Читать книгу Alaskan Hero - Teri Wilson - Страница 13

Chapter Three

Anya ran her dishcloth in circles over the coffee bar as she peered at the screen of the computer she typically used for ringing up customers. Not so typically, the monitor was now fixed on an image of Brock Parker. Minus the bear suit and standing on a mountaintop overlooking the Swiss Alps, he looked every inch the hero that countless websites professed him to be.

She took in his broad shoulders, apparently strong enough to dig through several feet of hard-packed avalanche snow, if the internet was to be trusted, and tried not to gape. When Brock wasn’t whittling or reading aloud to his dogs, he was apparently traveling the world and saving people’s lives. Anya was having trouble reconciling this information with the man she’d met the night before. He’d rarely even looked her in the eyes. She’d noticed that he seemed to prefer focusing on her forehead, hardly a habit that bespoke of bravery.

“You missed a spot,” a voice called from somewhere beside her.

She tore her gaze from the computer and aimed it at the counter, shiny as a mirror after all her absent-minded polishing. Perfect...except hers wasn’t the only face she saw looking back at her in the reflection. Brock’s heroic image was right there across from hers.

He sent her an upside down wink.

Anya’s head flew up, and nearly as quickly, her fingers flew across the computer keyboard. She banged on the keys, willing a different website to flash on the screen. She didn’t care which one, so long as it wasn’t devoted to Brock.

Why, oh why did I take Clementine’s advice and Google Brock?

“Were you just Googling me?”

Anya glanced over at him. His lips were curved into a rare smile, making him even more pleasant to look at. Her knees grew wobbly, which she found more than a little irritating. “No.”

“No?” He tilted his head.

“No,” she said, a little too emphatically.

“Are you sure? Because that guy looked familiar.”

She waved toward the screen, which had somehow landed on the Northern Light Inn’s homepage. Thank You, Jesus.

“You mean him?” She pointed at the website’s picture of a stuffed grizzly bear, one of the many examples of Alaska’s finest taxidermy that graced the hotel lobby. “I guess I do see the resemblance.”

“Good save.” He smiled again and glanced at the actual bear, frozen in a threatening pose on its hind legs and looming beside the coffee bar. “But I know what I saw.”

She chose to ignore this comment. Because really, what choice did she have? “What brings you here this afternoon, Brock?”

He paused, taking in the coffee bar with its smooth burled wood counter, the refurbished brushed-nickel Gaggia espresso machine—Anya’s pride and joy—and, last but not least, the stuffed bison head that watched over everything from its place overhead. Anya had taken to calling him Spiderman because of the copious amount of cobwebs she was often forced to untangle from his shaggy coat.

Brock’s gaze snagged on Spiderman for a beat, then returned to its usual place of concentration—Anya’s forehead. “I just came from a meeting up on the mountain where I had a fantastic cup of coffee. Cole Weston told me it came from here.”

Anya breathed a sigh of relief, pleased the topic of conversation had moved away from her Google search and onto a more mundane topic. Coffee. “Alaska Klondike Roast. Yep, he came by earlier and picked up a box. It’s a local favorite.”

“You brewed it?” He narrowed his gaze at her.

“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”

“No reason.” He looked longingly at the grinder, which just so happened to be filled with Alaska Klondike beans. “It was just really good coffee. The best I’ve had in a while.”

Anya’s cheeks grew warm. Pathetic. People came in here all the time complimenting her coffee and she didn’t get all starry-eyed. It was coffee, not rocket science. Why should it be any different with Brock? Just because he was a hero and had that perfect face...

Ugh. Get a clue. He’s just another man. Picture him in that crazy bear suit.

“Would you like a cup?” she asked.

“That would be great.”

She poured him a to-go cup, hoping he would get the hint and leave. He took a sip but seemed in no hurry to go.

Super.

Anya went to work washing the tiny collection of coffee cups that had accumulated in the sink behind the counter. She was contemplating washing them again, just to have something nonmale and nonheroic to focus on, when Brock spoke up.

“Is that a flyer for the Reindeer Run?” He pointed to the stack of brochures at the end of the coffee bar.

“Yes. Why?” She bit back a smirk. “Are you thinking of participating?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. Some of the guys at the ski patrol were talking about it this morning, so the name caught my eye.”

“You should do it. Actually, now that I think about it, the Reindeer Run is right up your alley.”

He gave her a questioning glance. “Why do you say that?”

“People get really into it. They dress up, wear nutty hats.” Anya scrunched her brow in faux concentration. “Call me crazy, but I get the impression that’s your sort of thing.”

Brock leveled his gaze at her over his cup of coffee—actually looked her right in the eye this time. There was a subtle smile in his eyes, even if it didn’t make an appearance on his mouth.

Upon being fully appraised by those glacial blue eyes at last, Anya’s first instinct was to look away. She scrubbed at an invisible spot on the counter.

She could feel him watching her. It was unsettling. Unsettling in a weak-in-the-knees sort of manner that Anya was in no way accustomed to dealing with. Even Speed had never made her feel this way—all nervous and fluttery.

After what felt like an eternity, Brock stood. “I’ll see you later this evening for your training lesson. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Yes, of course.” She took the bills he slid across the counter.

“Keep the change.”

“Thank you.” She folded the money and put it in the pocket of her apron. “Very much.”

And as she watched him walk away, she told herself that the bittersweet tug of disappointment she felt had nothing to do with the fact that he’d gone.

“Who was that? I haven’t seen him around town before.” The voice of Zoey Hathaway, the coffee bar’s afternoon barista, dragged Anya away from her thoughts.

Anya blinked at Zoey. She hadn’t even noticed her arrival.

“Zoey.” She smiled. “Hi. Is it time for your shift already?”

“I’m a little early. This morning was really cloudy, and you know what that means.” Zoey pulled a face.

When Zoey wasn’t behind the coffee bar at the Northern Lights Inn, she could usually be found flying high above the hotel. She was an aspiring pilot. Unfortunately, the turbulent Alaskan weather made it difficult for her to accumulate the necessary flying hours to get her license.

“Your lesson was postponed again?” Anya asked.

“Yep. I suppose it’s just as well, though. I needed to get some work done for the committee I’m heading up at church.” Zoey sighed and cast a glance toward the revolving doors where Brock had just disappeared. “Who was that again?”

“Brock Parker.” Just your average hero. Anya swallowed. “He’s new in town.”

“Oh, I see.” Zoey nodded, her gaze lingering on the doorway.

“You’re heading up a committee at church?” Anya asked, eager to change the subject to something other than Brock.

“Yes. We have that big service project coming up—the one to help out widows in the area. I’m head of the committee. I was kind of hoping you might want to be involved?” Zoey slipped an apron over her head and wrapped its ties around her waist.

“The service project. Of course.” Anya remembered hearing something about it at knitting group. “Sure, I can help out. I’ve actually been meaning to talk to someone about that. Is it too late to add a name to the list?”

“Absolutely not. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Oh no, this wouldn’t be a helper. I was wondering about adding a name to the list of women who need help.” Anya’s stomach churned at the prospect, but she ignored it.

“It’s not too late for that either. We still have a few weeks to plan everything.” Zoey pulled a small notepad from the back pocket of her jeans. “Okay, I just need the name to add to the list.”

Anya swallowed. Could she really do this? “Her name is Kirima Kunayak. She’s my mother.”

* * *

“What about purple? You should knit something purple. It would look so pretty with your eyes.” Sue held a skein of amethyst yarn up to Anya’s cheek and nodded her approval. “Gorgeous. Clementine, come here and take a look.”

Clementine crossed the center aisle of the yarn store, balancing three balls of wool in each hand. It would take Anya a year to do something with that much yarn. Either Clementine had been practicing her knitting more frequently than Anya had, or she was about to take up juggling.

“Yes. Definitely.” Clementine inspected the purple skein. “And look—it’s chunky. You could probably make a scarf out of this in no time.”

“No, thank you.” Chunky or not, there would be no purple scarf in Anya’s future. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to her eyes.

With obvious reluctance, Sue put the yarn back in its cubby on the wall of the cozy yarn store. “It’s awfully pretty. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that decaf is a crime against humanity.” Decaf. She shuddered. Really, why bother?

Clementine lifted a brow at Sue. “She’s sure.”

“I gathered.” Sue laughed.

“What are you going to make now that your hat for knitting group is finished? You can’t stop knitting altogether or you might forget how.” Clementine examined her six balls of yarn. All were various shades of pink, yet she was staring at them as if the choice mystified her.

“I’m not sure yet. What about you?” Anya bit back a smile. “I thought you were going to make something for Ben.”

“I am.” Clementine nodded.

“Then maybe you should steer clear of pink.” Anya plucked the six balls of yarn from Clementine’s hands and tossed them back where they belonged. She’d extract a thank you out of Clementine’s husband at a later date.

“Point taken.” Clementine tore her gaze from the wall of pink cubbies and sighed.

“This is nice. And look—it’s on sale.” Sue fished a bright ball of lime green out of the bargain bin, which was actually a white wicker basket that perfectly showcased the cheery hodgepodge of colors buried inside.

“Now that I like.” Anya held out her hand and caught the ball of yarn as Sue tossed it to her.

“Better than decaf?” Clementine asked, her lips quirking into a wry smile.

“Much.”

“There’s only one ball of it, though. And it’s awfully small. You might not be able to finish whatever you decide to start,” Sue said.

“I’m sure I can come up with something.” Anya clutched the lime-green yarn in her hand and picked a few more balls from the bargain bin—strawberry red, turquoise and tangerine.

Clementine looked on with what appeared to be mounting horror. “I hope you’re not planning on using all of those together. That would make one ugly hat.”

“Maybe.” Anya shrugged. “You never know.”

“Wow. Just...wow.”

“Anya, is everything okay?” Sue wrapped an arm around Anya’s shoulders. “You seem quiet. And Clementine’s right—all those yarns would make an awfully odd-looking hat. Should we be worried about you?”

Anya couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy assortment of colors in her arms. “I suppose I might be a little distracted. I added my mom’s name to the list for the church service project today.”

“That was thoughtful,” Clementine said.

“I’m glad you think so.” Anya blew out a breath. “But I doubt my mother will see it that way.”

Sue cocked her head. “No?”

“No. Most definitely not.” Anya almost wished she could turn back time to this morning. Then she wouldn’t be obsessing over adding her mother’s name to this list.

And maybe you wouldn’t get caught Googling Brock.

There he was again. Brock. Invading her thoughts. He was proving to be quite the irritation, even when he wasn’t around.

“I should probably get going. There are two puppies at Brock Parker’s house that are probably waiting for me to read them the paper. Or War & Peace maybe.” Anya rolled her eyes.

Clementine led the way as their trio headed toward the register. “I don’t understand. Isn’t the whole point to help people? What could your mother have against someone helping her?”

“She’ll find something. Trust me.” Anya lined up her balls of yarn on the counter, catching the lime-green ball just as it was about to roll off the edge.

“If you’re really worried about it, I could talk to the committee. We could get her name taken off the list and it would be no problem,” Sue said.

She had a point. Zoey was heading up the committee. Anya could just ask her to remove her mother’s name from the list, and she wouldn’t have a thing to worry about. Other than the pesky matter of the six inches of ice that had accumulated on her mother’s roof.

“No. Believe me, she could use the help.” Anya shook her head. “Convincing my mother just how much she needs it is the tricky part.”

Both the Dolce problem and what to do with the random assortment of yarn she’d just purchased paled in comparison.