Authors: Leah Marie Brown
Thank you, snowbirds! “The snowbirds came and all of the bear left. Is that it?”
“Well, now,” she says, chuckling. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s still Alaska.”
An icy finger trails down my spine. I am spending the night in Anchorage. Should I be concerned? Should I arm myself with some bear spray or a bazooka?
“But I won’t see bears here in Anchorage, will I?”
“You might.” She shifts the strap of her steel-framed backpack from one shoulder to the other. “A mountain biker was mauled at Russian Jack just last month.”
“Russian Jack?” I consider asking if he is related to One-Eyed Jack, but figure the sarcasm will be lost on this woman.
“Russian Jack Springs. It’s a park.”
“How far is it from Anchorage?”
“What do you mean, how far is it?” She grumbles, frowning. “Russian Jack Springs is
in
Anchorage. It’s only about eight miles from here, just down Minnesota Drive to Fifteenth.”
I swallow, one of those cartoon character audible swallows.
“I…I didn’t realize.”
“Relax, snowbird.” She looks at my raccoon-trimmed Sônia Bogner parka, my high-heeled boots, and my Louis Vuitton Pegase carryon, and smiles. “There’s never been a bear sighting in the Hilton.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
She starts to walk away, and then stops and looks over her shoulder at me. “You might want to reconsider wearing that tonic.”
“Excuse me?” Tonic? I am not wearing hair tonic. “What tonic?”
“Your cologne.”
Excusez-moi?
“What’s wrong with my perfume?”
I can’t believe I am even discussing my toilette with a woman wearing a flannel lumberjack shirt and corduroy trousers. There’s nothing wrong with my perfume. It was made in Grasse, France and has top notes of Tahitian Vanilla and coconut. It is decadent and delicious.
“You smell like a damned birthday cake,” she says. “Bears are attracted to strong scents, especially food.”
She turns and walks away, leaving an unspoken “duh” hanging in the air between us.
Isn’t it bad enough that I will probably have to trade my Burberry boots for remarkably hideous sheepskin footgear? Now, I am supposed to forgo wearing my signature scent to avoid having my bones picked clean by a ravenous brown bear? It might seem like a simple choice, but if some bear is going to drag me into the woods and use my femur as a toothpick, I at least want to smell good. I don’t want some hot park ranger to find my flannel-and-sheepskin-clad carcass sans the luxurious scent of L’Heure Eau de Parfum. Just saying.
I am rolling my carryon in the general direction of the baggage carousels and one-hand texting Vivian, when I collide into another passenger. The collision nearly knocks me on my ass. I drop my iPhone, and it skitters across the slick tile floor.
“Easy, lass.”
I look up into a pair of impossibly blue eyes, and my stomach does a crazy flip flop. The other person involved in this collision is not some potbellied salesman hurrying home to his wife and kids. He’s a tall, muscular Scotsman with twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks.
“Calder?” Calder freaking MacFarlane. Mister MacFlirty himself. The man who tried to seduce my best friend by plying her with whisky and wit. “What are you doing here? Run out of women to charm in the United Kingdom?”
A slow, seductive smile stretches across his handsome face, and my heart races like a BMW on the autobahn.
“I might ask ye the same, lass.” He bends over and retrieves my iPhone. “Was your plane diverted, then? Are ye headed to Paris in the pursuit of some frivolous trinket or bauble?”
Arrogant ass. I snatch my iPhone from his hand.
“I see you haven’t changed one bit.”
“Aye.” He grins and winks. “I am still devastatingly handsome and exceptionally charming.”
Even though I have always found the Scotsman to be too flirty and too full of himself, my stomach does another flip-flop.
I am probably hungry. I’ve only had two glasses of wine and some aspirin. That’s why my stomach feels queasy. It has nothing to do with Calder freaking MacFarlane.
“Did you hear? Vivian and Luc are getting married.”
Merde!
Why did I say that? Considering Calder fell hard for my best friend, would’ve chased her around Europe if she hadn’t been madly in love with Luc, my comment was kind of a bitch move.
“Aye. Fiona told me the news.” He keeps his gaze fixed on me, but his smile slips a little. “I am happy for her.”
An awkward silence stretches between us, and I wish I could rewind to the moment just before I needled him about Vivian.
“Do ye have another plane to catch?”
I shake my head.
He reaches for the handle of my carryon and wrests it from my grip. “Come on, then. I’ll walk with ye to baggage claim, and ye can tell me what’s brought a
fantoosh
like ye to Alaska.”
“
Fantoosh
?”
“Posh girl,” he says, resting his hand on the small of my back and guiding me down the corridor. “Ye are the last person I expected to run into at the Anchorage Airport.”
I don’t know why, but it bothers me that he thinks I am too posh for Alaska.
“I am not that posh, you know.”
He chuckles.
“I’m not!”
He looks down at me and my breath catches in my throat.
“
Banfhlath
, you make Kate Middleton look uncultured.”
My skin flushes with heat, especially where his hand is touching my spine. I wish his compliment didn’t make me feel warm all over, inside and out, but it does. Changing the subject feels like the safest course of action.
“What are you doing in Anchorage?”
“I met a friend for the weekend.”
“A girl friend?”
Merde! Why did I ask him that?
He grins and his impossibly deep dimples deepen. He doesn’t tell me if his friend is female or male. It annoys me that I even care. So what if the Scot spent a sexy weekend with another of his female conquests. Ain’t nothing but a thang, as Vivian would say.
My beautiful, glossy Louis Vuitton leather bag slides down the ramp and onto the carousel. Calder steps in front of me, seizes the handle, and effortlessly lifts the eighty-three pound bag off the carousel. Yes, I exceeded the domestic baggage weight allowance.
“How did you know that was my bag?”
He looks down at me, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Look around,
banfhlath
. Ye’ve left the land of Louis Vuitton and entered the realm of duffle bags and backpacks.”
The passenger standing on the other side of Calder snickers. I lean to the side and groan. It’s the Baptist woman, still toting her prayer book. She hoists a rolling Eddie Bauer duffle bag off the carousel, smiles at Calder, pierces me with a
Repent, Ye Heathen
stare, and walks away.
My second bag slides down the ramp. Calder lifts it off the carousel and places it beside the first bag.
“Is this all? We have yer shoes, but what about yer clothes and lacy lady things?”
“Don’t you worry about my lacy lady things.” I sniff. “I am well covered in that department.”
“Aye,” he says, winking. “I’ll bet ye are.”
To my eternal mortification—for I know I will look back on this moment thirty years from now and still feel humiliation — my cheeks flush with heat. I open my mouth to zing him with an ego-deflating put-down, but my mind goes blank. I got nothing. I am zinger challenged. Without a single ego-deflating verbal barb in my arsenal.
Calder chuckles, which provokes a new wave of mortifying heat to ripple down my body. It starts at my cheeks and moves with devastating speed down my neck, chest, abdomen, like a tsunami of humiliation.
“Relax,
banfhlath
.” He smiles, and two dimples appear on his tanned cheeks. “It’s okay if ye don’t wear the lacy things. I ken some women prefer those enormous high-waisted polyester knickers.”
It takes me a moment to translate the Scot’s sarcasm.
“Granny panties?” I sputter. “You think I wear granny panties?”
Calder throws his head back and laughs. His unrestrained belly-deep masculine laugh drowns out the busy airport sounds and makes me feel…strangely happy.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing the handles of my suitcases. “There’s a Chili’s in the departures terminal. Let’s get a drink, and ye can tell me what brought ye to Alaska.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Calder lets go of my suitcases and crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest.
“Do ye have somewhere else to be, then?”
“No.” I shake my head, and then remember I am supposed to meet my fellow outreacher at the hotel later. “At least, not right now.”
“Let’s go then, lass.” He grabs my suitcases again and begins pulling them away from the baggage area. “Toting these bloody bags has given me a thirst. I’ll let ye buy me a whisky.”
I grab my carryon and hurry to catch up with the flirty Scot. The last time we drank whisky together, at a pub in Scotland, he drove off in his sexy sports car with my best friend. Vivian swore they only kissed, but…
I stare at the Scot’s bulging arm muscles and broad back and wonder how any woman could stop at just a kiss. It’s like going into a Hermès boutique and saying, “I’ll just buy one little scarf.” Bullshit! Before you know it, you are leaving with a new wallet, purse, and leather loafers.
Moderation has never been my forte, but if the Scot tries to run his smooth-charmer game on me, I will shut him down before the first quarter.
Some Like It Wet-n-Wild
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Did you know Alaska Fashion Week is an annual four day event that takes place in Anchorage?
Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Oh, goodie! It’s long been my secret wish to watch a model stomp the runway wearing a pair of mukluks.
We take a seat at one of the small tables in the back of the restaurant, my suitcases piled in the corner behind my chair. A young woman with a high blond ponytail and theatrical peacock blue eyeliner arrives to take our order. She rests her hand on Calder’s shoulder, bats her clumpy eyelashes, and breathlessly asks if she can take his order.
The eighties just rang. They want their Wet-n-Wild eyeliner back, Tiffani.
Calder orders an appetizer—crispy cheddar bites, battered, deep-fried, and served with an ancho-chili ranch dip—and two whiskies.
“Are ye hungry, lass?” He smiles at me over the top of the menu. “Would ye like to order something else to eat?”
I am famished, but Chili’s Too only offers two salads: the buffalo chicken ranch and the quesadilla explosion. I don’t need to read the descriptions to know that they are probably over a thousand calories each.
“No, thank you.”
Tiffani takes my greasy menu and promises to return with our drinks without as much as a glance in my direction.
We make small talk until Miss Wet-n-Wild returns with our drinks. She places Calder’s whisky on a napkin, leaning over him, her breasts brushing his arm. She’s less careful with my whisky. No napkin. No breasts.
“Enjoy,” she purrs. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.” She sashays away, ponytail swinging, hips swiveling.
“
Incroyable!
”
“What?” He looks at me with wide mock-innocent eyes.
“Is there a woman alive who hasn’t fallen for…for…”
“For what?”
I wave my hand in his direction. “All of that.”
“I dinnea ken what ye’re talking aboot,” he says, his brogue as thick as his forearms. “All of what, lass?”
“You know exactly what I am talking aboot, Calder McFlirty.” I cross my arms and narrow my gaze. “Your whole grinning, winking, flexing Hottie Scottie routine.”
“Oh, I dinnea ken,” he says, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. “It doesn’t seem to be having much of an effect on ye.”
He fixes me with his intense blue-eyed stare, and my stomach does another of those queer flip-flops.
“Oh my God. Are you flirting with me?”
“Do ye want me to be flirting with ye,
banfhlath
?”
“What is bafflelass?”
“
Banfhlath
,” he repeats. “It means princess.”
Princess? I don’t even know what to say to that, so I just laugh and roll my eyes.
“Shall we?” Calder lifts his glass. “To whisky and flirting that warms yer innards.”
My face flushes with heat, and I have to force myself to keep looking into his sparkling blue eyes. Arrogant bastard!
“Sláinte.”
I curl my fingers around my glass, lift it in salute, and then drain the contents in one throat-stinging swallow. Calder watches me, chuckles, and tips the whisky into his mouth. Damn him! I want to look away, but the arrogant ass might misinterpret it as me being embarrassed by his faux flirting—or worse, into him.
“Slow down, lass,” he says. “Drinking whisky is verra much like having a love affair. It should be done slowly and savored until the very end.”
“Stop! I know all about your whisky moves, so don’t even try to run them on me.”
He lifts a brow. “My whisky moves?”
“Hello,” I say, holding out my hand. “My name is Stéphanie Moreau. We met last year, when you tried to seduce my best friend by plying her with whisky, remember?”
“Aye, I remember,” he says, chuckling. “I promise not to try any of my whisky moves on ye, lass.”
“Really? You promise?”
“I swear it.” He presses one hand to his heart and raises the other in the air as if making an oath. “I, Calder James Kenrik MacFarlane, do solemnly swear that I will nae rely on whisky to seduce ye.”
“
Bon
,” I say, pushing my empty glass away. “No winking, no whisky, and no seducing.”
“Nay.” He lowers his hand. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t seduce you, just that I wouldn’t use whisky in the doing.”
“
Bon chance, mon ami
,” I say, chuckling. “You can try, but you will fail.”
We lock gazes.
“Challenge accepted, lassie.”
Tiffani arrives with a plate of molten cheese lumps and presents it to Calder as if he were Bonnie Prince Charlie. I half expect her to drop into a deep curtsy and call him “sire.” Calder takes it all in stride, demonstrating that natural, effortless self-assurance that comes from being born beautiful. Beautiful people take their beauty for granted because they never suffered the painful metamorphosis from pimply, gawky, chubby teen to attractive adult.