Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) (16 page)

Surprisingly, the Fame!
Network did, too. Our boss was ecstatic over the early concepts we’d
floated, the fledgling cast of characters. Sam talked it all up as if
it were the greatest thing since sliced bread, and so far our
production manager was over the moon, telling us to take the full
three weeks to flesh everything out and get everyone on board.
Privately, Sam expressed more doubt to me. He still wasn’t
convinced there was enough scandal and intrigue in this wholesome,
family-friendly town. But he sure was dedicated to sniffing it out.

Me? I was on the fence,
one moment teetering this way, one moment the other. On the one hand,
I could see a show shaping up, maybe not a megahit show but something
interesting and—dare I say it speaking of a reality show—real,
featuring life in small town America. On the other hand, the typical
Fame! Network show involved DRAMA in all caps and I wasn’t seeing
even a hint of that in Watson.

On the other hand, and,
yes, I realized I now had too many hands but cut me some slack, I was
feeling mixed up—all I could think about was a huge mountain man
who gave me the best orgasms I’d ever had in my life and yet still
seemed to want nothing to do with me. And I didn’t think it was a
good idea to want anything to do with him. Probably. At least, not
much.

I drifted around the
antique store, admiring the odd collection. My fingers played along
the keys of an old typewriter.

“She’s a beauty,
isn’t she?”

I nodded, admiring the
heft of its black body, the satisfying click of the keys.

“You can mess around
with it if you want,” the shopkeeper offered. “I’ve got some
paper in back.”

“No, thanks. I’m
fine.” I smiled at her and looked at some of the other oddities on
the shelf. An old-fashioned egg beater operated by a crank. A pair of
wooden snowshoes.

The drumbeat of L.A.—of
the shows I made, the life I’d been leading—was all new, new,
new. The teen years were the prime years, for modeling, acting, even
market research. If you captured the teen demographic, you were
golden. Every hotel, bar and office space I knew was constantly
getting remodeled. Anyone over the age of 30 had touch-ups and tucks
and peels, employing all sorts of alchemy to delay the effects of the
steady march of years.

And I liked it, I still
did, the pursuit of the new. It was invigorating and exciting and
fun. Just-released music, new spring fashion trends, the hottest
fresh lipstick shades.

But I guessed I’d
never thought about what you missed out on if you threw out all the
old. How that frenetic pace rushed you right past stuff that might be
just as cool. I guessed it was like the difference between flying and
walking. If you flew, you could see more quicker, waste less time in
transit. But if you walked, maybe the travel itself became the
adventure? Maybe you’d cover less ground but have a better time
anyway?

I didn’t know. I
didn’t have the answers. But maybe it felt good to admit that? I
spent so much of my time pitching, selling, competing with others
trying to get a promotion, out at events so I could grow my network.
It required such vigilance, such a manic energy, the blowouts and
fabulous shoes and ball-busting confidence I had to project at all
times.

The other day in
Watson, I hadn’t even put on any makeup.

“Going native?” Sam
had asked me wryly, picking up a curly strand of my hair. Without
product and 20 minutes with a hair drier, my hair got pretty wavy.
That was something no one in New York or L.A. knew. But Watson,
Vermont knew it.

Heath knew it. I’d
primped less for our sleigh ride date than I typically primped to go
grab a coffee on a weekend morning. No one got coffee in L.A. without
getting camera-ready. Your makeup would be applied to achieve a
glowing and casual effect, of course, but you didn’t just walk out
the door unprepared. It simply wasn’t done.

But for Heath, I’d
deliberately stopped myself from getting all gussied up. I’d never
looked plainer, but no man had ever made me feel more beautiful. What
was up with that?

Before he’d picked me
up last night, I’d given myself a pep talk. No gazing dreamily at
him. No flirty banter. And no, absolutely no kissing. I had plenty of
good reasons.

A) I’d be leaving
Watson in a week and a half and I’d never see him again. And
somehow I already knew if I got into it with Heath, I’d be in deep.
He was an intense man. He wasn’t a fling. I don’t know how I knew
it, but I did.

B) He was trying to
ruin the project I was trying to get off the ground. Only he didn’t
seem to be trying that hard. He talked tough to me, but then he
mostly seemed to keep his opinions to himself. He hadn’t launched
operation Get Out of Town as I’d expected at first.

C) He wasn’t my type.
Except what was my type, exactly? Self-absorbed preeners? Competitive
posers? Heath made every previous boy crush look just like that—a
crush on a boy.

Maybe that was why my
checklist of reasons to keep my hands off had flown right out the
door the second I opened it the other night and saw him standing
there, gruff and huge and gorgeous in a knit cap. He was such a man.
There was his size, of course, his off-the-charts burliness I
honestly didn’t think I’d ever seen before in person. But there
was also something else about him, some sort of stillness. He didn’t
talk much, didn’t show off. He didn’t want to get head shots,
didn’t even seem to market his furniture. There was the rat race,
of which I was an official card-carrying member, and then there was
Heath, standing big and strong off to the side, his arms folded
across his chest as he watched us crawl all over each other. It made
a woman wonder.

But it was time for my
dance class, so I hustled on over. At least the Watson, Vermont
version of hustling, which involved chatting with the antique shop
owner a few more minutes about her collection of Nancy Drew mysteries
and then taking a bit of time before venturing outside again to fully
wind my scarf around my neck, pull down my reindeer hat and zip up my
parka.

The studio was about a
five minute walk away, and by the time I arrived I was thrilled to
step indoors again away from the chill.

“Welcome! You must be
Vi!” A big, rosy-cheeked woman with short grey hair dressed
head-to-toe in purple gave me a hearty greeting. “I’m Helga!”

If ever a woman should
be named Helga, it was this woman. I caught the hint of a German
accent and she commanded the attention of the eight or so women in
the room with a clap of her large hands. The group ranged in age from
around 20 to about 70. If I had to guess, with Helga pushing the
latter.

“You need to bring
it, you L.A. girl.” Helga pointed a finger and warned me. I liked
her instantly.

An hour later, we’d
all danced our booties off to an eclectic mix of ABBA, Taylor Swift,
Earth Wind and Fire, and Bruno Mars. You hadn’t lived until you’d
had a sassy older woman named Helga guide you through a dance routine
to
Uptown Funk
.

“This is what he
means when he says ‘white gold,’” she said to me with a wink,
pointing to her white hair. I wanted to be her when I grew up, so
full of spunk and self-confidence. She had enough energy I bet she
could power a city grid.

“You like our town?”
she asked me after the class.

“I do,” I answered,
surprising myself by realizing I meant it. I didn’t think I could
live there permanently—a thought I didn’t share with her—but as
a place to visit and get away from it all? Definitely.

“We have the best
people here,” she told me, giving hugs and pats on the back to the
women filing out the door. “We take care of each other.”

“That’s really
cool,” I agreed. I remembered a lot of times growing up when my
mother could have used more of a hand. On her own, she’d struggled
a lot. My father had drifted in and out, more out than in, and her
parents hadn’t been all that supportive, either. Sometimes Mom had
a reliable crew at her salon, but not always. What would it be like
to live in a community where people really took care of each other?

“Have you met Heath
yet?”

I started at the
mention of his name, an instant flush flooding my cheeks. Had I met
Heath? Had I been able to keep my hands off of him was a better
question. I managed a simple, “yes.”

“He fixed my roof,”
she said and I looked up. “Not here,” she explained, “at my
house. Last summer. I needed it patched up, and he did it for me.
Wouldn’t take a penny.”

“Really?” He’d
built a fence for old cranky Fred, fixed a roof for Helga. And given
me the best orgasms of my life. Something of my dreamy expression
must have shown on my face, because she said what was on my mind.

“He’s quite a
catch, you know. Some young girl like you should snap him up.”

“Oh, I’m not here
for long.” Damn it, I could tell I was blushing furiously and in no
way convincing her of my disinterest.

“It doesn’t take
long. You young people make everything so complicated. But take it
from me, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Is that right?” I
smiled at her.

“It is.” She smiled
back. “And I tell you what, if I were a little bit younger, that
Heath wouldn’t be so single anymore.”

I laughed. “Well,
Helga, I’ll be happy to put in a good word for you if you want.”

She shook her head,
clucking her good-humored disapproval as she gathered her coat and
flicked out the lights. “You young people. Always making things
more complicated than they have to be.” She locked the studio door
and looked straight at me with her ice-blue eyes. “When you know
you know.”

I stood there watching
her walk to her car and wondering if maybe Helga knew exactly what
she was talking about.

§

Later that night my
phone rang. Look at that, it was the man in question, the one I’d
given my number to but somehow had still never expected would call.

“Are you calling to
tell me to leave town?” I asked Heath, sitting down onto the couch
in my condo.

“No, I’m calling to
have phone sex.” Good thing I wasn’t drinking anything or I would
have spit it right out.

“What?”

“You asked a stupid
question.”

I fanned myself, glad
it wasn’t a video call. He didn’t need to see how hot and
bothered he got me with just a joke. It had been a joke, right? A few
suggestive words in his deep, rumbling voice and I was ready to go.

“Why are you calling
me?” I asked.

“I want you to leave
town.”

I rolled my eyes. “I
will, don’t you worry. But I have to stick around for the town hall
on Monday.”

“That’s six whole
days away. What are you going to do with yourself until then?”

I proceeded to tell the
smartass that I’d been keeping myself plenty busy, thank you very
much, getting to know the good people and businesses of the Watson,
Vermont area. I’d even hit the local slopes at Mad Mountain over
the past weekend. I’d lasted all of 30 minutes.

“There’s a reason
the motto is ‘ski it if you dare,’” he agreed.

“Now you tell me.”

“Well, if I’d known
you were going to try to ski there I would have helped you out.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He would have gone
skiing with me? That sounded suspiciously like a date. I had to tease
him again. “By help do you mean push me off a ski lift? Or elbow me
off a cliff?”

“If I were smart I’d
do that.”

“Oh, thanks. That
makes me feel better.”

“Don’t worry, I’m
not smart.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. You seem to
make me pretty dumb.”

A smile played at my
lips. I had to be careful around this man. But I also had to ask, “So
I make you dumb, do I?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

He paused. I had no
idea where he’d take this conversation. He could toss out another
insult and bring us back onto comfortable ground. But he didn’t do
that.

“I can’t stop
thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice husky and deep.

“Oh,” I said
softly, playing with my necklace, my stomach turning a big flip.

“I had a good time
last night.” Suddenly the space between us seemed to disappear. I
almost felt as if he were right there in the room with me.

“Me too.” I closed
my eyes. I could see it so clearly, him above me in the abandoned
barn, pushing my hands into the floor, working his way down my
stomach. The heat and hunger in his eyes, the way he’d feasted on
me like he was a starving man. He made me feel like his fantasy, like
he’d never been with a sexier woman.

“I didn’t see you
around today,” he said.

“Were you looking?”

“Yes.”

Oh my. I bit my thumb.
“You can always call me, you know.”

“I believe that’s
what I’m doing right now.”

We sat in intimate
silence for a moment, just the two of us together at night. “Where
are you?” he asked.

“In my condo, sitting
on my couch. How about you?”

“In my house, sitting
on my couch.”

“The one you built?”

“No, I didn’t build
this couch.”

“I meant the cabin.”

“Forgot I told you
about that,” he mumbled, sounding slightly shy. How about that?
Humility. I hadn’t come across it much in the men I knew.

“When did you build
it? How long did it take you?” I asked questions and he told me
about it, mostly responding but volunteering some information, too.
He said he still worked on it from time to time, adding or repairing,
but now he enjoyed being able to focus more on furniture and art.

“Plus helping the
elderly,” I called him out, letting him know Helga had told me
about his good deed.

“She ratted me out!”
he protested.

“More like tried to
set us up,” I confessed.