the memory of Anya Petrova’s eyes flashed in Brock’s mind. That deep, welcoming violet filled him with a sudden rush of warmth.
He frowned and wondered what that was all about.
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
