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

  I’m relieved to discover that we won’t be on top of each other.

  Literally...and figuratively.

  Whatever silly fantasies I had about us lustily falling into one another’s arms for the next three months have disappeared since my arrival.

  Cody’s good looking, yes, but being late to pick me up and letting me crawl around on the floor at the airport didn’t win him any points. He’s also a little awkward and very quiet, and while I liked the way he lit up around his dogs, I don’t think he’s my type. Besides, he’s ten years older than I am, and the last time I dated an older man, it didn’t go so well.

  He does seem to love his dogs, though, and his kennel area was clean, tidy, and comfortable for the animals, which pleased me. I’m sure we’ll find our footing with each other, and I hope it includes mutual respect and teamwork. And maybe friendship, if we happen to connect organically on that level too. We’ll see.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll just—Oh! Is there a bathroom upstairs?” I ask.

  “N-No. Sorry. Bathroom’s over that way too,” he says. “By my, um, bedroom.”

  I nod. Well, that’s cozy.

  Hopefully he’s also the sort of housemate who believes in privacy.

  Viola scratches at the front door, and he opens it, letting her back inside. She looks up at me with a curious gaze before sitting down beside her master, and the silence between the three of us quickly becomes awkward.

  “Well, I guess I’ll—”

  “You can use the bathroom fir—”

  We’re talking over each other and both shut up at the same time.

  There’s awkward, and then there’s excruciating. This is becoming the latter.

  I take a deep breath. “What were you about to say?”

  “You can, um, you know, use the bathroom first...if you want.”

  “Oh. Sure. Thank you.”

  Except I’m not unpacked at all. I have no towels, soap, shampoo, or conditioner. I don’t have anything I need to clean up after a long day of travel.

  “I’ll wait here,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Oh. You mean, you want me to use the bathroom right now?”

  He shrugs. “If you want.”

  “S-Sure.” I guess I’ll just pee and splash some water on my face for now. I can take a shower tomorrow morning.

  My boots scuffle across his clean hardwood floors as I head toward the kitchen. When I get there, I look back at Cody, who points left, so I turn left, down a dimly lit hallway. Pushing open the first door to the right, I find the bathroom.

  Like the rest of Cody’s home, it’s sparsely furnished, but clean, with two snow white hand towels hanging on a rack across from the spotless sink. I sit down and pee quickly, then rinse my hands in the sink. I can’t resist the very fresh-looking bar of soap on the side of the sink, though, and use it to wash my face, then dry off with one of the towels that smells brand new.

  Did he buy all this new stuff for my arrival? He said as much about my bedroom, so I’m thinking he did, and I’m warmed by his thoughtfulness. I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror—there are dark circles under my eyes, and my hair looks stringy where it’s escaped from the braid I plaited early this morning. I look tired. I need sleep.

  I turn off the light and make my way back down the short hallway to the kitchen and living room. When I get there, Cody is still standing by the front door, exactly where I left him, with Viola waiting patiently by his side.

  “All set?” he asks. “You found the towels?”

  I’m too tired to give him a big smile, but my lips tilt up a touch because he’s obviously out of his element having me in his house, but he’s done his best to make it ready for me.

  “Yes. Thanks, Cody.”

  He nods once. “I also wanted to say...I won’t bother you. You don’t need to worry about that. For as long as you’re here, these are your stairs. No one uses them but you. And up there, that’s your space. No one will go up there but you, not even my dogs. I...I just wanted you to know that.”

  I think it’s the most he’s said to me in one burst, and for the second time in five minutes, against all odds, he manages to touch me with his thoughtfulness.

  “I wasn’t worried,” I tell him, “but thank you.”

  He nods again, then drops my eyes. “Well, good night. Come on, girl.”

  Without another word, he and his dog cross the living room together and disappear down the back hallway.

  I blink at their sudden exit, then make my way up the staircase to my right, wondering what awaits me.

  As I get closer, I realize that the softest and warmest light in the whole house is coming from “my” space. When I get to the top of the stairs, I halt in surprise and a small gasp passes through my parted lips.

  Around the perimeter of the whole room, where the wall meets the ceiling, soft white Christmas tree lights have been loosely braided with sage green tulle ribbon, and pinned to the simple wood molding, giving the entire room a warm, enchanted feeling.

  To my right, by the landing, are the four boxes I shipped from Minneapolis to Nome, lined up like soldiers, with a box cutter resting on top for my convenience.

  In the middle of the room, under the dramatic slant of the roof, there’s a large, comfortable-looking bed made up with light green sheets, two pillows and a thick duvet covered in cream-colored flannel. On the bedside table is a small white lamp with a matching sage green shade, and on the floor is a circular rug so my feet won’t hit the cold floor in the morning. Set in front of a large round window, there’s a desk and chair, and beside it is a set of shelves for my things.

  I drop my backpack on the floor beside the bed and cross over to the desk, looking out the window, and am beyond delighted to realize that my room looks out over the kennel. Only one dog stands atop his house in the moonlight, his breath making puffs of steam each time he exhales. It’s Dover, I think, the pack alpha, making sure everyone’s asleep for the night before allowing himself to finally rest. He is beautiful and proud, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunity I will have to get to know him and his pack-mates over the next few months.

  When I turn back around and look at my warm, cozy room, my heart fills with such thanksgiving for this carefully created sanctuary, I feel unfamiliar tears burn the backs of my tired eyes. I don’t know why I feel so emotional, and I’m too exhausted to plumb the depths of my scattered feelings, but I do.

  In a nook beside my new desk, opposite my bed, there’s a sage green and white gingham bean bag with a furry white blanket folded on top.

  I fall into it, pulling the blanket around my droopy shoulders and hugging my knees to chest as I cry.

  ***

  Cody

  The only thing that separates us is the layer of planking that’s her floor and my ceiling.

  And there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.

  It’s very quiet, but still audible: she’s crying.

  Fuck.

  She’s going to leave tomorrow. I know it.

  I sigh with a weariness I barely recognize and sit down on my bed with a heavy heart. Drawing my gloved hands to my mouth, I tug the empty index finger on each, then let them fall from my teeth to the floor. Reaching for my parka zipper with my thumb and pinkie, I pull it down and throw it on my ugly yellow chair.

  My hands are sweaty after being trapped in gloves for the last two hours, but I couldn’t bear for her to see my claws on the day she arrived. Fuck lot of good it did me. She’s up there crying and no doubt planning her escape. I rest my palms on my jeans, letting them dry a little, and wondering where I went so wrong.

  Yeah, I was a few minutes late to pick her up because I wanted her room to be perfect and needed to swap out the extension cord for the Christmas lights. And no, I didn’t help her pick up her shit because I have very few fucking fingers. And she’s so young and pretty, which is intimidating for an beat-up, maimed guy like me. I know we didn’t hit it off, per se, but
she seemed to genuinely like my dogs. And I went to such effort to get her room ready and spruce up my house so she’d be comfortable.

  I hoped she’d want to stay for a while. I’m crushed that her tears are foreshadowing another possible outcome.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, leaning down and untie my boots. It’s tricky to loosen the laces with the fingers I have, but I eventually manage, taking my time to toe off the thick boots.

  Where the hell am I going to find another teammate? I wonder. The answer comes quickly: You won’t. There isn’t enough time. If Juliet goes home tomorrow, you can’t do the Qimmiq. And if you can’t do the Qimmiq, you’ll need to wait another year to take a swing at the Iditarod.

  “Fuck,” I whisper again, thinking about my plans going to hell.

  After five years of learning how to race, nurturing my kennel, getting the right dogs into the right positions and even landing a last-minute teammate for the Qimmiq, 2020 was going to be my year...my first Iditarod.

  Except now? It’s not looking so good for me.

  I reach behind my neck and pull my shirts over my head. It takes time to undo the button on my jeans and pull down the zipper, but I like wearing jeans, so the effort is worthwhile. When I’m standing next to my bed in boxer shorts, I finally hear some movement over my head.

  As quickly as I can, I turn off my light and slip under the covers, resting my head on my pillow and staring at the ceiling.

  The distinctive sound of packing tape being cut with a knife tells me she’s opening her boxes. Then there’s the scuffle of her feet back and forth across the floor, from near the stairs to the shelves. Three times. Hmm. Unpacking? I don’t want to hope, but I can’t help it, I do. I hope she unpacks. I want her to stay.

  After three trips, however, she stops. I don’t know what she’s doing now, but after about five minutes, the light coming through the floorboards is cut in half, so I think she’s turned off her bedside lamp and left the Christmas lights on.

  I wait, staring up at the ceiling with breath held, but there’s not another peep.

  I think she’s gone to sleep.

  Please don’t go, Juliet, I silently pray, staring up at the ceiling. Please stay.

  I haven’t done a lot of praying over the last thirteen years.

  Didn’t seem like much point. My destiny was decided the day I got my fingers blown off. If God was going to let that happen, He sure as heck wasn’t listening to any prayers from me.

  And yet, here I am now, praying for something I want. Something that I need.

  I can bear the thought of my dreams slipping away when I’m so close to seeing them come true.

  When I was honorably discharged from the US Marine Corps in 2006 and placed on permanent disability retirement, I didn’t last long back at home in sunny California. With my father passed away, my mother God-only-knows-where, and my much older half-sister settled in the suburbs with a husband and three kids, there wasn’t much of anyone to come home to. Most of my high school friends were in college or living their own lives, and the ones who’d stuck around were uncomfortable with how much I’d changed during my three years in the service. I rented a cheap apartment over a friends’ garage, watched a lot of Netflix, read the saddest books I could find, and drank my weight in beer.

  Three years later, I nearly died. Drunk as a skunk, I almost slept through a fire in the lower garage that should have killed me. It didn’t...but only because a stray neighborhood dog stood in the driveway below my apartment, barking her head off until I woke up and saved myself.

  I adopted her, named her Viola, temporarily swore off beer, and moved to Alaska.

  We ended up in Anchorage for a few years with me occasionally helping out at the VA Medical Center and mostly living off my disability before catching the beginning of the Iditarod race in 2013...and completely falling in love with the sport of sled dog racing. After catching that ceremonial start in downtown Anchorage, all I could dream about was starting a kennel of my own, teaching myself to race, and being one of those Iditarod racers one day.

  And now, here I am: one race away from actually qualifying.

  My fate lies in the hands of a human being I barely know.

  I think about the woman sleeping directly above me and wonder about her a little bit. I don’t actually know that much about her. She’s from Montana, where her father’s a veterinarian, but her boxes were shipped from Minneapolis. Before she dropped all her shit on the ground at the airport, she’d looked up at me with big blue eyes and whispered the color of mine. Green.

  Huh. I’d forgotten that with all that happened after, be now that I remember, it almost makes me smile. It was an odd thing for her to notice, the color of my eyes, but it was almost like she’d been waiting...like she needed to know and had finally found out.

  Fast forward to arriving back at my place, and it was a pleasure to walk her around the kennel. She was good with my dogs in an organic, effortless way. She took her cues from me with each animal, but I’m guessing her own intuition would’ve served the same purpose. Some people just have a way with dogs, and Juliet is one of them. She’ll be easy to train and a damn fine teammate to me...if only she’ll stay.

  Please stay.

  I sigh softly, picturing her face.

  There aren’t a ton of single women in Nome, and in my opinion, Juliet is the prettiest woman in town right this minute. She reminds me of the blonde, blue-eyed California girls I went to high school with so long ago. Tan and tall, long-legged and confident. And yes, I know she’s a decade my junior, but that doesn’t matter. I’m a man. If I was ninety years old, I’d still notice that she’s gorgeous. There’s no way around it.

  That said, I don’t have any designs on her, not that it would matter if I did. A long time ago, I gave up on meeting someone, and mostly I’ve made my peace with it. I have my home and my dogs, a monthly paycheck from Uncle Sam, and an annual oil payment from the great state of Alaska. I have a comfortable life.

  I don’t need anyone. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. That, and: Some people are better off alone.

  But the reality is a bit bleaker, perhaps: beautiful girls don’t want damaged goods. Juliet is fresh and lovely, young and stunning. Any man alive would be lucky to wake up next to a woman like her every morning. She has the pick of the whole litter...and me? At best, I’m the runt. I’m banged up and bruised, jaded and weary—a virtual hermit, living at the edge of the world, far more comfortable with dogs than people.

  I wouldn’t dare dream of loving her or being loved by her.

  I don’t aspire to an impossible destiny.

  I’m not a mad man or a fool.

  My dreams are much more modest, and hopefully, God willing, still within reach. I want to race in the Iditarod. It’s okay if I don’t win. I just want the chance to race.

  And to do that, I need a partner. I need her.

  I pull the comforter up to my chin and close my eyes to sleep.

  But before I do, I whisper,

  “Please stay, Juliet. Please. Please, stay.”

  Chapter 5

  Juliet

  Stretching my arms over my head, I inhale deeply, taking a deep breath of coffee-scented air.

  “Mmmm,” I hum, letting my eyes flutter open.

  Directly over my head are white twinkle lights, and I blink at them, letting my vision adjust as I remind myself of where I am.

  Nome, Alaska. Cody Garrison.

  I reach for my phone, charging on the bedside table, and check the time. It’s 7:30 in the morning here, but I know my body clock’s still on Minnesota time, which means it’s really 10:30.

  “Wow,” I sigh, snuggling under the plush covers. I slept for over ten hours. Impressive. I can’t actually remember the last time I slept that soundly.

  As I wake up a little more, I realize the sound of excited barking coming from outside is probably Cody feeding his dogs. And shoot, I’m missing it. That said, I’ve got a lot of early mornings ahead. I’m grateful to be
able to sleep in a little bit later this morning.

  I never wrote back to my parents or Sil last night, so as long as I have my phone in my hand, I open my texts and send some quick updates.

  I tell my parents and brother that I’ve arrived safely in Nome and that Mr. Garrison has put me up in a comfortable, private room. I promise them I’ll send pictures of the dogs later today and stay in touch.

  Then I swipe open Silvia’s message.

  SILVIA:

  Tell me EVERYTHING. Is he as hot as his picture? Short or tall? In good shape? Did you feel butterflies in your tummy when you met him? How was the condition of his kennel, and do the dogs seem happy? DYING, Jules! Need to know!

  I grin because Sil is so Sil about everything, and hit Reply:

  JULIET:

  He is attractive. Tall. In good shape. But there’s no spark, Sil. Sorry to disappoint! He seems nice enough, but I don’t know yet. Jury’s out. His dogs are happy, and the kennel is everything we’d hoped for. He takes good care of them. Anything else?

  I press Send, then click on email.

  I have a new message from the University of Minnesota, informing me that my new-advisor requisition has been approved. I will now be working with Sheila Grant, DVM, an associate professor who studied at Colorado State University. I’ve only had one class with Dr. Grant, but she’s not much older than I am, whereas Glenn, for all his shortcomings, was a full, tenured professor with over twenty years of veterinary experience. Oh, well. Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. I send a quick note to Dr. Grant, asking what she needs from me in terms of project scope and updates, and make a mental note to check for a message from her later.

  During my ten days packing and travels yesterday, it weighed on my mind that Cody has no idea that I have ulterior motives for being here. I mean, I’m happy to race in the Qimmiq, if he wants me to, though I don’t believe I’ll do very well. But my priority in being here is to examine his relationship with his dogs and use that data to write a publishable study. Eventually I’ll need to come clean and get Cody’s permission, but I want to time that conversation carefully. If I mention it too soon, he could refuse to be my test subject, and put me on the next flight out of here. I need to bide my time a little. I need for him to want me to stay just as much as I need to use his life for my case study.