As I walk up the concrete steps of the Northstar, I shrug away the fanciful notion of a romantic getaway, breathing deep to steady my nerves.
This is just a date. A first date, I remind myself. No sense in setting your expectations too high, Luke.
The lobby is warmer than outside and decorated in typical Alaskan kitsch: a bear skin on the wall and moose antlers framing the reception desk. The concierge recognizes me and offers a friendly wave as I pass by his desk, headed to the little lounge area that has a few comfy leather chairs and a fireplace. Just before I get there, I duck into the bathroom, washing my hands and checking out my reflection one last time.
At six foot, two inches and just over two hundred pounds, I’m not in the best shape of my whole life, but I’m not in my twenties anymore either. I don’t have a dad-belly because I don’t drink a lot of beer, but it probably wouldn’t take much to make it happen. Luckily, due to regular work-outs with my cadets, I’m not flabby. Short of my prime, perhaps, I’m fit enough to look solid and healthy.
I keep my dark hair short and neat, and without my beard I could pass for thirty, I guess. It’s my dimples that make me look younger than I am. That or my eyes, which are a deep sky blue.
With my heart thundering behind my t-shirt, I run my hands through my hair before wiping them dry. It’s two minutes to seven. Time to face the music, Luke.
As I exit the rest room, turning the corner toward the lobby lounge, my eyes scan the seating area for a woman wearing white, but the chairs in front of the fireplace are empty. I can’t decide if this is a good or bad thing for my nerves, but there’s no point in doing a lap around the lobby. I may as well wait for her to show.
I step over to the fireplace and fix my sights on the antique map hung over the mantle. It’s so old, it marks Denali as Mt. McKinley and makes no reference to any city north of Anchorage, simply referencing the whole area north of the Yukon River as the Arctic Circle, with little cartoon pictures of Eskimos ice fishing and perfectly-shaped igloos arranged in a happy village.
“I bet there are citizens of this country who’d still buy this map as accurate,” says a voice beside me.
Jerking my head to the right, I find a petite redheaded woman looking up at the map, and I realize with some surprise that her profile is familiar.
Holy crow.
Miss Seattle Sentinel.
Quickly flicking my eyes down, then up, I can further confirm that she’s wearing ass-hugging jeans and a sweater as white as new-fallen snow.
My date?
“Are you…Amanda?” I ask.
She turns her face to me, offering me her hand and a winsome grin.
“I am. And you’re…Luke.”
Luke. My eyes dilate the instant she purrs my name. I don’t watch much porn, but in the porn movie of my dreams? There would definitely be a woman who says my name like she just did.
“Good to meet you,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine and wondering if she recognizes me from yesterday or if my losing the beard has thrown her.
“You too,” she says, biting her bottom lip as she stares at me. She scans my face like she’s trying to remember me but can’t quite place where she knows me. I like the feeling of her eyes on me. I like the way it feels to have all of her attention. It gives me a chance to study her too.
Yesterday, I could only see a soggy curl of red hair plastered to her face, but today her hair is long, dry and silky, falling in auburn waves over her shoulders and down her back. Insanely sexy.
And her eyes? She must have kept them downcast yesterday, because I don’t remember them being quite so big and bright. They’re like cat’s eyes—a vibrant green with flecks of gold. I’m mesmerized, pumping her hand hypnotically as I stare into them.
Frankly, the only thing I don’t love about the way this woman looks right this second? Those freckles that I noticed yesterday are all covered up with make-up tonight. I wish I could lick my thumb and swipe it slowly along her cheekbone to uncover them, to coax them out of hiding.
She cocks her head to the side. “Have we met before?”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Not long. Two nights.” She slides her hand from mine, and I’m sorry for its loss. “You just look so famili—wait a second! You’re the cop! The one who gave me a ride yesterday!” Her head straightens and she raises her eyebrows. “Still mad at me?”
Honestly? I am so surprised to see her again, and so blown away by reconciling her soggy, angry self from yesterday with tonight’s out-on-a-date sex kitten look, I’d forgotten I was mad at her at all.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Didn’t look mad when you said hello just now.”
“I didn’t recognize you at first.”