Anya had moved on to the sports page by the time Brock returned to the training area. He milled about, organizing probe poles and checking the batteries in his assortment of beacons as she enlightened the pups on the latest developments in the local curling club.
Curling had made the sports section? Seriously? Brock was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that it was now an Olympic sport. He stifled a grin.
As things went, having her around wasn’t so bad. He glanced at his Swiss Army watch and decided to let her keep going for another ten minutes. In the meantime, he’d put a bit of his leftover wood to good use.
He reached for a small piece, not too much bigger than his hand, and dug around in the pocket of his jeans for his knife. He leaned against the workbench and crossed his feet at the ankles. Then he went to work shaving off the outer layer of the wood, one smooth strip at a time.
His grandfather had taught him how to whittle when he was a kid. It had been the last thing Brock and his brother had learned to do together. Sometimes, when he was feeling introspective, he wondered if that’s why he went back to the hobby time and again. Mostly, though, he did it without thinking.
As his knife moved over the wood in rhythm to the rise and fall of Anya’s voice, Brock lost himself in the tranquility of the moment. The tension in his shoulders eased. He forgot about the meeting with the current ski patrol members he was expected to lead in the morning and the other myriad things he needed to do in order to get the new unit started on the mountain. He even forgot about the other search he’d been concerned about—the one for a tolerable cup of coffee. He was able to let it all go until her voice stopped.
His hands stilled and his knife paused mid-stroke. He looked up and found Anya standing before him, her hands planted firmly on her slender hips.
“I’ve finished.” She narrowed her gaze at him.
The full force of those eyes was a bit much for him to take, so he focused instead on her forehead. “You’ve finished? What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve read the entire newspaper aloud to your dogs. They’re snoring loud enough to peel the paint off the walls.”
“The entire paper? Are you serious?” Brock glanced at his watch. Somehow, what felt like ten minutes had in actuality been closer to an hour and a half.
“Deadly.” She swept him up and down with her gaze and bit her bottom lip. “What happened to the bear suit?”
He tossed his chunk of wood—now carved into a nice, smooth sphere—onto the workbench. “It was a bit warm, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a shame. Perhaps you can find something lighter. I hear faux elk fur is more ventilated.”
She was baiting him, clearly angling for an explanation as to why he’d been dressed as a bear when she arrived.
Brock wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. If she’d simply come out and asked, he likely would have. But not now. “My elk suit is at the cleaners.”
She rolled her eyes, but he could see the trace of a smile on her lips. “So when do my training lessons start?”
“They already did.” He nodded toward the paper, still dangling from her fingertips. “That was your first one.”
“And how is reading the newspaper to your puppies all afternoon supposed to get my dog quiet and out from under the bed?” Something close to anger flashed in her amethyst eyes.
Brock chastised himself. What was he doing looking at those eyes again? “That’s for you to figure out.”
“You’re seriously not going to explain it to me?”
“Nope.” He smiled, which only seemed to make her more agitated.
He could have spelled it out for her, could have told her to get down on her dog’s level and spend time there. Loads of time, doing ordinary things, until the dog became comfortable with her there. But he’d always been a believer in doing instead of telling. People typically learned more if they had to think things through.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what lesson number two will involve.” Anya shoved the newspaper at his chest.
He caught it before she spun on her heel and made a beeline for the door.
“Come back at the same time tomorrow and you’ll find out,” he said to her back.
She turned, and a curtain of amber hair spilled over her shoulder. For the first time, Brock noticed a hint of warm mocha in her skin tone. She shot a parting glance at him, and a jolt of attraction hit Brock so hard that he nearly stumbled backward.
And the way that one captivating look settled in his gut told Brock things were going to get quite a bit more complicated than he’d bargained for.
Chapter Two
Darkness had fallen over Aurora by the time Anya left Brock’s house. Of course, this was Alaska, so it had likely gotten dark shortly after 4:30—probably around the time she’d been reading the curling scores to Brock’s sleeping dogs.
Now it was nearly six o’clock, which meant she’d have to head straight to church or she’d be late for knitting group. She’d hoped to have time to run home and let Dolce out first. A familiar wave of panic washed over her when she thought of the mournful howls that were likely emanating from her cottage.
Anya let out a huff of frustration. By now she thought she’d have some inkling as to what to do about the ongoing Dolce problem. But, although an entire afternoon spent at the dog genius’s home had proved interesting, to say the least, she was just as clueless as ever.
Clueless, but still determined to get through to the dog. Giving up wasn’t an option.
The first time Anya had seen Dolce, the poor dog was being kicked in the ribs. She’d watched, horrified, from the window at the coffee shop where she worked at the Northern Lights Inn, convinced what she was seeing wasn’t real...until the little dog let out a yelp.
Then she’d marched right outside and confronted the abuser. He’d been huge, easily a foot taller and nearly twice as broad as Anya. He’d also been more than a little drunk, which was no excuse for mistreating an animal. Anya had wedged herself between dog and man, crossed her arms and told him to behave himself or she’d call the police. She could only attribute the fact that he’d gone still to the frantic prayers she’d been uttering under her breath. Or perhaps, in his drunken haze, he’d seen two or three of her. A whole group of angry females instead of only one. Her heart had just about beat right out of her chest as she stood there, fully expecting the man to unleash his fury on her in place of his dog. In the end, he’d stumbled away, abandoning the pup without a parting glance.
And Anya had suddenly found herself with a dog.
She’d made up her mind right then and there to show the dog what love—and a real home—was all about. Something about seeing her shivering out in the cold, beaten down and all alone in the world, reminded Anya of herself as a baby. She’d never been abused, thank goodness. And she’d had her mother, of course, even after her father had walked out. But her mother had been too caught up in the bitterness of being left to provide much comfort to Anya, even as she grew into a young woman.
Anya knew better than to fantasize about changing the past, but she could change the future. At least for Dolce. She wouldn’t abandon her now, even if things were less than ideal.
But if Dolce didn’t get over her anxiety soon, Anya might not have a choice in the matter. In addition to being only marginally fulfilling, working as a barista also meant