Running Wild(Wild #3)(105)

It’s been easy.

It’s been … nice.

I frown. “Why are you asking? Are you going?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought you hated people.” I smile to soften the jeer. I think I’ve figured out how to talk to Roy, but with a man like him, whose mood for the day dictates whether he laughs or bites, you never can be too sure.

“I do, but I love chicken wings more.”

A knock sounds on the door a moment before it swings open.

“Is Agnes back al—” The air feels like it’s been sucked out of my lungs as Tyler steps through, stomping his boots on the doormat to shed the snow.

He can’t seem to decide where to look first—at the puppies rushing for him, at Mabel and me sitting on the floor, our legs splayed in a badly formed corral, or at the old man installing shelves.

In the end, the puppies win. He crouches to greet them, his deep chuckle soft and genuine as they paw at his knees.

Finally, he shifts his focus to me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I hadn’t forgotten how pretty his eyes are but seeing them now reminds me what it’s like when they’re on me. Like nothing else in the world matters.

It feels like just yesterday and yet forever ago that I saw him last. He looks much the same, except with a short and tidy ash-brown beard that coats his jaw, giving a more rugged look.

Because he wasn’t attractive enough.

I shutter the memories of that night before they can escape the box that I sealed them in and remind myself that Tyler is a mess of unresolved feelings for another woman.

That helps douse the simmering flames, but only a touch.

He scratches behind the brown-and-white one’s ears. “What are you doing with these guys?”

“Looking for homes for them. Mabel’s going to take one. She’s not sure which one yet.”

“This is Mabel?” Tyler looks to her. “The one working for that Ale House lady?”

Mabel lets out a low groan of despair, which makes Roy bark with laughter and me chuckle.

“Mabel, this is Tyler. He won the Iditarod this year. He was looking at hiring another person to help out at his kennel in the summer, and I mentioned you.” But that was before our relationship fell apart.

“To do what?” she asks curiously.

“Play with dogs?” He smirks. “Basically, what you’re doing now, except with big dogs, too. I’m there for the season now, but we could still use an extra hand, keeping them cared for and entertained. If you’re interested, let Marie know.”

“I don’t know anything about mushing, though,” she says warily.

“Yeah, that’s okay. My brother-in-law, Reed, is pretty patient when it comes to anything involving dogs.”

Her gaze darts to me, and I can’t get a read on whether there’s interest or reluctance there.

Tyler collects the gray puppy in his other hand. “What mix are these?”

“Husky Jacks.”

“High energy.” He holds it up to study its face.

“He’s way faster than the other two,” Mabel says.

“Yeah?” He smiles at her. “Bet this one could run in a team?”

She giggles. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

This all feels too normal, too casual. “What are you doing here, Tyler?”

He sets the puppy down and it bounds away, its attention on the ball again. “Was in the area. Thought I’d come and see you.”

“Why?” It’s only one word—one vague question—and yet it seems to thicken the air in the room.

“You know, Mabel, why don’t we take these things outside before they piss all over the floor?” Roy sets his drill on the shelf, collects his winter coat off the chair where he haphazardly threw it and his trapper hat, and scoops up two of the puppies, leaving Mabel to chase after the last and follow him out.

Tyler ventures farther in. “Looks good in here.”

I contemplate staying where I am, sprawled on the floor, my back propped against the wall, but drag myself up. “It was time for a change.”

He slows on the new picture of me, perched on the picnic table my father and I sometimes lunch at, Bentley, Yukon, and Aurora sitting prim at my feet. Vicki even did my hair. “How’s your family?”

“They’re fine.” I hesitate. “Except Vicki lost the baby.”

His frown is deep. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well … between Molly and finishing up school, she’s keeping busy.”

Silence lingers as I watch him appraise the new details. Or maybe it’s so he can choose his words. God, I miss him. Seeing him now soothes a relentless ache in my chest, and it shouldn’t.

“I know you aren’t treating my team anymore,” he begins slowly, “but I was hoping you would come out and see them run, like you said you did for Hatchett. I’m trying something different this year.” He bites his bottom lip. “A different matchup. Dryland training went well, but now that we have snow on the ground and I’m starting to build up their endurance, I was hoping you’d come out.”

“I don’t know good matchups. I’m not a musher.”

“But you know dogs. And I trust you.”

“You’ve got Don—”