A few women sitting in the booth behind them had overheard because they turned and chimed in. Sloan recognized them from the hotel lobby but couldn’t conjure names out of the soup of introductions she’d had the evening before. “It just sort of happens,” the smaller brunette said.
“To everyone?”
“Well, the men mostly,” her friend added. “But several of the women do, too. Like Chooch.”
“Where did she get that nickname?” Sloan probed, anxious to know how the sweet woman she’d met could possibly have a name like that.
“She doesn’t say. I think it’s private.”
Sloan nearly choked on her coffee at that news. Private?
Although she knew names were personal—hers had always been a source of conversation as it wasn’t the most typical name—but for no one to know where a fellow townswoman had gotten her name? “But why would it be private?”
“Likely on account of the pillow talk,” Bear added, his face a blazing shade of red as he reached quickly for his coffee cup.
“Excuse me?” Sloan had the sudden feeling she’d fallen into some parallel universe. What kind of pillow talk could possibly result in a name like Chooch?
“You know, pillow talk. Don’t tell me a big-city girl like you has never heard of it.”
A long, slow roll of desire filled her as Walker Montgomery’s deep, husky voice registered somewhere around her stomach. “I think I’ve heard of it.”
“Then you know how it works.” Walker dropped into the booth next to her and Sloan quickly made way for him as his thigh touched hers. “Private moments. Private conversations.”
“If it’s so private, how does Bear here know how Chooch got her name?”
A slight frown marked Bear’s forehead—Sloan wasn’t sure if it was the conversation or Walker’s arrival that had put it there—but his affable smile didn’t take long to return. “Hooch brags about it pretty often.”
“Ah.” Sloan nodded, the image of the couple she’d met engaging in sex rapidly forcing a subject change.
The waitress arrived with her breakfast and Bear glanced at the meal being set down, then back up to Walker before his gaze settled on Sloan. “Well, I’ll let you get to your breakfast.”
“You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
Bear eyed Walker, looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it. “Thank you, but I’ve eaten. I just wanted to come over and introduce myself properly.”
“It was lovely to meet you, Bear.” Sloan held out her hand to shake his, fascinated when her hand disappeared in his palm.
“You, too.” Bear got to his feet. “Walker.”
“Bear.” Walker’s voice was smooth, but the note of implacable steel was evident underneath.
Sloan watched the interesting byplay between the two men and knew there was some sort of unspoken pissing match going on. Although she was tempted to say something, a small voice reminded her she wasn’t back home any longer.
This was a different sort of place and she was fast coming to realize she wasn’t entirely sure of the rules.
As Walker ordered his breakfast and Bear headed toward his companions to retrieve his coat, her thoughts drifted to an image of Trent, with his smooth words, practiced smile and two-hundred-dollar haircut.
The epitome of the suave, wealthy American male. If she hadn’t known him well—or his reputation—she’d likely have thought him charming. The man who had a ready quip and quick comeback for any situation.
Her gaze caught on Bear’s large, burly frame as he exited the diner and then on to Walker’s linebacker-sized shoulders as he stood to slip out of his coat, and she realized these men had a different sort of charm.
Rugged.
Weathered.
Real
.
Walker took Bear’s spot and reached for a glass canister of sugar. “So you’re curious about nicknames?”
She watched, fascinated, as he dumped the equivalent of four spoonfuls into his coffee.
The waitress returned with Walker’s stack of pancakes and a side of bacon, dropping off both along with a wink for Sloan.
With a mental head shake and the acknowledgment that nothing seemed to escape anyone’s notice, Sloan refocused on Walker. “Lots of people seem to have them.”
“I guess. You just get used to them. I remember lots of guys from college who had them, too. It’s not exclusive to Indigo.”
The syrup bottle came next as Walker covered his pancakes in about twice the amount of sugar he had just shoveled into his coffee.
“No, but you have to admit it’s a bit unique.”
When he only shrugged, she added, “Where’d you go to school?” Sloan reached for the syrup, indulging the sudden urge to add pure sugar to the light layer of butter that had melted into the stack.
“Dartmouth for undergrad. NYU for law school.”
“Really?” She cut a small bite of pancake and almost groaned in ecstasy as the first fluffy taste of carbohydrates hit her tongue.
Walker kept his gaze level on hers as he reached for his coffee and took a large sip. “Just because I live here doesn’t mean I never wanted a chance to see something else.”
“That’s fine. I was only wondering. I’d have likely said the same thing if you were from California.”
“Not likely.”
Her eyes widened as his words registered. “I’m sorry?”
“You came here with a set of preconceived notions. Admit it.”
“I did not.”
Even as she defended her comments, Sloan could admit he had a point. While she wasn’t one of those people who believed anyone outside Manhattan couldn’t possibly be interesting, she also didn’t expect to come to Alaska to drink Rothschild, look at a Chihuly and flirt with a Dartmouth grad.
Which didn’t make her a snob, damn it.
“Sure you did. It’s okay. We get it all the time.”
“If you’d pull that prickly stick out of your ass, you’d see that I was simply making conversation.”
Coughing around a bite of bacon, Walker let out a belated chuckle. “Prickly stick?”
“Sure. You’ve got a few preconceived notions yourself. About my expectations and the fact I’m a city girl and all.”
Walker leaned forward, his broad shoulders taking up her entire field of vision, just as they had the evening before. Fascinated, she couldn’t help the quick peek she gave them—measuring their width with her eyes—before turning her gaze back to him.
He was so large. So imposing. So undeniably male. Talk about a strong sexual presence. She tried to refocus her scattered thoughts.
“Are you going to make me change my preconceived notions, Blondie?”
“You don’t think I can?”
“Are you signing up for the competition?”
Dropping back against the padded vinyl of the seat, Sloan let out a small groan at how neatly he had boxed her in. “Are you back to that? Why do you care so much?”
“I think it’ll be good research.”
“Or a raging humiliation.” Where the hell did
that
come from? Sloan wanted to slink down lower in the booth as he keyed in on her slip.
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m not scared. Not exactly.”
“It sounds like it.”
“If there’s any fear, it’s fear of humiliation.”
He kept his gaze on his plate, forking up his last bite of pancake, but Sloan didn’t miss the speculation in his tone. “It’s all done in fun.”
“Fun for who? Because it doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun to drag heavy pails of water down Main Street.”
“We don’t make you go very far.”
“We?”
“I meant the collective we,” Walker said, pointing his fork outward. “As in the town.”
“Well, then. From the collective
we
, I hear, there’s a dinner dance and bachelor auction after all this not-so-horribly-difficult set of tasks. Are you participating?”
“I’ll be there to support my grandmother, but I don’t go on the auction block.”
“Oh no?”
“No.”
Sloan didn’t miss the hard edge to his words. “So who does participate?”
Walker’s gaze followed the same path as his fork, skipping around the room. “The guys. Bear. Skate. Tommy Sanger. Chuck Bartlett. Pretty much that entire row of booths back there.”
The urge to turn around was strong, but Sloan kept her attention on Walker. “Not afraid of a little competition, are you?”
“I don’t go on the block. It’s a matter of principle.”
“A lawyer with principles?”
“Damn good ones, too,” he growled into the top of his coffee cup.
“Are you embarrassed, Counselor?”
“It’s undignified.”
Her mouth fell open at his pronouncement. “This from a man who thinks it’s all right to compete in bachelorette events up and down Main Street.”
“It’s not the same. It’s not your grandmother watching the proceedings like a hawk.”
With an unladylike snort, she reached for her coffee cup. “I’d pit my mother against your grandmother any day.”
Sloan didn’t even realize the import of her words until Walker’s dark chocolate gaze turned assessing. “Would you, now?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t you know, dahling”—Sloan dropped her voice to a mock whisper—“it’s simply scandalous that Winifred McKinley’s daughter is still single. An absolute horror.”
“And what would Winifred McKinley think about her daughter competing in something as crass as a bachelorette competition?”
Sloan forked up another bite of pancakes. She’d already sinned for the day—might as well enjoy every last, delicious bite. “She’d be mortified.”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
The dare hung between them, like a live wire sparking in a puddle.
Sloan had never used her mother’s behavior as a catalyst for her own, but in that moment, the thought of doing something so outside the bounds of propriety suddenly seemed like a very good idea.
Inspired, actually.
Sort of like the pancakes, only better.
More delicious.
More sinful.
As her gaze roamed over Walker Montgomery, she realized something else. While there were implications to her behavior in front of Scarsdale’s elite, no one here knew her.
Or cared about her background. Or, frankly, cared about her future. They just seemed pleased she was here now.
Oddly enough, she suddenly realized, that made all the difference.
“Tell you what, Counselor. If you’re in, I’m in.”
Aside from the fact that Mick would brand him a traitor to the cause
and
that his grandmother would think she’d finally won in their annual battle of wills, Walker considered the challenge.
Maybe it was the sleepless night, courtesy of Blondie here.
Or maybe it was finding Bear sitting opposite her with damn cupids floating in his fucking eyes that set him off.
Either way, something deep down inside him—something
primal
—had him unwilling to leave her exposed to the rest of the men in this town, all of whom were eyeing her like a brand-new Zamboni for the town rink.
A bright, shiny Zamboni with a heartbreaking smile, warm blue eyes and truly superior breasts.
And that, my friends, was the sign of a man completely losing it.
That he’d dare compare the woman to a
Zamboni
was bad enough. That she’d torqued him up so much he was willing to concede to his grandmother . . .
Well, fuck.
“I’m in.”
Those blue eyes widened at his words. “That’s it? You’re in?”
“It’s relatively simple. In or out.”
“For someone who’s pushed back on this annual tradition for so long, you’re awfully quick to concede.”
“Maybe I’ve just never seen such healthy competition before.” Or a reason to jump in with both feet.
One perfect eyebrow rose above that cool blue gaze. “You already said the women don’t compete with the men. They compete with one another.”
“Yes.” Walker leaned back in his chair, unable to keep the satisfied smile from his face. “You’re all competing for me.”
Although he’d always had a fairly healthy ego, even he wasn’t smug enough to think that wasn’t going to get a rise out of her. Which is why her burst of laughter—loud and husky and so damned sexy that his body went on red alert—shocked him.
“Well, there’s one stereotype I got right.”
“What’s that?”
“The ‘I’m man enough to live in the wilderness and nothing can touch me’ stereotype. Rugged, wild and God’s gift to women, despite long stretches without bathing or general grooming.”