl crying on the side of the road for no good reason? A wily reporter with girl-next-door freckles on her nose who pretty much tricked me into talking to her? Is she my type?

  My stupid Neanderthal brain lingers on a metal image of her rain-soaked jacket molded to her breasts like a second skin, and I groan softly, shifting in my seat. I’m going to need a moment in the parking lot before heading inside.

  She can’t be my type, I tell myself. She’s not what I’m looking for. No way.

  My wife, Wendy, was short and brunette with some meat on her bones and a ready smile. She smelled like the fresh-baked cookies she made every day after school for our kids, but she could also set me on fire by stripping down to a mismatched pair of underthings. She was easygoing and kind, good natured and cheerful. In short, she had nothing in common with prickly Ms. Seattle Sentinel whatsoever.

  “She’s not my type,” I mutter, as though saying it aloud will somehow make it so.

  Tough luck, sucker, my aroused body replies, laughing at me.

  It’s hard to argue with biology, that’s for sure.

  When my phone buzzes in the console beside me, I’m grateful to have a respite from my own thoughts…well, until I see who it is.

  Bonnie.

  My Benedict Arnold of a sister, who wrote and placed that stupid, embarrassing personal ad my behalf. Yep. I’m still a little steamed about that.

  “What?” I grunt.

  “Hello to you too, big brother,” she says. “Having a good day?”

  Wasn’t bad, I think, before I found myself attending a danged wet T-shirt contest.

  “What’s up, Bonnie? My lunch break’s almost over.”

  “I found someone.”

  “Someone…?”

  “The ad I placed in the Odds Are Good. I found someone for you to go out with.”

  “Oh, for the love…”

  I’m about to tell Bonnie to forget it when I think about the encounter with Ms. Seattle Sentinel.

  Hmm.

  Maybe I do need to go out. Maybe I do need to meet someone.

  The way I was all hot and bothered today by a complete stranger? It tells me something. It tells me I’m more ready to start dating than I would have guessed. And when I get over the shock of that realization, I decide to go with it.

  “Okay,” I mutter.

  “First of all, you’re lonely. You need to—wait, what?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Choose someone and set it up. I’ll go out.”

  “On a date.”

  “Yes, on a dang date. What are we even talking about?”

  “I’m just…I’m a little thrown. You’ve been antidating since the first time I brought it up. You were a massive pain in the ass when I set up those two dates in the spring.”

  “Well, I guess I wasn’t ready yet.”

  “And now you are?”

  I shrug, grateful that talking to my sister has proved to be the perfect antidote to my body’s erstwhile condition. Feeling back to normal now, I open my door and step out of the car, grabbing my uniform jacket and hat from the passenger seat.

  “Not totally, but…yeah. Sort of. Enough.”

  “What changed?”

  “Nothing,” I say a little too quickly. “Just…a season for everything, right?”

  “And a time for every purpose under heaven,” she finishes, her voice a trifle wistful. “Mama loved Ecclesiastes.”

  “Yes, she did.” I slam the driver’s door with my hip as I shrug into my jacket. “So go ahead. Set me up on a date. Send me the details. I’m game.”

  “Sweet!” she cries. “Friday.”

  “Wait. Tomorrow night?” Does my sister ever take a breath? Why am I even surprised she had this all set up before I said yes?

  “Yep! Tomorrow night,” she says. “Send the kids over to me at six. I’ll give them dinner, and they can stay over. Meet her in the lobby of the Northstar at seven, okay?”

  “A hotel lobby?” I ask, fixing my hat on my head as I walk up to the front door of the training building. “Might that send the wrong message?”

  “She chose the place. Remember, she’s from out of town. Odds Are Good markets itself to women in the Lower Forty-Eight. My guess is that’s where she’s staying. Oh! And her name’s Amanda.”

  Amanda. Hmm. I like it. Traditional. Appealing. Not too fancy. Not too citified. Just a nice, sweet, steady girl. Amanda. Yep. I like it a lot.

  “Sounds good. Seven o’clock, right?”

  “Mm-hm. She’ll be sitting in the lobby, in front of the fireplace, wearing jeans and a white sweater.”

  Oh, man, this is getting real. My heart’s starting to race.

  “Got it. Amanda at the fireplace in white.”

  “Oh, my God! Is this actually happening? Luke, I’m so excited for you!” says my sister, her voice rising a full octave.

  I’m smiling, but I don’t let her know it. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Umm…no, I—yes, actually!”

  “What?”

  “Shave your beard before you go?”

  My smile instantly turns into a frown. “I like my beard.”

  “Take my word for it, big brother,” she says, her tone brimming with an annoying amount of female confidence. “Shave.”

  ***

  Freshly shaven and wearing jeans with a white T-shirt and unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt, I check myself out in the mirror on the back of my closet door for the hundredth time. Part of me feels like I look too…too Alaskan, but that’s ridiculous, right? I am Alaskan, and this is exactly what I’d wear for drinks and dinner on a Friday night. I should be myself,
regardless of what my daughter things.

  “Daddy,” she’d said, perched on my bed next to Meghan after school, “you know that this is a first date, right?”

  “Uh, yes, Gillian. I’m aware.”

  “And you only get one shot to make a first impression.”

  I looked at her over my shoulder. Where does she get this stuff anyway? “Your point?”

  “You really think Levi’s and a flannel are the right choice?”

  “Yeah,” parrots Meghan with disdain. “Levi’s?”

  For reasons I can’t understand myself but possibly because we’ve become so close since Wendy passed, I talked to the kids about my date. As we ate dinner last night, I ran the idea by them, relieved when none of them seemed upset at the prospect of me getting back out there. Meghan smiled at me like she didn’t totally understand what was going on, and Chad was the most ambivalent, rolling his eyes and wishing me “luck.” But Gilly perked up like someone had plugged in the sun on a rainy day. And since then, she—and her little sister—have appointed themselves my style and advice team.

  “What’s wrong with Levi’s?” I asked Meghan.

  “I dunno,” she said honestly, glancing up at her sister. “What’s wrong with Levi’s, Gilly?”

  “You need to dress to impress,” she answered, jumping up to stand beside me in front of the closet. After sighing loudly, she pointed to a pair of black trousers. “You never wear those.”

  Correct. I don’t. Last time I wore those pants was at Wendy’s funeral, and I don’t know why I held onto them. I’m never wearing them again.

  “Not really my style, Gilly-bean,” I said softly.

  She gave me a look. “Well, if you must wear jeans, pair them with a stylish top.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “And where exactly am I supposed to find one of those?”

  “At the store?” suggested my middle child with a bucketful of sass.

  Behind us, Meghan started giggling, and something about my two little girls giving me dating advice felt like such progress, like such a sign of healing, it lifted my heart. Not because we were leaving Wendy behind, but because we were figuring out how to keep living without her, which is exactly what she would have wanted.

  “Hey!” I said, pretending to be mad but unable to keep myself from smiling. “Are you two ganging up on me?”

  “We’re trying to help you!” they replied, almost in unison.

  And with that, I picked up Gilly under her arms and threw her down on the bed next to her sister, tickling them both until they were bellowing with laughter.

  “With help like yours, I think I’m better off figuring it out myself!” I said, lying down between them, grateful for their giggles and smiles.

  Maybe I’d kept this house a shrine to my wife for too long. Maybe I’d inadvertently kept us all in the dark—or the twilight—because I couldn’t face the light. Maybe, because my life had skittered to a stop with Wendy’s passing, theirs had too. But maybe, after two long years, I was finally ready to raise the shades, to let in a little bit of light, and to let our lives start moving forward once again.

  The girls had scampered off to pack their bags for an overnight at their aunt’s house, and I rummaged through my choices alone, taking out a newer flannel shirt that I hadn’t owned when Wendy was alive. Ripping off the sales tag, I placed it on my bed next to the jeans.

  Looks new and feels right, I think, giving myself a nod of approval as I push the closet door closed and hope my instincts serve me better than Gilly’s advice.

  ***

  Considered by some of my neighbors to be the finest accommodations downtown, I’ve never been a huge fan of the Northstar Hotel.

  It’s a pretty ugly building, in my opinion—concrete and four-storied, like any traveler’s motel in the Lower Forty-Eight—especially when compared to some of the fishing lodges just slightly out of town. The Talon Lodge and Spa, for instance, is somewhere I’d take a sweetheart, if I had one. On its own private island, the lodge is log-cabin rustic but still luxurious. It’s the sort of place a man could fish in the morning, get lost in his woman’s curves all afternoon, and then treat her to a five-star dinner by candlelight when they were done.

  As I walk up the concrete steps of the Northstar, I shrug away the fanciful notion of a romantic getaway, breathing deep to steady my nerves.

  This is just a date. A first date, I remind myself. No sense in setting your expectations too high, Luke.

  The lobby is warmer than outside and decorated in typical Alaskan kitsch: a bear skin on the wall and moose antlers framing the reception desk. The concierge recognizes me and offers a friendly wave as I pass by his desk, headed to the little lounge area that has a few comfy leather chairs and a fireplace. Just before I get there, I duck into the bathroom, washing my hands and checking out my reflection one last time.

  At six foot two inches and just over two hundred pounds, I’m not in the best shape of my whole life, but I’m not in my twenties anymore either. I don’t have a dad belly because I don’t drink a lot of beer, but it probably wouldn’t take much to make it happen. Luckily, due to regular workouts with my cadets, I’m not flabby. Short of my prime, perhaps, but I’m fit enough to look solid and healthy.

  I keep my dark hair short and neat, and without my beard, I could pass for thirty, I guess. It’s my dimples that make me look younger than I am. That or my eyes, which are a deep sky blue.

  With my heart thundering behind my T-shirt, I run my hands through my hair before wiping them dry. It’s two minutes to seven. Time to face the music, Luke.

  As I exit the rest room, turning the corner toward the lobby lounge, my eyes scan the seating area for a woman wearing white, but the chairs in front of the fireplace are empty. I can’t decide if this is a good or bad thing for my nerves, but there’s no point in doing a lap around the lobby. I may as well wait for her to show.

  I step over to the fireplace and fix my sights on the antique map hung over the mantle. It’s so old, it marks Denali as Mt. McKinley and makes no reference to any city north of Anchorage, simply referencing the whole area north of the Yukon River as the Arctic Circle, with little cartoon pictures of Eskimos ice fishing and perfectly shaped igloos arranged in a happy village.

  “I bet there are citizens of this country who’d still buy this map as accurate,” says a voice beside me.

  Jerking my head to the right, I find a petite redheaded woman looking up at the map, and I realize with some surprise that her profile is familiar.

  Holy crow.

  Ms. Seattle Sentinel.

  Quickly flicking my eyes down, then up, I can further confirm that she’s wearing ass-hugging jeans and a sweater as white as new-fallen snow.

  My date?

  “Are you…Amanda?” I ask.

  She turns her face to me, offering me her hand and a winsome grin.

  “I am. And you’re…Luke.”

  Luke. My eyes dilate the instant she purrs my name. I don’t watch much porn, but in the porn movie of my dreams? There would definitely be a woman who says my name like she just did.

  “Good to meet you,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine and wondering if she recognizes me from yesterday or if my losing the beard has thrown her.

  “You too,” she says, biting her bottom lip as she stares at me. She scans my face like she’s trying to remember me but can’t quite place where she knows me. I like the feeling of her eyes on me. I like the way it feels to have all of her attention. It gives me a chance to study her too.

  Yesterday, I could only see a soggy curl of red hair plastered to her face, but today her hair is long, dry, and silky, falling in auburn waves over her shoulders and down her back. Insanely sexy.

  And her eyes? She must have kept them downcast yesterday, because I don’t remember them being quite so big and bright. They’re like cat’s eyes—a vibrant green with flecks of gold. I’m mesmerized, pumping her hand hypnotically as I stare into them.

  Frankly, the only
thing I don’t love about the way this woman looks right this second? Those freckles that I noticed yesterday are all covered up with makeup tonight. I wish I could lick my thumb and swipe it slowly along her cheekbone to uncover them, to coax them out of hiding.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Have we met before?”

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Not long. A couple of nights.” She slides her hand from mine, and I’m sorry for its loss. “You just look so famili—wait a second! You’re the cop! The one who gave me a ride yesterday!” Her head straightens and she raises her eyebrows. “Still mad at me?”

  Honestly? I am so surprised to see her again and so blown away by reconciling her soggy, angry self from yesterday with tonight’s out-on-a-date sex kitten look, I’d forgotten I was mad at her at all.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Didn’t look mad when you said hello just now.”

  “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “And now that you do?”

  “Are you going to drill me about the bear situation?” I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  She checks the watch on her wrist. “Nope. I’m off the clock.”

  “Then I guess I’m not mad anymore.”

  “You know,” she says, running a hand through her hair. I bet it’s as soft as it looks. My hands fist in my pockets. “You never let me tell you why I was asking questions.”

  She’s right. I didn’t. The second I found out she was a reporter, I suspected the worst. “Okay, Amanda, Ms. Seattle Sentinel, why are you asking questions about bear attacks around Sitka?”

  “Hey, I like that nickname,” she says, her face brightening with a smile that makes my knees a little weak. Why am I so attracted to this woman? “Want to get a drink while I tell you what I’m up to?”

  This is it, I guess: the moment of truth.

  We’ve met.

  We’ve said hello and shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries.

  If I’m not interested in her, it’s time for me to say, “No thanks,” wish her well, and head home. But damn it all to hell, I am interested. She’s interesting, I realize, which is pretty awesome, because it’s in addition to her being the most effortlessly sexy woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.