Alaskan Hero. Teri Wilson
ugly?” Clementine frowned and glanced back and forth between Anya and Sue.
“It was televised,” Sue chimed in, much to Anya’s relief. She’d rather not be forced to tell the entire dreadful tale herself.
Clementine furrowed her brow. “How does a breakup end up on television?”
“I was dating my high school sweetheart, who was a champion skier. A downhill racer.”
“Speed Lawson,” Sue said.
“Speed?” Clementine snorted. “What kind of a name is Speed?”
“The kind for men who beat a hasty trail out of town when the opportunity arises.” Anya’s gaze bore into her knitting. Maybe if she concentrated on the in-and-out of her needles and the twisting of the yarn around her fingers, she could get through this with a modicum of dignity still intact.
“Is that what happened? He just up and left?” Clementine rested a hand on top of Anya’s.
“We’d been dating two years when the Olympic Trials came to Aurora. The night before his event, Speed told me he loved me and wanted us to build a life together.”
Anya still felt ridiculous when she thought about it—the night she’d poured her heart into that boy in a way only a girl who’d never known the love of a father could. And he’d thrown it away. For all the world to see.
“What happened?” Clementine cast a worried glance at Sue.
“He made the team as an alternate,” Sue said. “It was big news around here.”
“The biggest.” Anya nodded. “ESPN interviewed him afterward, right there on the mountain. They asked him about skiing, living in Alaska, the ordinary questions...then they wanted to know if he had a girlfriend or any plans for the future.”
“And what did he say?” Clementine lowered her voice to a near whisper.
Anya appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t matter. Everyone sitting at the table knew the story. Was there a soul in Aurora who didn’t? “He said, and I quote, ‘There’s no one special.’”
“Oh, Anya. He was young. Don’t you think they may have caught him off guard?” Clementine’s word echoed every desperate thought that had entered Anya’s head in the aftermath of the interview.
She’d stood right there, hurt and humiliated, with the rest of Speed’s hometown crowd and listened to him deny her very existence. She’d pretended that the tears streaming down her cheeks were a product of the cold Alaskan wind rather than the pain of her heart breaking. But she hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all herself.
Worse than that, in the instant he’d uttered those words—no one special—something inside her had turned hard and bitter. Just like her mother.
It was that dark thing she felt brewing inside that frightened her the most. So she’d done the only thing she knew to keep it at bay. She stayed as far away from men as she could.
“I never heard from him again,” Anya said tersely. She left out the part about the local media questioning her about Speed’s comments and the Yukon Reporter article that had called her Speed’s “broken-hearted hometown honey.” Clementine knew enough now to get the picture. “And that’s why I don’t date. Anyone. Most especially a hotshot like Brock Parker.”
“Well, I for one hope you give the lessons with Brock another chance.” Sue gave her shoulder a pat before rising and heading to help one of the knitters who seemed to be having trouble casting off.
“Me too.” Clementine nodded. “I’m sure he can help Dolce. There has to be a method to his madness.”
A method to his madness.
Anya turned the phrase over in her mind. He was mad all right. She just hoped there was a method involved. That’s what really mattered, not his looks.
The fact that those chiseled features of his made her stomach flip was an inconvenience she’d have to grow accustomed to.
That’s all.
* * *
Brock was forced to trudge through what he estimated to be two and a half feet of snow to get to his truck. He’d shoveled the sidewalk from his front door to the driveway late the night before, but by morning it was once again indistinguishable. Nothing but snow stretched out before him—an unspoiled blanket of white glittering in the morning sunshine.
Welcome to Alaska, he thought as he cranked the truck engine to life.
There was a time when Brock would have found it beautiful, before snow had become an enemy to be conquered. Sometimes he had to struggle to remember how it had felt back then—building a snowman on the first day of winter, snowball fights that left his fingers prickly and numb, sledding down the hill behind his elementary school, shouting out to his brother to be careful of the trees. His memories of childhood snow days were so tangled up with his memories of Drew that it was hard to separate them. Then Drew had disappeared. Taken right from his bedroom window, according to the police. The snow had kept on falling and, inch by inch, swallowed up any evidence that could lead to Drew’s whereabouts.
They’d never found Drew, never found who’d taken him. Unable to concentrate his rage and confusion onto an actual person, Brock had instead focused it all on the snow. He supposed in a way, he still did.
He maneuvered his truck through what passed for downtown in Aurora. Nestled between a lake—frozen completely over at the moment, of course—and the foot of the Chugach Mountain range, the hub of the small town appeared to be the Northern Lights Inn. Judging from the staggering number of cars in the parking lot, it was Aurora’s hotspot. This struck Brock as odd, considering the ski area boasted its own chalet-type quarters, complete with gingerbread trim and old-world, fairytale charm. He narrowed his gaze at the ordinary-looking hotel, wondering what the draw could possibly be, and turned onto the road leading to the tiny log cabin that served as the Ski Patrol headquarters.
The three full-time members of the Aurora Ski Patrol Unit were already waiting for him when he arrived. They sat around a sturdy wood table that was loaded down with bagels and coffee, grinning at him as if he were the answer to all the town’s prayers. Which he probably was.
Brock had never felt comfortable being the object of adoration. And no matter how many finds, no matter how large the number of people he’d saved, he still didn’t.
“Good morning,” he said and shifted from one booted foot to the other.
“Mr. Parker.” The man in the center rose. “I’m Cole Weston, senior member of the ski patrol. We’re delighted to have you. Welcome to Aurora.”
Brock nodded. He recognized Cole’s voice from their numerous telephone conversations. “Call me Brock. Please.”
“Of course.” Cole smiled and introduced him to the men on either side of him—Luke and Jackson, respectively. “Have a seat, please.”
Brock poured himself a cup of coffee and eyed it suspiciously before lowering himself into one of the chairs.
“So how do you like the snow?” Cole, unaware he’d asked a very loaded question, grinned and bobbed his head in the direction of the window where flurries swirled against the pane.
Brock blinked. How was he supposed to come up with an answer to that? He chose not to and took a sip of his coffee instead.
Not bad, he mused. Not bad at all.
Hands down, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had since leaving Seattle.
“So Brock, have you given much thought to what we discussed about making your position here in Aurora permanent?” Cole pushed the plate of bagels toward him.
Brock had to give him credit. Cole had certainly cut to the chase faster than most of the ski resorts where he’d done consultant work. Of those resorts, one hundred percent had offered him permanent