Now that I’ve seen pictures of Mila, I can see the family resemblance—the same dark hair, cow-brown eyes, and sharp jawline. He’s a good-looking kid, albeit a bit gangly.
He flashes a sheepish smile, his cheeks flushing, before his attention shifts to the dog. “She remembers you.”
As I’m sure he does, given our first meeting. “How are you, Reed?”
“I’m good.” H reaches out for the black dog. It comes running toward him without a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m here to see Tyler.” I look around the property. “Do you know where he is?”
“In the barn, but …” Reed frowns as he checks his watch.
“I’m a bit early, but he knows I’m coming this time.” I chuckle. “He unlocked the gate for me and everything.”
“Oh. Okay.” Accepting that, he moves toward the barn without another word, his stride lazy, as if it’s too much work to lift his feet.
I follow him, my curiosity brimming. “Tyler told me you moved here from Montana. How do you like Alaska so far?”
“Yeah, I like it.” He steals a glance at me before his focus is back on the path ahead, his fingers weaving through his hair. A rhythmic beat of rock music carries from inside.
“You lived with your parents before?”
“Uh-huh.”
I sense I’m going to have to pry answers from him. “How do you like living with Tyler?”
“It’s more fun than living with my parents.”
“I imagine it would be.” Even out here, in the middle of nowhere.
He steals another glance, this time grinning shyly. He just seems so innocent. I have to remind myself again that he’s twenty.
Tank trots out of the barn, and upon seeing me lets out an excited bark before speeding to greet me, sniffing my thigh.
“Do you guys normally let them run loose like this?” I scratch the lead dog behind the ear, wary of not standing too still after what happened last time I was here and he was off chain.
He shrugs. “Some of them, sometimes.”
“Some of them, sometimes,” I echo. That’s about as vague an answer as a person can give.
Reed leads me into the barn where the music is exponentially louder, and it smells of clean hay and fresh-cut lumber. I don’t know where to focus first. I’d never been to the Danson property, but it’s obvious the barn has been restored and converted into a keep for the dogs, with rooms on the right to house equipment and supplies for mushing. On the left, the stalls have small cutouts in the exterior walls. A giant shelf holds an array of trophies and framed photos, including the one of Tyler at the Iditarod. It pays homage not only to their achievements but to their past. In the center is a large photo of Mila on her sled, dressed in a red as vibrant as that of the barn.
I stop for only a second before a soft grunt pulls my attention past the area to an open space in the back corner.
My steps falter as I take in Tyler’s shirtless, dangling form, the muscles in his arms and back straining as he hoists his chin above the horizontal metal bar. Up and down he moves to the beat of the music, never breaking his stride, his skin coated in sweat, his track shorts hugging an ass that has clearly been hardened by countless squats and miles of jogging.
I realize with utter mortification that my mouth is hanging open.
And what’s worse, Reed is watching me drool over his brother-in-law, an unabashed grin of understanding on his face.
The song ends, and Tyler drops to the dirt floor. He’s reaching for his water bottle when he notices us standing there. “Marie.” The startled look on his face probably matches mine, but for vastly different reasons. “What are you doing here?”
I clear my voice, feeling my cheeks burn. “We have an appointment, remember?” Did he conveniently forget, so I could be treated to this when I arrived? He’s turned around and the front view is even more impressive than the back, taut from the muscle strain and damp from exertion, the peaks and ridges like that of a chiseled statue.
“Well, yeah, at nine.” He checks his watch. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”
“No. Cory booked us for eight.” Early enough that I could get back for my morning appointments without rushing.
“I do my workouts at eight on my days off. I told her that.” Tyler reaches for a towel that dangles from a bench press and wipes it across his forehead.
“Then there’s obviously been a misunderstanding because my calendar says eight,” I declare as I pull my phone out to prove myself right. “And she’s always good with …” My voice trails.
Eight a.m.: Tyler’s workout. Hopefully shirtless.
Nine a.m.: Kennel check at Tyler’s.
Cory must have revised my calendar moments ago. She’s added a smiley face and a “please don’t fire me” to the eight a.m. time slot.