Two Brutes, One Barista: An Alaskan Romantic Comedy (Alaskan Romance Book 3) Read online

  Wreck reappeared at my elbow. He’d caught up, deftly clearing the roots that tangled and bumped across the trail. And, his fingers were doing something at his front. Unbuttoning his damn shirt, I realized. He was running, effortlessly matching my pace, and unbuttoning.

  He shot me a grin. “Hot out here.”

  Not wanting to run with him—and wanting to get to Thea first, dammit—I sped my pace.

  He ran faster.

  As did I. Grass whisked at my ankles. The trees flashed by.

  Laughing, Wreck cut a curve and sprinted ahead. The wind caught his shirt, and he burst out of it. He was going to get to Thea first… shirtless. I remembered how she’d reacted to my shirtless chest. And Wreck was at least as built as I. A little more compact, a little paler, but cut. And, unlike me, symmetrically so.

  He would not get to her first. Legs pumping, I caught him, and didn’t spare the elbows as I jostled for room on the narrow trail.

  We burst into the sunshine of the Birch Chalets lawn, elbowing and trying to trip each other as we raced to the coffee shack. I used momentum to shoulder him aside just as we got to the door.

  I threw it open, and lunged inside—and immediately straightened and worked to slow my breathing as I moved forward at a sedate pace, as if I hadn’t just won the fight to get to Thea first.

  And there she was, behind the counter, all that was beauty and grace, the light through the window giving her a golden glow. She looked up, her gaze swept down my front, and… she smiled. Mine.

  Wreck piled in behind me and dogged my steps to the counter. Instead of standing behind me in line, he crowded up beside, flashing a grin and a pair of flexing pecs at Thea.

  Thea glanced back and forth between us. “Hey… guys.”

  “Mon cher,” Wreck said, jumping in before I could. “You look beautiful this morning.”

  She did. She really, really did. Her hair was as close to down as I’d seen it, soft wisps waving about her face. She wore a plain blue T-shirt that draped a lovely figure, and a set of bracelets that slid along her arms, drawing attention to slender, graceful wrists.

  Wreck flipped a purple flower from behind his back and presented it to her. “For you,” he crooned in his stupid accent. The smugness in his tone, the little flash of triumph in his eyes, and the fact that he’d managed to snag her a flower while racing through the woods—and shedding his shirt!—all made me want to do him violence.

  Her smile was a little hesitant, a little shy, and all gorgeous. “Thank you,” she said, accepting it. She took a cup off the stack, but as she put the flower in it, it was me she glanced up at.

  “How’s your backside this morning?” I asked.

  THEA

  Oh, god, I’d dreamed about him. My sleeping brain had rewritten our encounter in the woods. In my dream, the devil’s club had never happened. He’d tackled me from in front of the charging moose, and I’d become acutely aware, again, of his body on top of mine.

  Instead of rising, he’d kissed me. It’d been soft and slow, sweet and perfect. The forest had spun away as the kiss deepened. Our mouths had mingled, his warm weight pressed, and his dexterous hand wandered, searing me with its heat.

  He’d taken me right there, on a forest floor as soft as a cloud. He was like an animal, savage in his need.

  And then Bigfoot had shown up. He hadn’t done anything but watched, and at the time, I hadn’t found that strange.

  J.D. and I had continued making love, the pleasure quickly growing too great for our bodies to contain. In a feat of symmetry, in the best sexual experience of my life, we’d climaxed at the same time.

  And Bigfoot had held up a white card with a ‘10’ on it in big, bold, sloppy black numbers.

  Now here he was, the man with whom I’d scored so perfectly. Naked from the waist up, sheened just slightly with sweat, muscles taut. Smiling, even white teeth flashing. And I couldn’t help but remember what that mouth had felt like on mine, that body of his over mine, filling mine.

  Heat poured through my veins. “Better, thank you,” I managed.

  A fisherman came in behind them, prompting me into my usual routine. “Can I get you something?” I asked, looking from J.D. to Pierre. Pierre was shirtless, too, I realized.

  “I would love one of your delightful cappuccinos,” Pierre said.

  Nodding, I moved behind the machine to make him one. I surreptitiously watched J.D. as he moved aside, then settled at one of the tables. I presented the Frenchman with his drink, he left me a five-dollar tip, and I helped the next guy in line as he went to sit across from J.D.

  They were talking quietly—or rather, Pierre was talking quietly, and J.D.’s jaw was tightening up as if he didn’t like what he was hearing. There was some real rivalry there. I was honestly surprised they’d arrived together, appeared to have been running together.

  As soon as the fisherman turned to go, J.D. was up and out of his seat. Pierre popped up as well, and chased him to the counter. And again, I had two bare chests to appreciate as they jostled for position.

  “Magnifique, as usual,” Pierre said, lifting his cappuccino in a little toast.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, mon cherie,” Pierre purred, leaning in, “what are you up to this evening?”

  “I’m taking her fishing,” J.D. said. He started explaining before I could say a single word. “You said you wanted to get out more. I’d love to take you fishing in exchange for another massage.”

  “Massage?” Pierre asked, expression puzzled until his eyes caught on the board.

  “You said you were firing me,” I pointed out.

  “A fit of temporary insanity,” J.D. said. “I want your help. And I’d like to help you enjoy your summer. Have you been fishing yet?”

  I shook my head. The fishing guides had been busy, and when they weren’t busy, they certainly weren’t fishing.

  “Well, my brothers tell me the reds are running down at Sinkhole Slough. Reds are a lot of fun,” he said with a grin.

  “Or, you could go with me to investigate another Bigfoot sighting,” Pierre said, catching my attention. “I have a resident to interview this evening, and I would love to have you along.”

  I hesitated.

  “The gentleman was boating by, and saw the Bigfoot approaching J.D.’s brothers’ yard,” Pierre said, glancing over at him.

  J.D. went still. “Wait. At my place? Someone said they saw Bigfoot at my place?”

  “Your brothers’ place, oui.” Pierre’s gaze was inviting, his voice and manner so incredibly smooth. “After talking to the witness, I will need to go check for prints,” he added.

  I glanced back and forth between them, a little overwhelmed. Maybe I’d misread the situation, but I didn’t think so. It appeared that two handsome men were vying for my attention, each trying to tempt me into what sounded like a date. “Guys… I don’t—I’m not looking for—”

  J.D. peeled his eyes from Pierre. “It would be as friends, of course,” he said, knowing what my argument would be before I made it. “Friends take friends fishing,” he said with a wink.

  Another fisherman came in, headed for the counter.

  J.D. pressed on, knowing he was running out of time. “And, you could work on my shoulder while we’re on the river.” He made a little sound of discomfort as he rubbed it. “It’s been very stiff this morning,” he said, reminding me that I’d missed giving him a massage yesterday.

  Pierre rolled his eyes.

  I almost did, too. But, I had no doubt that it actually was sore and stiff, and I did want to help him. I did want to go fishing. And I would enjoy an evening out, in his company.

  “No, no, no,” Pierre said, reaching to take my hand. “You do not want to choose this boy over me. You want a real man, a French man. We are better lovers, you know.” He leaned forward, his voice crooning. “I would give you a night you would never forget. Show you what it is to be kissed, truly kissed. I would worship your lovely body. Pleasure you until you f
orget your own name—”

  I yanked my hand out of his even as J.D. jabbed him with an elbow. I was pretty damn sure my face was red. The dude behind them in line had heard every bit of Pierre’s declaration, and was watching with amusement.

  “No,” I told him. “I’m not interested.”

  “But, mon cher—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’m not looking for a summer fling. Sorry.”

  Pierre realized he’d miscalculated, I saw it in his eyes. But, he didn’t seem to be a sore loser. He just nodded, said, “The invitation is always open: Bigfoot, or the other. You know where to find me.” Then he threw his shirt over his shoulder, turned, and walked out.

  J.D. moved aside for my next customer. “Pick you up at three?”

  I sucked in a fortifying breath, thinking about it. Glanced up at my birds, then back into his bright blue eyes. And took the plunge.

  “Yes.”

  J.D.

  Those idiots!

  A Bigfoot sighted, on their property? I hadn’t put two and two together before, hadn’t bothered to give the Bigfoot sightings a second thought. Not even to think it was probably some sort of hoax. But now, now I was thinking: If it was some sort of hoax—which it indubitably was—someone had to be behind it.

  In short, crazy things were happening in the neighborhood, and there was no way my brothers weren’t involved. No frickin’ way.

  I ran through the woods between the two properties, and burst into the shop. Rory was there, alone. Music was blaring, and he didn’t even look up. He had the Jeep bed up on a table, all taped and primed, and was sweeping cherry-red paint onto it in even swathes.

  I tackled him from the side. He shrieked in surprise, then let out an “oomph!” as I landed on top of him. Red paint spurted across the concrete as he squeezed the trigger.

  I knocked the sprayer out of his hand, shoved him over onto his back, and straddled him. Then I grabbed him by the respirator, and lifted.

  “Eep,” he said, forced to look up at me with his head suspended by his respirator straps.

  “I learned the most interesting thing today,” I said.

  The surprise wore off, and Rory’s eyes shifted.

  “I learned,” I continued, drawing his gaze back, “that Bigfoot, of all freakin’ things, Bigfoot, was spotted, on your property.” Not exactly what Wreck had said, but it sounded a lot better than the other, a lot more incriminating. “What can you tell me about that?”

  His eyes widened with pretty convincing surprise. “What? Nothing!”

  My grip on his respirator tightened. “Let me rephrase. How did you do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked. He was breathing fast, a sure sign that he was afraid. Good.

  “Arrange a Bigfoot sighting,” I growled.

  “What?! We didn’t!”

  I shook him a little.

  “I swear! I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Where are you hiding the suits?” I demanded.

  “What suits? There are no suits! We didn’t do it!”

  “Do what?” I asked, hoping to catch him in a lie.

  “Anything! I didn’t do anything!”

  “You’ve always done something.”

  Rory shook his head as best he could with me still holding it off the floor. “No. No, I swear. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do it.”

  I decided to change tactics. Dropping his head back to the concrete, I pinched his nipples between thumb and forefinger, and twisted. “Tell me what you know!” I yelled over his pained yowl.

  “What kinky fuckery is this, and can I join?” Zack asked, coming in the door. He was carrying a coffee mug, and wearing low-slung sleep pants printed with skulls.

  “Help me!” Rory cried.

  Zack settled back against the half of the Jeep bed that wasn’t yet red. He gazed down at us, supremely unconcerned about his brother’s plight. He squinted. “Are you pinching his nipples?”

  “What do you know about a Bigfoot sighting, on your property, yesterday?” I demanded, addressing myself to Zack, not yet releasing Rory despite his squirming.

  Zack blinked, so I was pretty sure he heard me. But this is what he said: “You know,” he drawled, “you really shouldn’t touch another man’s nipples.”

  “Did you,” I said, with another wrench of Rory’s tender flesh, “have anything to do with the Bigfoot sightings? Either of you?”

  “Aaaiiieeeeee! No! No!!!” Rory had worked himself into a full body flail, twisting and kicking.

  Zack yawned. “Are we working on the Jeep, or what? This Brute won’t build itself.” He sipped his coffee.

  I growled. “I’m searching your cabin. And if I find anything—suits, a Bigfoot cutout, an actual Bigfoot—anything—there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Zack said. “And while you’re at it, I lost a belt I’m really fond of. It’s black leather, buckle that looks like a biplane.”

  I leaned down into Rory’s face, until my nose was pressed into his respirator. “I’m watching you.”

  He whimpered.

  With a final squeeze, I let him go. And I made good on my promise. I searched their cabin, every square inch of it. I poked my head into the attic and rapped on the walls. I searched the shack they’d banished me to, and then I came back in and searched the entire shop, end-to-end.

  By the time I was done, Zack and Rory were mounting the new Jeep bed on its frame. I studied them, trying to gauge their guilt.

  “I didn’t realize we had Bigfoots in Alaska,” Zack said. He cocked his head. “Or is it ‘Bigfeet’?”

  “Just ‘Bigfoot’,” Rory said from the other side. “‘Bigfoot’ is used for both singular and plural.”

  My eyes narrowed. “And just how do you know that?”

  “I read,” he snapped. He must have been feeling brave, with that Jeep bed between us. He was running string along the body, and it took him a few moments to realize both Zack and I were now staring at him. “What?”

  “You read about Bigfoot?”

  “Among other things, yes.” He took in our expressions. “Don’t tell me you two don’t believe in Bigfoot.”

  Zack and I exchanged a look. I hadn’t realized Rory was this crazy, and Zack may have been having the same thoughts.

  “With all the world out there, all the unexplored areas, the forests and mountains, all the sightings, all the things we haven’t discovered, all the things we’ve never explained, how can you not?” he asked.

  “But, in Alaska?” Zack asked.

  “Yes! Oh my god, yes. Alaska is a perfect habitat for them. Cool, remote, wooded, wild. Haven’t you guys ever heard of the Hairy Man?”

  “J.D., would you come here and give the bed a little tap for me? We’re trying to get this on straight.” Zack looked at Rory. “I’ve seen some pretty hairy men,” he said.

  “No no, with capitals, ‘Hairy Man’. It’s a tall, dark, hairy man that many, many Alaska Native stories document. People have seen them from the air, from small planes. They’ve come to borrow the village healer when one of theirs is sick. C’mon, you have to’ve heard of them. There are dozens of stories.”

  “Nope,” Zack said. And to me: “Good. A little more.”

  We spent an hour getting the bed on perfectly straight, while Rory regaled us with stories of the Hairy Man.

  Chapter Six

  J.D.

  “Ha! Look at them all,” I said as we spooked a mess of red salmon. Rory and Zack had been correct. The reds were piled up on top of each other, coasting lazily upstream.

  “Oh, wow.” Thea leaned over the side of the boat, watching as they turned and flashed in the clear water.

  Sinkhole Slough was twenty or thirty feet across, bordered on either side by swamp grasses, and beyond that, stands of spindly black spruce. The water was slow-moving, and about hip-deep, with a muddy bottom.

  I cut the engine and moved forward to drop the anchor. Then I peeled out of my f
loat jacket, tossed it on the bench, and started rigging up our poles.

  The area was quiet, with no one else was around. We’d passed a couple boats on our way up the creek, but they were back a few bends in the curving, wandering slough.

  “That one has stripes,” Thea said. I peered over her shoulder. The fish she pointed at was slightly larger, its color more murky, with faint, greenish-plum lines staggered vertically along the length of its big body.

  “A chum,” I said. “Or dog salmon.”

  “And that one, the smallish one. Is that a pink?”

  “Yep. See the spots on its tail?” I asked. “Here.”

  She appeared startled to see me holding a pole out to her. “Oh. Oh, yes. So, we’re fishing with lures?” she asked, eyeing the spinner dangling at the end of the line.

  “Yep. The chums and pinks and silvers might bite,” I said as she cast.

  She dropped the lure in a few feet from the shore, a good cast right across the school of fish. She had no problem closing the bail, and then began reeling at a good pace. Satisfied that she wasn’t going to need my help right away, I moved to set up my own rod.

  “Is there a ‘but’ in there?” she asked, readying for her next cast. “I’m pretty sure I heard a ‘but’.”

  “But,” I said, “the reds generally won’t.”

  “The reds don’t bite? Well, then how do we catch them?” she asked, looking at me quizzically.

  “Well, generally,” I said, “we snag them in the mouth.”

  “Snag them? But I thought that was illegal.”

  “You aren’t allowed to keep snagged fish,” I agreed. “Unless you’ve snagged them in the mouth,” I added with a grin.

  Thea was frowning at me, looking uncertain.

  I waved a hand. “Oh, there are euphemisms for it. ‘Flossing’, or whatever; arranging so that the line drifts into their mouth, and then setting the hook. But what it really boils down to is you’re snagging them. In the mouth.”

  “Ah.” She cast a couple more times, then smiled over her shoulder at me as I stirred around the boat. “So, friend… How’s the Jeep coming along?”