He stirs with a sharp inhale, as if startled awake by a dream. Or a nightmare.
Time in the cozy, dim tent seems to hang for several beats, both of us frozen, inches apart, staring into each other’s bewildered eyes, equally confused by the current situation but surely for distinct reasons. I feel the tension radiating through his body as he processes the reality he woke up in.
Finally, he releases me and rolls off, settling onto his back. “Christ,” he whispers under his breath, rubbing his palms over his unshaven face. With a quick tap of his finger, he quiets the alarm on his watch, and then sits up and looks around. “Where is everyone?” His voice is groggy and deep, his hair a wild mess.
“I don’t know.”
He stares at a spot on the tent wall for so long that I wonder if he fell asleep with his eyes open before leaning over to collect a piece of wood. “This needs another log,” he whispers, more to himself.
I admire the way his clingy shirt stretches over his cut arms and the web of muscle across his back. Not until he shuts the stove door do I ask, “What are you doing in this tent?”
He groans as he flops back, his arms stretching over his head. “Fucking Hatchett.”
Of course. I should have known it had something to do with his nemesis. “What did he do?”
“What didn’t that idiot do? I was asleep in the mushers’ tent for maybe two hours when he came stumbling in with his shit and dropped his sleeping pad right beside me so he could be close to the stove. He stepped on me, twice. Don’t even try to tell me that was accidental because I caught his smile the second time.”
I wince. These mushers bank on their twenty-four-hour rest to catch up on much-needed sleep so they can make it to the finish line.
“And then he jammed the stove with so much wood, he turned the tent into an oven. I was sweating so bad, I thought I’d have to strip down.”
My gaze flitters over his torso. Yes, that would have been terrible. “Are you sure it was Harry who did that?” Because it sounds like someone else I know.
“Yeah, I watched the prick do it. I went outside to cool off. Both literally and figuratively, because I was ready to choke him—” His jaw ticks with tension. “I ran into Terry, and he sent me in here. I couldn’t see who was in the bag next to me. I didn’t know it was you.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but no words come out.
Uncomfortable silence hangs in the tent. That mistaken kiss seems to have left both of us off-kilter.
I try to shake it off. “Did Harry say anything to you when he arrived at the checkpoint?”
“No.” After a moment, a slow smile spreads across Tyler’s handsome face, blossoming into a grin. “But he showed up just in time to see them hand me my gold and take a picture with my trophy, and he looked a little stiff.”
I chuckle. “He is very competitive and convinced he’s going to win this year.” But would Harry disrupt another musher’s much-needed sleep like that on purpose? Yes, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t put it past him, especially where Tyler is concerned.
What an asshole. It reeks of unsportsmanlike behavior, and yet it’s not blatant enough to get him kicked out of the Iditarod.
Tyler stands with a stretch. “I better get out there. The dogs have been sleeping for almost eight hours. They’ll be up again soon.”
I try not to stare as he dresses but fail miserably. I’ve only ever seen Tyler in bulky outer clothes but now, in his fitted base layer, with the fresh log aglow, its steady burn illuminating the tent, I have a prime view of his fit, athletic body.
And thanks to the snugness of his long woolen underwear, little is left to the imagination, both from the back and when he turns around.
I close my eyes and listen to him slipping on his ski pants. I don’t need these visuals burned into my brain while I’m still reeling from that kiss.
“You on duty soon?” he asks, drawing my eyes open again, just in time to see him tug his wool sweater over his head.
His question reminds me that I’m not here to make out with and ogle mushers. “Yeah. I should have been out there hours ago. Terry was supposed to come and get me.” I peel myself from my cozy sleeping bag and reach for my own ski pants.
“The last I saw him, he was heading into the hut.” Tyler’s attention drifts over my wool leggings and shirt, stalling on my chest for a brief second before he ducks his head to pull on his boots.