and in this place for something to eat. That was all. She wasn’t here to flirt with, or pick up, handsome men. These words she repeated more than once as the two men interacted.
“Who’d walk into the best brewery in America talking about wine?”
Handsome shrugged. “A woman pretty sure of herself, I’d say.” He looked at her. His eyes were dark, almost black, and smoldering. Had someone just turned up the heat in the room? Teresa forced her eyes to the menu, while they’d really wanted to linger on the man’s tantalizing lips.
The bartender went on. “Tell me the type of wine you prefer, and I’ll serve up a few samples that will convert you from a stemmed glass to a hearty, chilled mug.”
Teresa laughed. “I like a semidry Chardonnay, with hints of fruit and a little spice.”
“I’ve got a couple choices, either of which will be perfect.” He walked away.
Teresa looked at the sexy stranger seated beside her, noted the strong, tanned fingers gripping the mug he’d just set on the bar and imagined he could perform one heck of a massage. Just as quickly, she chided herself on not being able to rein in her errant thoughts. That she’d not had a good fracking in months was no reason to entertain fracking a stranger. Or was it?
“What kind are you drinking?”
The man looked up from his phone, and over at her. “Me?” She nodded. “A Belgian pale ale.”
“What’s that taste like?”
“I’m no expert.” He shrugged. “Tastes like beer to me.”
She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I probably shouldn’t say this too loudly, but I hate the taste of beer!”
Again, that smile as he leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re in a brewery. Definitely not a good idea to say that out loud.”
He smelled like sunshine and the fresh outdoors. His long lashes created a shadow on his high cheeks as he returned to using his thumb to scroll the cell-phone screen. A part of her wanted to nuzzle her nose into his neck and feel that thumb lightly rubbing her shoulder. Even though he was obviously more interested in his electronic device than in human conversation, she couldn’t leave him alone.
“Are you a local?”
A tick or two passed before he answered. “Pretty much.”
She got the message. “Sorry to bother you.”
He set the phone on the bar top. “You’re not a bother. I’m just not good at small talk.”
“And I’m exactly the opposite. Being a writer by choice and curious by nature makes questions come easy.”
Handsome nodded, took a swig of beer. The bartender returned with two shot glasses. He explained the two choices he’d brought her—one light and citrusy, the other flavored with cloves.
She took a teeny sip of the first one, twisting her mouth in displeasure. “Would you toss me out if I stuck with water?”
The bartender laughed. “No way, pretty lady. There are other drinks on the menu.”
“I’ll have a look, thanks.” He moved on to another customer. She turned to Handsome and held out her hand. “My name’s Teresa.”
“Atka,” he responded, taking her hand and shaking it.
His grip was firm but brief. Too brief, she decided.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
“At. Ka. It’s from my native language.”
“Which is?”
“Yupik. My family are native Alaskans.”
Her eyes brightened. “Really? Tell me more.”
He frowned slightly, then reached for his phone and began scrolling. “Is that why you’re here, to write about the native Alaskan people?”
“I’m here to cover the state from a variety of angles and, yes, the people who live here is one of them.”
“It’s good that you will include those native to this land, but I am probably not the best person for that information. There are many languages and dozens of tribes. There’s a center on our culture that I could recommend.”
“Please do.” She reached for her phone and recorded the name of the center he gave her. Then, sensing his private nature, she changed the subject.
“Any menu recommendations?”
He visibly relaxed. “You can’t go wrong with any of the seafood entrées. Though I usually get the land and sea Oscar. Gives you a little bit of everything.”
Teresa read the dish’s description. “Wow...salmon, crab prawns and a filet? Sounds like a hearty meal.”
“You won’t leave hungry.”
Conversation centered around the menu until they’d made their choices. The bartender returned, took their orders, poured a fresh beer for Atka and was gone again.
“So, how was it growing up here?” Putting up her hands against any objections, she hurriedly continued, “Off the record, if you’d like. I’m not on the clock right now.”
He took a swig of beer. “It’s not the same experience as that of kids in the lower 48.” He eyed her and smiled warmly. “And probably much different than yours.”
She nodded as the bartender brought her lemonade, took a sip and asked, “In what way?”
“It’s a simpler life, calmer life. Lots of outdoor activities—hunting, fishing, skiing, boating, the dream life for any kid. My family would take road trips to Portage, Twentymile or any number of other glaciers, or go bear and deer hunting in Prince William Sound.” At her slight grimace, he continued, “I know. For most it’s not politically correct, but in Alaska, killing animals is not only a way of life but for some a necessity to survive. The native people wouldn’t have made it had it not been for the food the animal provided and the trade its fur maintained.”
She nodded. “I understand. My great-great-grandfather was part of the gold rush, and passed down adventurous stories of killing bears and catching fish with his hands. My grandfather still lives in Louisiana, my family’s home state, and loves to fish and hunt, as do some of my brothers.” His expression was mysterious. “What?”
“I would have never guessed we’d have something in common.”
“See, books can’t always be judged by their covers.”
“Obviously.” She detected a slight lowering of his privacy wall. “It’s not only the hunting and fishing background our families share. Gold is what brought my ancestors to Alaska.”
Over the next hour, Teresa learned about the Athabascan, Yupik and Inupiat peoples, as well as some cultural places she might find interesting. By the time they’d finished dinner, Teresa thought Atka had more
