Too Close For Comfort

“What’ll you have?” asked Charlie. He’d paused halfway through the swinging kitchen door.

“Mind if I run a tab?”

“Brother, half of Katimuk does. What’ll you have?”

“I could use a double martini, up, Bombay, twist.”

“Bombay?” One of the guys snorted. “You got the wrong part of the world, buddy.”

Everybody laughed. Somebody slapped the surface so hard, the entire bar rattled.

Charlie released the door and stepped back to the bar. Picking up a bottle of whiskey, he poured a shot and set it in front of Jeffrey. “Best I can do for a martini,” he said, “unless you’re a beer man.”

“Thanks, this’ll be great.” Jeffrey downed it, then glanced down the bar and made friendly, but direct, eye contact with each man.

Cyd released a pent-up breath. It appeared Jeffrey was up to the challenge and could handle this group.

“Anyone know where I can get a hotel room?” he asked.

On second thought, he couldn’t.

As though a dam had burst, the entire group erupted in laughter and more table slapping.

“Yeah, there’s a Hilton right down the road.”

“Wait, let me call you a taxi.”

“No, a limo!”

“Neither option is acceptable!” a guy yelled, evoking another explosion of laughter.

Jeffrey frowned in confusion. “Did you guys overhear?”

More laughter and bar thumping.

And Cyd thought the sled dogs made a hell of a racket.

Charlie returned from the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming apple pie in one hand. With the other, he poured more whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. “This one’s on the house.”

Jeffrey raised his drink. “To the great North.” He tossed back the whiskey.

One by one, the guys raised their drinks, some muttering “to the North,” some nodding solemnly. Cyd smiled. Mr. Jeffrey Bradshaw was showing that a thoroughbred could run with the pack. Damn if she wasn’t more than a bit impressed. He might be all city slicker on the outside, but he almost seemed to have the soul of a Northerner. As though he knew what it was like to be fierce, independent, tough.

Jeffrey strolled down the bar and sat on the stool at the very end of the bar, next to Cyd.

Harry, sitting on the other side of Cyd, glanced over, but before he could say anything, Charlie plunked down the plates of pie in front of him. Harry inhaled as though he’d never sucked in a decent breath in his life, groaned something about May deserving sainthood, then dug in.

Relieved that Harry was distracted for the time being, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. She glanced down. “Got the boots on, I see.”

He just looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Took me a while to figure them out.”

She shot him a questioning look.

“I never have to lace up my Italian loafers.”

She continued to stare at him, unblinking.

“I’m joking, Cyd.”

She rolled back her shoulders. “I knew that.” Her insides did a funny fluttering thing when Jeffrey flashed her that crooked, Harrison Ford-like smile.

Fortunately dinner arrived. The aroma of grilled meat and fries almost brought tears to Cyd’s eyes. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was all she could do to pick up a knife and fork and not dig into the meal with her bare hands.

“Looks good,” Jeffrey commented. “What is it?”

“Mooth,” she said with a full mouth.

Jeffrey gave her one of those quizzical looks, then nodded.

She swallowed. “Want some? Charlie makes killer homemade fries, too.”

“Uh, I’ll pass.”

Jeffrey checked out the back of the bar, his eyes landing on a Crock-Pot. “Got some soup there?” he asked Charlie.

“Caribou stew.”

Jeffrey paused. “Nothing with chicken or fish?” He didn’t dare ask if they had a vegetarian plate. Not unless he wanted to be attacked by a horde of moose-men.

Charlie, rubbing a glass with a red-checkered cloth, shook his head.

“I’ll take a bowl of that, then.” He lifted his empty shot glass. “And hit me again.” If he numbed himself enough, he wouldn’t think about what he was eating. Or that he should have packed his vitamins for this trip.

Or why Cyd seemed to have a love-hate relationship with him. He’d prefer more of the former and less of the latter.

He watched Cyd eat. She ate with the gusto of a lumberjack. She’d cut off a slab of meat, stack it with some fries and salad, then shoved the mess into her pretty little mouth and chew with a glazed look that bordered on blissful.

A woman who ate like that could probably kill a man in bed.

Charlie poured another whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. Jeffrey noticed the older guy had a red-white-and-blue peace symbol tattoo on his forearm.

Jeffrey raised the glass, toasted him, then downed the drink. The stuff hit like a hot jolt. Swallowing, hard, he thought back to how just last week he’d been in his New York loft, whipping up his specialty dish—Rock Cornish game hen in apricot sauce—and washing it down with an elegant, buttery chardonnay.

And mere days later, here he was deep in Moose World, numbing himself with mind-altering whiskey.

Charlie leaned closer to Jeffrey. “Brother, I have a cot that can be set up in the back, but my cousin-in-law has dibs on it for tonight. But if you don’t mind sleeping with a few dogs, we can throw a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace tonight.”

“That’d be great. I have an important radio call in the morning—”