Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) (2 page)

“Is that a MINI you
drove up in?” the bartender asked me. Because, right, he was still
standing there in front of me behind the bar.

I cleared my throat.
“MINI convertible,” I confirmed.

“Good thing you got
here in one piece. Can I get you something?”

“Yes,” I responded,
gratefully. I wasn’t a big drinker and, yes, technically I still
needed to drive. But my nerves were shot and my feet were frozen
blocks of ice and sometimes a girl just needed a drink. Maybe I could
eat something along with it before I headed out again. My stomach
growled at the thought.

“I’d love an
appletini. And can I see your menu for apps? Something light, maybe a
tuna tartare?”

The bartender squinted
at me as if I might have spoken a different language. He had a big,
bushy mustache and looked somewhere between 30 and 50, weathered and
plaid.

I could still feel
Mountain Man watching me, too, his gaze heavy and intent. It was
definitely warm in the bar. They must be cranking the heater. Of
course, I was also wearing the parka that ate all of the other parkas
for dinner. I unzipped it and shrugged it off, draping it from my
stool. It felt like shedding a cocoon and I stretched, enjoying my
freedom.

“That’s the menu.”
The bartender tilted his head behind him toward a chalkboard.
Handwritten, it listed ten or so brews. I looked at it, no clue what
to order. I’d never really drunk beer, and I couldn’t say I knew
anyone who did, either. Cocktails were the way to go, preferably
skinny. Beer bellies just weren’t done in L.A.

“Maybe…the one with
the apple in it?”

“It’s a hard cider,
made local. It’s good. You’ll like it.” I nodded and he moved
to pull me a drink on tap.

I twiddled my fingers
together. I looked down at the polished wood of the bar. But what was
I supposed to do? I had a powerful magnet, huge and dark and brooding
just a few feet over to my right. I snuck another look.

Fuck, he was hot. He
was ready-for-his-closeup hot. And I lived in a city renown for its
hotness. I got served coffee in cafes by actors and models. I went to
parties with actors and models. Even my current not-exactly
boyfriend—more like sometimes-around friend with benefits—was a
model. All day, every day I was surrounded by men who made their
living from being hot.

This man made them all
look like little wispy wimps. He looked like he could pick them up
and pump them into the air with one hand. If he were a firefighter,
I’d burn my house down so he could come save me. His dark green
Henley shirt had just one button undone at the top, but it drew my
attention like a red flag drew a bull. I wanted to lick him, right
there, right at the top of his chest and the base of his throat. Then
I could unbutton the next one, and the one under that, then rip his
whole damn shirt off.

“Where’re you
from?” The bartender set a glass down in front of me. It was him
asking me the question, not the man I was starting to pant for a few
seats away. I needed to get a grip.

“L.A.” I took a sip
of my cider. Crisp, refreshing, delicious. “This is so good!”

“Told you.” The
bartender gave me a nod.

“What is it again?”

“Hard cider.”

I was about to ask the
calorie count, but stopped myself with the question on the tip of my
tongue. Everyone in L.A. knew the calorie count of anything and
everything you might possibly ingest. Somehow I guessed here, not so
much. Like a shy eighth-grader nearly embarrassed in class in front
of her hopeless crush, I felt a rush of heat from the blush on my
cheeks.

What was going on? This
wasn’t normal for me, not at all. I had friends who went off their
rockers, crazy over guys. I was the one who talked them down, told
them not to do anything stupid. I was queen of practical sex, career
before fluttering hearts. But right now, my perfectly manicured nails
were clutching the bar to literally get a grip. Could he tell I was
having this reaction to him?

Maybe it was the beard.
I’d seen beards before, of course. They’d made their way to L.A
where they were frequently paired with carefully styled hair,
earrings, suspenders, wingtips, all the trappings of a hipster. I
knew beards were popular, starting to show up in all kinds of ads and
on young celebrities. But the kinds of beards that had surfaced in
L.A. were prissy, fussy little cousins of the beard on this man.

I’d never found one
sexy until now. Holy hell, his beard. It wasn’t big and bushy by
any means, just a notch up from thick stubble, but it was dark and
kind of framed his face and somehow made him look even more rugged
and mysterious. Like he might drag me off to his mountain cabin,
strip me down and take me all night long.

Was there a chance he
lived in this town? My body growled MINE. But my brain fought for
space and announced, “goldmine!” Did I want real people with
major sex appeal to feature on a reality show? Had one just landed in
my lap? Or had that been me who had wanted to land in his lap?

“What’s a girl like
you doing around here?” There it was, the come on, only it wasn’t
from the man sitting a couple stools down from me. The one I was
about to start hitting on myself because a woman could only stand so
much hotness. No, it was from a guy of indeterminate age sporting a
trucker hat and a big hunting jacket. He sat down next to me.

“You’re a sight for
sore eyes!” Another one who looked pretty much the same sat on my
other side.

“Hi,” I sighed and
dug in my bag for my phone. Of course, it wasn’t the guy I wanted
to hit on me who was hitting on me. It was the guys I hadn’t even
noticed when I’d walked into the bar. Different town, same story.

On a happier note, my
cell phone had one bar! I checked messages and texts. Nothing from
Sam. He was probably partying the night away at hot nightclubs in
Boston. Nothing from Vincent, either, my somewhat, kind of guy at the
moment. That wasn’t a shocker, though. We had an open thing,
casual. I didn’t expect him to check in on me after a harrowing
travel day. But it would have been nice.

“You up here to ski?”
one of the guys next to me asked.

“You lost?” the
other one guessed. “We can help you out.”

“Thanks, guys. I’m
fine.” I tried to adopt an authoritative tone as I scrolled through
emails trying to find the one with the address of my rental condo. Or
the address of the place where I was supposed to pick up the key.

“You need a place to
stay?” one of them asked, taking a swig of his beer and leering at
me. He had yellow teeth, foul breath and a lecherous glint in his
eyes.

“Nope.” I wondered
if I was going to have to leave the bar. I didn’t want to head back
out into the storm just yet, but I’d do it if I had to.

“Hey.” A man spoke
in a big, deep voice. I knew who it was even though I’d never heard
him speak before. I turned and my mountain man stood behind me. He
had to be 6’5”, a solid wall of brawn.

With only a mild
grumble or two, the other guys stood up from their seats. I guess
they knew the pecking order. The big guy had said “hey.” It was
time for them to leave.

I took a quick sip of
my cider as he sat down next to me, hoping the drink would help cool
my flush. No such luck. His thigh brushed up against mine, thick and
powerful as a tree trunk. He sat there, saying nothing, and took a
slow sip of his beer. No teasing smile, no compliments about my
model-quality good looks. It was not the kind of calculated
flirtation I was used to. This man simply occupied space, yet I felt
myself wanting to lean closer into his massive frame. He was built
like a solid block of granite, only warm. I could feel the heat
radiating off of him. I bet he knew how to keep a woman toasty on a
cold January night.

I took another sip of
my drink and made myself sit still. No laps.

“You’re not driving
out of here tonight in that MINI convertible.” His voice rumbled
low and sexy.

“What’s that?” I
licked my lips. They just did not grow men like him back in the city.
He didn’t even look like he’d fit in an office cubicle. He’d
push the partition right over with his manly brawn, then grab the
nearest girl—preferably me—and haul her into an office to have
his way with her. Over and over. I knew I’d beg for more.

“I said, you’re not
driving out of here tonight in that MINI convertible.”

Wait, what was he
saying? Was he trying to boss me around? “I just need to get to my
condo.”

“It’s not safe.”
He shook his head no, done deal, no arguments accepted. Hello, Alpha.

“It’s probably only
a mile away,” I huffed.

“Doesn’t matter how
far. You’re not getting there in that car.”

OK, the Neanderthal
appeal apparently had its limits. I’d taken care of myself for
years now. The only child of a busy single mom, I’d been making
myself dinner since I could press start on a microwave. I’d lived
on my own for the last seven years in L.A. I didn’t need anyone to
tell me what I could or could not do.

“What exactly do you
suggest?” I tossed my hands up in frustration. “Can I hop on my
Uber app and have a car here in two minutes?” He kept looking at
me, flat and stubborn. The man probably hadn’t even ever heard of
Uber.

“Listen,” I
continued. “I just need to get to the condo where I’m staying.
But I don’t have GPS and I wasn’t getting a signal on my phone.”
I held it up, suddenly aware that my iPhone was in a pink case
sparkling with rhinestones. The kitchy, tongue-in-cheek glam worked
in L.A. He looked at it skeptically before returning his attention to
me.

“You don’t have GPS
in your car?”

“No, I didn’t think
I’d need it.”

“You need it.”

“Well, I didn’t
know that before!”

“Cell phone service
isn’t reliable here. You could get lost.”

“Thanks. A little
late for that advice.” My feathers ruffled, I sipped my cider. Part
of me felt all tingly, the other part bristled right up. The tingle
came from the way this big, handsome man seemed so protective and
demanding about my safety. The other half shouted, “I can do this
myself!” I wasn’t a little kid. He shouldn’t treat me like one.

But I was lost and had
barely made it to the bar. He had a point. I just didn’t like
admitting it.

He looked at me,
seeming reluctant to say what he was about to next. Resigned, shaking
his head as if he overcame his better instincts to do it, he said,
“I’ll get you where you need to go.”

I swear, he didn’t
say it like a sleazy come-on, but that’s exactly how my body wanted
to interpret it. All sorts of flirty, outrageous replies popped to
mind. I came dangerously close to batting my eyelashes and bantering
back, “Oh, I bet you could get me right where I need it.”

But I didn’t. When
had I ever batted my eyelashes? I took lunch meetings. I sealed
deals. He might make me feel like a Highland lass in need of a
rescue, but I wasn’t that, not by a long shot.

I looked down at the
bar, at my cider, my nails. Anywhere but at him. I breathed, in and
out, and forced myself to not say any of the crazy thoughts racing
through my head. Because just then, where I felt like I needed to go
was nowhere near a rented condo all by myself. My pulse pounded with
need to go anywhere he was going so long as it was just him and me
alone.

“You’ll be safe
with me,” he added, deep and husky.

I bit my lip, knowing I
was anything but.

Heath

An appletini. She
walked into the bar, sashaying along on 4-inch heels, her hair like a
golden splash of sunlight. And she ordered an appletini plus some
tuna tartare.

Man, it had been a
while since I’d seen a girl like her. It had to have been the last
time I was in New York. That’s where her type ruled the roost,
partying and clubbing all night long. We got tourists up here, sure,
leaf peepers and skiers, folks making their way up from Boston or New
York with money to burn. But they didn’t look like her. They
usually came to Vermont head-to-toe in Patagonia, North Face and LL
Bean, sporting brand new gear they’d been dying to try out with big
shiny new boots and Gore-Tex gloves good in 60-degree-below weather.

This woman had no gear.
She wore heels, for God’s sake, stacked ones, and a parka so big it
looked like a parody of a parka. If a casting agent didn’t know
shit about Vermont but tried to dress someone for Vermont, he’d put
them in that. It was a parka for the Iditarod in Alaska, sledding
across the frozen tundra for days on end. She’d looked like a giant
Oompa Loompa.

Until she took it off.
She’d sat down on a stool and unzipped and damn if it didn’t make
me take a deep swallow of my beer. She looked good. Really good.
Slender and curvy and soft and she sat just close enough where I
could catch a light waft of her scent, tantalizing and sweet like
summer honey.

Damn. She hit me hard.
It must have been all the time I’d been spending alone. I led a
solitary life. I had a cabin and a workshop out on a few acres of
land. Quiet, remote, just wilderness, time and freedom. I spent my
days the way I wanted, far away from prying eyes or pressure. The
handful of locals I now counted as my friends were straight-shooting
and plain spoken. They helped you when you needed it, stayed out of
your way when you didn’t. To me, Watson, Vermont was paradise.

But even a loner like
me sometimes emerged from isolation. Tonight I’d come down to shoot
the shit with Dave. He was a good guy. We’d gotten to know each
other over at the locally-owned ski slope, Mad Mountain. It didn’t
make artificial snow, didn’t allow snowboarders, and kept the
trails narrow, winding and filled with boulders. It was everything I
loved about this town rolled into a wicked good time. Cranky,
independent, and barely breaking even year after year, Mad Mountain
was how I’d discovered tiny Watson, Vermont back when I was still
in college. I’d made the town my home for four years now, and I
planned on keeping on doing the same. As long as nothing rocked the
boat.