Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) (10 page)

Butter. Carbs. Warm
from the oven. Holy hell what had I been doing all my life without
them?

Sam watched me with a
gleam in his eye akin to a vampire spotting fresh blood. But he
exerted more willpower than me. No, he brought his arm up over his
eyes as if shielding from sunlight. We didn’t usually encounter
anything this tempting in L.A. Juice bars, sushi bars, vegan protein
bars, that was the way we rolled. We were wrong.

“Good, right?” Mrs.
Claus winked at me, then ducked back into her magical workshop with
the elves where they were hopefully making more scones. I wanted to
bring some back with me to the condo.

“Some folks here will
be friendlier than others.” The mayor returned to his earlier
theme. “Just go easy on them. Take it slow. I haven’t done much
talking about this opportunity to anyone. I didn’t want to…” He
paused and looked at me and Sam, choosing his words carefully. “I
wanted to give you a chance to meet folks yourselves, in person.
That’s always the best way.”

Funny, I’d been in a
meeting just last week about how virtual reality avatars were soon
going to replace most business travel. No more boarding planes and
sleeping in hotels for a morning meeting, then turning right back
again. You could simply send your avatar in your place. We were
apparently only a year or two from that technology. Guess Vermont
hadn’t gotten the memo.

After stuffing the rest
of the scone into my mouth and buying a half-dozen to bring back with
me—no I did not what to know what was in them, thank you, I told
Mrs. Claus who apparently was also the baker—the mayor took me and
Sam out on the town. And by out on the town, I meant driving around
remote, wooded roads that all looked pretty much the same. Heavy
snow, large trees, barely any buildings at all.

It was pretty, though,
in a remote arctic apocalyptic kind of way. Too bad the concept for
the show wasn’t nuclear winter with a small batch of survivors.
That could definitely be filmed on location.

But all the red barns
with their silos, the stone walls that had stood the test of time,
the mountains in various hues layering into the distance. I had to
admit, Watson was pretty.

At a tour of the local
elementary school, Sam found something else pretty in the form of a
bright and cheerful 23-year-old kindergarten teacher. She literally
wore a pink cotton dress with white flower springs all over it and
her hair up in a high ponytail with a pink and white ribbon. If a
super popular cheerleader from the 1950s grew up to become a
kindergarten teacher today, she would look like that. Enthusiasm and
pep radiated off of her.

“Would I?!?” she
exclaimed when Sam asked if she’d like to join us for dinner.

The sarcastic bitch in
me almost asked back, “I don’t know, would you?” But I put that
sarcastic bitch right back in my hip pocket and smiled at her. She’d
be perfect for the show. I’d bet money she was a virgin. We’d
have to find her a hunk to fall for all under the watchful eyes of
millions of viewers. They’d eat it up.

No sign of a giant,
sexy as hell mountain man, though. And we hit all the local hot
spots, the post office, the general store, the yoga studio. Actually,
it didn’t seem to just be a yoga studio. The woman who worked
there, wearing long, dangly earrings, hair woven into two, long
braids and a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, explained that it was
a meditation center, a yarn shop, a yoga studio and a community
gathering space. However it functioned, it was in desperate need of a
new coat of paint. Plus, something about the woman was super
off-putting.

“Let’s blow this
popsicle stand,” Sam muttered to me as we pretended to look through
a flier advertising psychic services. Apparently the woman was a
medium, too.

“YOU!” Suddenly
crisp and clear as a bell, the psychic hippie lady turned to me,
grabbing me through my parka which in and of itself was an impressive
feat. The jacket had a lot of padding. “I see big changes for you!”

She looked right into
me with her strangely pale blue eyes. I froze, caught in the
spotlight, praying she was a fraud as I’d assumed she was. Please
don’t let her say anything about a tall, dark, handsome man!

“A tall, dark,
handsome man! Entering into your life!”

“Wish he was entering
mine,” Sam murmured to me, still clearly dismissing her as a
nutjob.

I pulled my arm away.
“Thanks, maybe I’ll come by for a reading.”

“You need to let go
and embrace this!” she told me, her eyes wide.

I stifled a laugh. I’d
let go and embraced Heath all right. I’d let go and embraced him
all the way to a crazy intense orgasm in the cab of his truck.

“Thank you!” Sam
rescued me, waving goodbye at her and pulling me with him as we
exited the store. “So that’s a no,” he declared once we were
outside. “But how about that adorable kindergarten teacher? Can you
say storyline?”

“Storyline.” I
pulled myself together, pulling up the zipper of my parka as far as
it would go. She probably told everyone that she saw them meeting a
tall, dark, handsome man. I wouldn’t fall for that.

Speaking of falling, I
braced myself on Sam, which didn’t help. He weighed about 120
pounds. I needed better shoes. I guessed I could break down and buy
some, but where? Did Amazon Prime deliver out here?

The mayor took us over
to the town’s pizza place for lunch. Would you like some carbs with
your carbs? It apparently was a place people traveled from all over
to eat at. But maybe that wasn’t saying much if the alternative was
a Dairy Queen?

Inside, the exposed
brick walls and rafters overhead set a homey and inviting tone. The
menu featured all sorts of locally sourced organics, enough to
impress even an L.A. foodie. And even better than the yumminess on
the menu, more yumminess joined us for the meal. The town constable
was in his fifties, stooped over and wearing suspenders. Again,
without irony.

But the fire warden who
came with? Yum, yum, yummy. I put him in his late 20s, all shoulders
and chest, about six feet tall with a great gleaming white smile and
a dimple. Sam was practically falling out of his chair in joy. I
agreed, he was nice to look at, but he didn’t set my heart
pitter-pat. That was better, now wasn’t it? I felt more like
myself. I wasn’t in danger of doing something stupid with this
firefighter, or fire warden, whatever he called himself. Warden,
constable, this town had funny names for everything. Whatever his
title, I wouldn’t let him haul me off into a truck. Only Heath
hadn’t had to haul me off. I’d jumped him.

The meal was
surprisingly decent, with a thin crust on the pie and a delicious
beet salad with toasted pumpkin seeds. At least I wouldn’t starve
during my stay in Watson. Neither would any of the locals. I’d
never seen people eat so much. The fire warden, I got. It looked like
he worked out all the time and had the metabolism of a man in his
20s. But the mayor, the constable, plus all the people sitting at
tables around us, they all put it away. It was like sharing a
restaurant with a football team.

In L.A. people picked.
Restaurants and bars were for mingling, networking, seeing and being
seen. You never knew when a photo might be taken. Why risk it by
doing something stupid like putting a bite of food in your mouth?
Nutrients were to be ingested in the privacy of your home, preferably
in calorie-constrained, pre- packaged portions delivered to your
doorstep.

The conversation was
pleasant, the locals friendly, but during lunch I occasionally felt a
twinge of nerves. I kept waiting for someone to make a lewd
reference, some buddy of Heath’s to come up and say, “hey, you’re
the one from the bar Saturday night!” I’d never hear the end of
it from Sam.

But so far, so good.
All remained quiet on that front. Maybe I’d actually make it out of
the town without ever seeing Heath again.

After lunch we headed
to an artisan collective. It sounded vaguely communist. And I’d
never understood the difference between an artist and an artisan. It
struck me a bit like a flute player wanting to be called a flautist.
But no one in the town had seemed to be putting on airs yet. Watson
seemed about as unpretentious as a place got, so I kept my mind open.

On the drive over, the
mayor told us about their thriving arts and crafts community.
Apparently, the area had been attracting all kinds of talent and
acclaim. I’ll admit, I’d been impressed by the food so far. But
when it came to crafts, I’d believe it when I saw it. That wooden
bear statue outside of the diner had been about as original as Mickey
Mouse.

The artisan collective
space had a loft-like feel to it with warm, gleaming light wood and
lots of small, sparking lights. Whoever had designed it knew about
how to set the right tone, because the minute I set foot into the
store I felt welcomed. I immediately saw a salad bowl carved out of
walnut wood that I had to have. There were landscape paintings as
expected, but these went far beyond the standard type you might find
in a hotel. Many of them invited you to gaze and savor, capturing the
vibrant seasonal tones and hues. Watson looked spectacular in the
fall. When—or if, I mentally corrected myself—if we filmed there,
we’d have to make sure we got some peak fall footage. Those
brilliant oranges and reds, that would take care of half the drama in
an episode with just the setting.

It was a rocking chair,
through, that really drew me. I’d never thought much about rocking
chairs, let alone wanted one before. But this one, I had to reach out
and touch it, run my hands along the smooth grain. It looked so
classic yet sleek enough to compliment modern décor, the lines clean
and neat. Somehow it also looked really comfortable, drawing you
irresistibly to come, take a load off, rest for a spell.

“May I?” I asked a
middle-aged woman with short, no-nonsense hair. I’d seen a few
women with it, the Vermont cut. She owned the shop, or represented
the artisans who collectively owned…I hadn’t followed it all.

“Of course. That’s
what it’s for.”

I eased myself back
into the chair. Could wood feel soft? This wood did, like velvet
under my hands, so smooth and yet sturdy. It was as if the chair held
me, coaxing me to relax completely into its strong embrace. I closed
my eyes and sank back, a smile on my face. Running my hands along the
arms, I pushed myself into a slow rock. I could picture myself out on
a porch, the sun shining bright out on the lawn around me. That was
probably the kind of place Heath lived in, some rustic cabin around
here with a big porch out front. He said he’d built it himself.

“And here he is! The
man who built it!” The storeowner declared.

My eyes flew open. Big,
hot and not happy at all, Heath stood before me. I froze, my hands
gripping the arms of the chair.

“What are you doing
here?” he growled, sounding suspicious as hell.

“Hi!” I swallowed,
as nervous as Goldilocks caught breaking the baby bear’s rocking
chair. Only this wasn’t the baby bear before me, it was papa and he
looked pissed.

“Heath!” The
storeowner hustled over, clearly sensing a brewing storm. “These
are the guests I was telling you about. The ones from the television
network.”

Heath looked at me,
violent turbulence in his dark, intense eyes. “You’re the one
here to film a reality show?”

“Well, maybe.” I
tried to get myself out of the rocking chair, but I’d gone in kind
of deep. I had to scoot myself out toward the edge, then propel my
weight onto my toes. Not the most dignified set of motions.

“Sam Holland.” Sam
stuck out his hand and Heath shook it, grudgingly. “We’re from
the Fame! Network.”

I cringed. He said it
with such pride. But Heath looked like Sam had just taken a shit on
the countertop.

“The Fame! Network?”
Heath repeated it, disgust dripping from his voice.

“Headquartered in
L.A.” Sam kept right on smiling. Don’t say it! I wanted to yell,
because I knew him well and I could hear what he was about to say
next. Couldn’t he read body language? Couldn’t Sam tell it was
time to cut and run, not lean in and sell?

“You’ve got a great
face for TV!” Sam exclaimed.

I dropped my forehead
into my hand, unable to stop myself from wincing.

“You want to film a
reality show here?” Heath repeated, looking straight at me. I
lifted my head up and met his steely gaze. How did he still manage to
look so freaking hot even when I could tell he was hating on anything
and everything to do with me? I didn’t know how, but he did, every
six foot five delicious inch of him.

“We’re scouting the
location,” I murmured, forcing myself to look away.

“You should consider
getting involved. Here’s my card.” Sam held out a small white
rectangle. Heath glared at it like it was a poisonous snake. Even Sam
got the message, returning it slowly back down to his pocket. But
still he persisted. I guessed old habits died hard. “I could set
you up with some head shots.”

“Over my dead body.”

“How’s that?” Sam
looked at him in bewilderment. For a quick-witted man full of snark,
Sam sure seemed slow and dim in Vermont.

“He’s not
interested,” I translated for Sam.

“Hey, now!” The
mayor came on over, inserting himself nervously into the scene. “Good
to see you, Heath!” He turned toward us. “Heath’s one of the
talented craftsmen I was telling you about. He made this rocking
chair. But not everyone has to be involved with the show.”

“You made this?” I
asked, reaching down to touch the chair again. What a magnificent
chair.

“It’s not going to
happen.” Heath didn’t answer me. He spoke directly and clearly to
the mayor.

“Well, we’re going
to see—”

“They’re not
filming a reality show here in Watson.”