Chapter 7

Valentine

I bask in the warmth of The Wounded Caribou as soon as I step inside. While I have plenty of new rugged clothes to wear, I’ve not completely abandoned my fashion sense. I chose a pair of dark jeans, a white thermal crewneck, and a dove-gray fuzzy fleece vest. I’d learned that while the mornings are cold, layers are what’s required, as it will heat up a bit during the day. Sarah warned me they were calling for rain later this morning, so I put on my new rain boots, and while I don’t feel like a complete local as far as my attire, I don’t feel like a New York socialite dropped into the middle of the wilderness either.

The air smells like bacon and waffles and I take a deep breath. I scan the interior and it’s mostly empty. I’ve learned very quickly that East Merritt is busy very early in the morning, dead during the day while the men are at work, and then hopping again at night.

My body gives a slight jolt of pleasurable recognition as I see Logan sitting in one of the window booths. His back is to me but I recognize the broad shoulders and dark hair curling over the edge of his gray jacket.

Without hesitation, I walk his way and slide into the seat opposite him. “I’m glad to see you have another jacket to wear. I’ve still got yours back at Sarah’s.”

His head tilts up and a slow smile comes to his face. “Well, good morning, Miss French. And I’m not worried about the jacket. I’ll swing by and get it sometime.”

“I thought it was Valentine,” I return with an exaggerated pout over his formality. “It seems we’re regressing.”

Logan chuckles and picks up a piece of bacon from his plate. He points it at me and says, “It’s what all the guys around here are calling you. They think it’s high class to call you that since you’re clearly a lady of some distinction.”

I roll my eyes and snort. “Now that’s just sad.”

“I agree,” he says with a wink, and then adds with flourish, “Valentine.”

And wow…I’m so used to people calling me Valley or Val that Valentine sounds unusually exotic coming from Logan. I’m definitely not going to correct him or insist he use my nickname.

The waitress comes over—same one that served us yesterday—and she gives me a tight smile. She’s about my age, maybe a bit younger, and quite pretty in an almost Barbie doll kind of way. Golden hair, baby blue eyes, voluptuous figure. Her name tag says Darla.

“You need a menu?” she asks me, her voice bordering on icy. She’s holding a tray in one hand that has a coffeepot and a cup balanced in the center.

I turn to look at Logan. “You mind if I eat with you?”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Hmmm…well, that’s not exactly a rousing invitation, but I’ll take it. I like Logan and he’s easy to talk to, and he’s so damn easy on the eyes.

I turn back to Darla. “I’ll just have a low-fat blueberry muffin and coffee.”

“Only muffins we got have fat in them,” she says flatly.

Logan snickers.

“Oh, well…then how about two poached eggs—”

“We don’t poach eggs here,” she cuts me off.

I huff out an exasperated breath and just give into some unhealthy food choices. “Just give me a stack of pancakes and coffee.”

She nods stiffly and moves the cup from her tray to the table in front of me. She pours the coffee almost all the way to the top, and then turns around without another word. I shrug, assuming she’ll put my order in.

I turn to Logan, who’s got his head bent toward his plate, working on his food, but he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What’s so funny?” I ask before taking a sip of my coffee so I can make room for the milk and sugar. I grimace at the taste.

“Lots of things,” he answers.

“Start with the funniest,” I say dryly, doctoring my coffee so it’s palatable.

He looks up at me, those blue eyes shimmering with laughter, and oh my God…he has dimples. How did I not notice that before? And…oh my fucking God…he shaved, and now I can see his dimples, and wow…that face is just…wow. Logan has that proverbial strong jaw and cut cheekbones, and without his facial hair competing, his eyelashes seem even darker and fuller around his eyes.

“I find it hilarious you ordered a low-fat muffin,” he says, and I blink for a moment because I’d gotten lost ogling him.

But then I’m back on track. “Why is that hilarious?”

“Because this is Alaska. No one eats low-fat anything.”

“Okay, lesson learned,” I say with a nod as I lean my elbows on the table. “What’s the next funny thing?”

“It’s funny the way you’ve turned this town upside down within just two days,” he says.

“What?” I gasp, completely stunned not only by his words but by the fact he’s both serious and amused about it.

“Oh come on, Valentine,” he teases me. “You’ve got guys following you around like puppy dogs—”

“I do not,” I exclaim indignantly.

“You got three dates in one night,” he points out.

Okay…that could be a valid point. “But—”

“And Darla giving you the cold shoulder,” he continues, nodding to the left where I see Darla laughing with a few customers as she refreshes their coffee. “You’re totally encroaching on prized territory.”

“Prized territory?” I’m totally lost. I pick up my coffee and take a sip while I wait for him to explain this to me.

“Do the math, Valentine. I suspect you’re a smart cookie,” he says.

“I graduated from Columbia,” I say absently. “And if my math is right, there’s plenty of men for what few women there are here.”

“True,” Logan says with a nod. “But the men that are sniffing around you…they’re the cream of the crop. The ones that know they got a shot with a woman like you. They’re the most highly desired men, and so while there may be an abnormally large amount of men here, the women don’t necessarily want all of them. They just want a few.”

“I don’t think I’m following you,” I say hesitantly.

Or maybe I don’t want to follow his line of reasoning.

“You’re gorgeous, Valentine,” Logan says matter-of-factly. Like he was discussing the weather. “You’re attracting the hot guys. Those are not in infinite numbers here. So you are moving in on prized territory. There are going to be some females—like Darla—that won’t like you just because of that.”

“But…but…that’s so high schoolish,” I stammer.

Logan shrugs. “It is what it is. And it also doesn’t help that you went out with Monte Plume last night. Darla’s been sweet on him.”

“Oh shit,” I mutter, and lean forward, letting my forehead thunk lightly on the tabletop. When I raise it and look back at Logan, I ask, “Do you think she’s going to spit in my food?”

“Probably,” he says with a sympathetic look. “Want some of mine?”

Logan pushes his plate across the table and I snag a piece of bacon.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Logan says, and there’s not a trace of humor in his voice now. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“I don’t want people to dislike me,” I say softly. “Especially when I’ve done nothing to earn that.”

“Honey,” Logan drawls, and he does this while smiling kindly. “The mere fact you’re a female is a strike against you in this town with other females, but add the fact that you’re drop-dead gorgeous…well, I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is here. Nothing to be done about it and you shouldn’t worry.”

I heard nothing he said after drop-dead gorgeous because he most certainly didn’t say that with the tone of someone discussing the weather. It came out in a low, rumbling appreciative way.

I tip my head to the side and ask, “You think I’m gorgeous?”

Logan grins at me with mischief and then says, “Let’s change the subject. How was your date with Monte last night?”

Ugh…my date with Monte. I’d rather not think about it, and I’m actually a little embarrassed to be talking about it with Logan. I’m not sure why that is, because in just a couple of days, he’s proven to be a very nice friend indeed. But I also get the feeling—even though he swears he’s not—that he’s a little judgmental about me accepting so many dates in one night.

Regardless, there’s nothing to do but tell him the truth since he just asked me a very direct question.

“He’s a very nice man,” I start off by saying.

“Date was that bad, huh?” he guesses as he takes his coffee cup in hand.

“No…it wasn’t exactly bad, but…it wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” Logan asks curiously.

I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. “That night he asked me out, after you left…well, he told me he was a lumberjack.”

“That’s technically correct, I guess,” Logan says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And you know, I thought that was really interesting,” I say by way of explanation. “I mean, this is Alaska, and if I’m going to go out with Alaskans, well, shouldn’t one be a lumberjack at least?”

“Indubitably,” Logan agrees, humoring me. “But those that work in forestry, felling trees, the accurate term for their profession is a logger.”

“Yeah, I realized that,” I snap in irritation. “When he brought me to work with him for our date.”

Logan’s jaw drops slightly and his expression is blank for all of about two seconds, then he throws his head back and roars with laughter. When he tips his chin back down and makes eye contact with me, he at least has the grace to wind it down to some low-level chuckles as he sets his cup down on the table and leans in toward me a bit. “He took you to work with him?”

“Yes,” I grumble. “He took me to the America’s Best Lumberjack Show over in Ketchikan.”

Logan snorts, then looks apologetic. “So you figured out that Monte doesn’t actually cut down trees for a living.”

Yes, I found that out. Turns out Monte is actually sort of an actor-slash-lumberjack in a highly entertaining, slightly cheesy outdoor show that highlights a variety of athletic competitions based on the logging industry. And Monte didn’t take me there on a date to watch it together. No, he was actually scheduled to work that night, so my date consisted of watching him from the stands while he threw axes at targets and rolled logs in water trying to throw his opponent off. I’ll admit, the show was cute, but it was not fun to sit there by myself and watch Monte do these things.

It was also not fun after the show to watch him posing for pictures with tourists, many of whom were women who wanted their pictures taken with the hot lumberjack. I mean, he was in a flannel shirt with the arms cut off to show impressively bulging biceps and tight jeans. Who wouldn’t want their picture taken with him? I guess the thing that really bothered me was when I watched him give his number to a woman while I waited in the stands for him.

“I’m guessing watching him perform in America’s Best Lumberjack Show wasn’t exactly your idea of a good time,” Logan says.

“He was working,” I reiterate. “Now granted, he did take me to dinner after at The Wounded Caribou where I was treated to watching him take on the Grizzly Plate.”

Logan’s face scrunches up in distaste. “He didn’t try to do that while he was on a date with you, did he?”

I nod, my stomach rolling just a bit at the memory.

“What a fucking idiot,” Logan says, shaking his head.

And with that I’d agree. While Monte is a nice guy, he knows nothing about impressing a woman. I was already disappointed that I spent an hour and a half watching him flex his muscles followed by him giving his number to another woman. But the date really went south when he ordered the Grizzly Plate at The Wounded Caribou.

Ted was there and had waited on us.

He’d warned Monte not to do it.

But Monte was pumped up on the adrenaline high of a good show and sitting across the table from “one hot tamale”—his words for me, not mine—that he insisted on it.

He bragged to me about it, promising that I’d be very impressed.

So Monte went for the Grizzly Plate, which was two pounds of caribou, a half pound of smoked ham, twelve strips of bacon, six ounces of Swiss cheese, six ounces of American cheese, and one pound of fries.

Why would someone eat that in one sitting, you ask?

Well, because he would win a free T-shirt that says I ATE THE GRIZZLY PLATE AND SURVIVED and he had intended to win that for me. Like we were at the carnival or something and he was trying to win me a stuffed animal.

“How far did he make it?” Logan asks hesitantly, but I can see the laughter dancing in his eyes.

My nose wrinkles up. “About three-quarters of the way through before he threw up.”

“Fucking idiot,” Logan mutters again while shaking his head in disbelief.

“It wasn’t pretty,” I admit mournfully, my first date with an Alaskan wild man a complete and utter failure. I wrote my blog article as soon as I got home and it was titled, “The Grizzly Plate Demolished the Orgasm and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt.” I’ll have to admit, it was hilarious and the comments it started generating immediately had me laughing long into the night while Sassy lay curled into my side.

“I’m sorry your date sucked,” Logan says with a genuine smile. “Can’t say as I know Rusty all that well, as I only talked to him a few times since he’s fairly new around here, but he seems to be a little more levelheaded than Monte. I’m sure tonight will be better.”

I give a little laugh, appreciating Logan’s attempts to make me feel better. And while it actually was easy to sit here and talk about my date with Monte last night because it was a hilarious disaster, there is a big part of me wondering what it would be like to go out with Logan. Sadly, I’m not sure that’s going to happen, as he doesn’t appear to be attracted to me in that way. We’ve been around each other for three meals now and two long car rides, and he’s not given me a lot to go on. He’s certainly not flirted with me or given me shameless compliments other than the “drop-dead gorgeous” comment, but then after that…nothing. He changed the subject.

No, I don’t think a date with the sexy chief of police is going to happen, and that will just have to be one adventure that Valentine’s Couch will have to do without.