The Booty Guard: A BBW Mountain Man Romance (Babes of Biggal Mountain Book 5)

by Elaria Ride

  Mariah just smirks, putting a hand on her hip. “I swear, the manliest dudes are the most squeamish. Which is why I’ve decided to call y’all PMS!”

  For a few seconds, she just gives me an encouraging smile — like I’m a puppy two steps from figuring out how to pee outside.

  But she soon realizes I’m a moron. And gives up.

  “The Protect Mariah Squad,” she elaborates slowly, drawing out each syllable. “PMS! That’s your name, don’t wear it out.” She finishes with a wink, and even I can’t help but chuckle.

  Ok, I gotta give her that one; PMS it is, I guess.

  “Are you a coffee guy?” she asks, and without waiting for a reply, she bustles over to me, a mug in each hand.

  I give her a grateful nod and settle onto a barstool. I didn't get to sleep until well past midnight. My efforts to get here early — or at least on time — meant skipping my usual coffee, too.

  “I’ve already added milk and sugar,” Mariah adds brightly, turning back to the frying pan. Then she narrows her eyes and brandishes her spatula. “And if you’re one of those people who thinks sugar is evil, I don’t want you in my apartment, anyway.”

  She sniffs theatrically and turns back to the frying pan. I laugh and bring the steaming mug to my lips. Thankfully, though, she’s addressed the elephant in the room.

  “Didn’t think you wanted me here in the first place. Miss Matthews.”

  Now according to overseas protocol, we aren’t supposed to communicate much beyond nods and gestures. But in my experience, it’s much easier to form a bond with a charge if you get them to trust you first. And since this particular charge has a stubborn streak the size of Texas, I need to ease her in slowly.

  Now, though, she doesn’t look stubborn. A grimace tugs at the corners of her lips as she shifts her weight, reaching for some cutlery. That body language is textbook guilt, if I’ve ever seen it — which means there’s no need for me to push her. Not when she’s already being… submissive.

  I take another sip of coffee and look away, hoping that’ll be enough to make me stop thinking about Mariah and the word submissive in the same sentence.

  “So… I know we got off to a bad start,” she allows a moment later. She switches off the burner and faces me with an apologetic smile. “But honest, Luke, I’m not a total bitch. Yesterday was just a bad day, but my dad made me feel like a toddler and…” She trails off with a huff and looks skyward. I can tell she’s keeping herself from going on a rant.

  There’s a pause while I consider her words.

  “Can I… just have a second audition?” she finally asks, her voice small. “I’m always terrible on my first round. And besides, I made you a peace offering!” She slides some fancy-looking French toast in front of me, perfectly plated beside a cluster of raspberries.

  Wow. When’s the last time I had a home-cooked meal? My traitorous stomach growls when I catch a hint of cinnamon.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mariah notes smugly, flitting back to the counter to get her own plate. I shrug but tuck in. If eating her food gets us on better terms, I’d be a fool to refuse. She settles down across from me and begins eating her breakfast, too. Apparently, though, chatting with her is enough to reawaken my inner preteen.

  Just as she brings a fork to her lips, I hear myself add, “Princess.”

  Mariah drops the fork, furrowing her brow, but she can’t hide a smirk. Looks like my growling stomach isn’t the only traitor in our midst.

  She shoots me a dramatic wink and picks up her fork again.

  “You got that right!” Mariah croons. “I’m the purest, daintiest princess — only to be awakened by true love’s first kiss. Or a frog. Or sleeping on a pea? Yeah, one of those.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she turns back to her breakfast. “Whatever. The point is, calling me Princess won’t make me mad. I already know I’m the fairest of them all!” Mariah finishes by batting her eyelashes, placing a weary hand on her forehead, and providing the far wall with her best “wistful” expression.

  I chortle before I remember I’m supposed to be on the job. Damn, she makes an incredible Snow White. Mariah’s a master of performance, I’ll give her that much. It’s plain to see how her laundry list of ex-boyfriends fell at her feet.

  Unfortunately for her, though, I’ve been trained in manipulation tactics. I know exactly what she’s trying to do: flirt her way into my good graces to get Daddy to call the whole thing off. But I don’t scare easy. If she thinks I’m going anywhere, she’s got another thing coming.

  “Wow, Princess,” I drawl slowly. “I reckon that’s your best impression of innocence since you sang about being sixteen going on seventeen in that made-for-TV musical.”

  I arch an eyebrow, taking another sip of coffee, and I think the matter is settled.

  But then, at a whisper, she puts me right back in my place.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Hottie Guard.”

  5

  Mariah

  “Babe. This doesn’t look good.”

  Tori Wilson, my backup singer, thrusts her phone in my face. I sigh and put down my powder brush. Whatever she wants to shame me over is old news. Paparazzi Instagram accounts have spent the last twelve hours rehashing the helicopter landing on my roof last night… and trust me when I say I’m well aware.

  I blink at Tori’s concerned reflection in the dressing room mirror and gently push her phone aside. “Yeah. I know. But you’ve got to cut me a little slack for freaking out.”

  I nod towards Carter in the far corner of the room. He’s been sitting on a black leather loveseat since we arrived. Now, he’s wearing a smirk that suggests he’s absolutely cool with my freak-out last night.

  Figures.

  Waking up this morning was a new hell. And not least of all because I was up before the sun. My conscience jolted me from my dreams at 5 a.m., and for an hour, I tried to convince myself that the events of last night were a dream.

  A very realistic dream… involving storming out of the police station. And calling an Uber. And getting in said Uber with a total stranger.

  I tried my hardest to believe that nothing happened. That I hadn’t lost control. After all, I’m lucky enough to have something not everyone wants — but everyone needs: a family who loves her.

  But then I blearily reached over for my phone… and in an instant, I knew I hadn’t invented a thing: I was tagged in no less than ten paparazzi videos of a helicopter landing on my penthouse roof last night. My sister-in-law-slash-BFF Sabrina also sent me a cringing emoji face with a link to a particularly scathing article.

  So at daybreak, this shit was already on everyone’s radar. Awesome.

  When you live in the public spotlight, you can’t avoid a social media presence. I'm a B-lister, at best — which means I'm picked apart even more. The public is desperate to prove that I don't belong next to actual celebrities. Partially, this is because I’m fat.

  And please don't get me wrong when I use the F-word. I'm not seeking pity; I'm just stating the truth. I'm an unapologetically curvy girl who has long since learned to give fewer fucks and to love the body she has.

  But believe me, I also understand that the rest of the world isn't ready for that. Even if coy reporters didn’t constantly use phrases like “big-boned” and “voluptuous,” the video captions from this morning shoved it in my face even more (“Diva in Danger!”; “Big Girl, Big Problems”; “Plus-Sized Singer with Plus-Sized Predicament!”).

  It’s a bit much that they only focus on my figure when my whole body is in danger, but that’s Hollywood, baby.

  Or at least Nashville.

  Anyway, I have no one but myself to blame for the latest media frenzy. I could’ve been a good girl and allowed the cops to escort me home instead of being chased by a freaking helicopter. But what’s done is done. All I can do is fix it.

  So at 6, I started making breakfast. My dad had mentioned Carter arriving around 7, but apparently my hired stalker is Johnny on the Spot. To my
delight, though, both of our attitudes improved since last night. Carter was thoroughly professional as he accepted my French toast truce.

  I’d even say I was happy with our arrangement… until we arrived here at the studio. Because that’s when Carter informed me that during my official surveillance, he won’t be speaking to me. At all.

  He tried to explain some system where he’ll blink twice to indicate “no” and blink once to indicate “yes,” but I flatly refused that option. My independence is already in tatters, but I’ll be damned if this stalker turns me into some World War II espionage operator trying to hack the Enigma Machine.

  Carter didn't object to my refusal to play his games — but in retrospect, this is because he was preparing to drop an even bigger bomb. My dad (the coward) failed to mention one itty bitty detail of my surveillance: if there’s another threat, official security protocol dictates that Carter must move in with me.

  Immediately.

  A chill raced up my spine when Carter told me. It’s been easy for me to pretend these threats are no big deal. It’s been easy to wave them away with how focused I’ve been at work. But if the Nashville freaking PD — and this hired stalker — both think they’re significant, I guess I need to listen. For once in my life.

  In the meantime, though, it’s like I’m being stalked by a sexy monk. Carter’s eyes have been locked on my body since we set foot in my dressing room — the scene of yesterday’s crime. His eyes have also proven… rather distracting. Not that I’ll ever admit that.

  I bite my lip and peer back at Tori, who’s still glaring at me in the mirror. It’s amazing that someone so beautiful can look so ugly when she’s mad. Tori has the physical dimensions of a model, with wavy blonde ringlets and piercing blue eyes. She’s also obsessed with appearances — or more specifically, her appearance.

  Tori is convinced that whatever gossip follows me is somehow linked to her reputation. She stalks my social media much more than I do, to the point where Russ usually preps her on things before he talks to me. Tori’s also convinced that this backup singer gig is a stepping stone on her path to stardom. What she doesn’t know is that her snobby attitude hasn’t scored any favors with the MFB. My diva tendencies aside, we’re just an average close-knit, down-to-earth family. Tori’s an excellent vocalist, a skilled dancer, and (I assume) a good person at heart — but yeah. She rubs people the wrong way.

  “Mary,” she finally sighs, ripping me from my thoughts. “We’ve talked about this.”

  I try to keep my voice even when I respond. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  Tori settles into an empty chair beside me, cupping her jaw in her hand. Her blue eyes are filled with that pitying look I hate so much.

  “I can’t turn back time,” I say, shrugging. “All I can do is try to control myself in the future. Ok?”

  My hazel eyes flit up to hers. A moment later, Tori nods back — but then she pauses, her head cocked. Before she even opens her mouth, I know that she’s going to mention my weight.

  “Self-control is hard,” she drawls patronizingly, giving my thigh a little pat. “Maybe we can talk about how to control your—”

  But I never find out what Tori thinks I need to control, because Carter chooses this moment to evolve from a grunting caveman into a talking human.

  “—Is that all you need, Mrs. Wilson?” he interrupts, his deep voice filling the room.

  I swivel in my seat. He’s narrowing his eyes at Tori, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Miss Matthews needs to prepare before the arrival of her family.”

  For a second, Tori blinks back at him, confused. She quickly recovers with a breathy giggle. “Oh, it’s Miss Wilson, actually.” She splays the fingers on her bare left hand. “I’m unmarried, just like Mariah!”

  Tori flashes Carter a grin that’s probably charmed her into hundreds of bedrooms.

  But for some reason, her tactics aren’t working today.

  Instead of acting the slightest bit flustered, Carter just rises to his feet and opens the door. “Well, now that we’ve established nobody’s married,” he says firmly, “we can continue on with our lives. See you later, Miss Wilson.”

  Shit!

  I bite back a snort as an icy pause settles over the room. If Carter knows he’s offended her, he doesn’t care. She scampers to the door under his pointed gaze, muttering about people not having manners.

  I think that’s the last of her, but Tori turns around, just outside the dressing room — and then Carter does something that both cracks me up and impresses me beyond belief: he shoots me a wry smirk, quirks his eyebrow, and slams the door shut. Right in Tori’s face.

  The indignant huff from behind the door is almost as loud as the echo of the slam.

  Aaand that’s the final straw. My professionalism is done. I burst into giggles that I muffle with my hand as Carter rolls his eyes, slumping against the doorframe. I’ve never seen anyone put Tori in her place like that — but damn, I’m impressed!

  “Sorry,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “That was unprofessional. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you, but something about that girl just bugs me!”

  I wave my hand. “I take it you don’t have a lot of experience with competitive divas, Mr. Carter?”

  He shakes his head, but a cold look steals over his face again as he marches back to the corner.

  Right. I bite my lip. No talking.

  For the comeback tour, I have exactly two solo numbers. The rest of our fifteen-song set is made up of group collaborations, mostly of our older material.

  Which means we really need everyone from the MFB to be here, pronto. It’s infuriating that my brothers are always late. Back when we accepted this tour, I told Dad to lie about call-times just to get their butts here at an acceptable hour. Of course, Dad ignored me.

  I heave a sigh and glare into the darkened auditorium — or “house,” if you’re trying to show off your theatre knowledge. Carter’s standing behind the curtain on stage left. I’m not looking over at him, but I can feel, somehow, that his eyes are trained on me like a hawk. Last night, I was so angry that I hadn’t considered how Carter’s… attractiveness… would also make this surveillance difficult. Not that I could have explained that to Dad and Twit.

  I squirm in my seat, now uncomfortable for a different reason. I draw deep breaths and try to focus on that unmistakable mixture of sawdust and linseed oil that permeates through this old studio.

  Just as Carter’s eyes are about to make me lose my mind, my brothers arrive. In reverse birth order.

  First comes Mark the Narc, fifteen minutes late.

  “Sorry!” he calls, thrusting open the stage door and flooding the set with sunshine.

  Carter lets out a whooping sound from the wings, his hardened exterior cracking in front of my eyes — and in two strides, he and Mark are locked in a friendly embrace, greeting each other so warmly you’d never know they’ve been out of touch for twenty years.

  Unless they haven’t been.

  I narrow my eyes, my suspicions confirmed. Mark and Carter may not have been in touch since we were kids, but it’s obvious both of them knew about this arrangement before I did.

  Figures.

  Still, if I’m forced to have this rubbed in my face, I’m entitled to eavesdrop on their conversation. For the next few minutes, I casually stare at my cuticles while waiting for the rest of my knucklehead brothers. Mark talks about his son, who just turned two, and brags about Sabrina, who’s his gorgeous wife. And also my best friend.

  We’re all from Biggal Mountain, and since I doubt you’ve heard of it, I’ll fill you in: it’s a very small town with a single (and specific) claim to fame — everyone there is interested in larger women. Or women with curves. Or whatever you want to call us.

  Obviously we don’t live on Biggal Mountain now, but brothers have maintained a… certain preference. I make a face, even as I think about it; I’d rather not consider what my brothers are into, but yeah
, it’s there in the flesh. Their wives and parters are all larger women too — Sabrina included.

  As I listen in on the conversation between Carter and Mark, I realize that it must be nice for them to share that common background without having to explain themselves. When Carter inevitably crosses paths with Sabrina, he’ll understand why Mark’s into her — even if his tabloid preferences suggest he has different inclinations, himself.

  That alone doesn’t bother me; people have the right to like (or dislike) whatever they want. It figures Carter’s not into big girls since he’s moved away. It’s just annoying that society accepts a man who demands a 36-24-36 body shape while shunning someone who only likes curves. But seeing as how I can’t do much about that, all I can do is make my peace… and continue to eavesdrop on this conversation.

  Frustratingly, though, I learn nothing new about Carter. He gives Mark the same script he gave me: “I’ve run the gamut of overseas security stuff, but I’ve been back six months. I’m not hating the perks since returning stateside!”

  Mark chuckles at this. “Yeah, man, we’ve seen those models on the tabloids. I bet you’re not hating it at all!”

  Ew.

  I flinch, not sure where this feeling of disgust is coming from. I tell myself it’s just unprofessional to hear about my co-worker’s sex life. It wouldn’t be any different if I worked in a cubicle, would it? I flip the switch on my body mic and pointedly clear my throat, hoping that gets the message across.

  From the corner of my eye, I see the two of them breaking away, chagrined — but as Carter fades back into the wings, I feel oddly exposed. For the first time, I identify why this arrangement unnerves me so much: Carter has access to every private detail of my life, from my failed relationships to my medical records. I know this is just a job, but it’s strangely violating that he doesn’t have to share a word of his past.

  I’m about to comment on this when Miles, my next brother, comes bounding in. Unlike Mark, Miles isn’t the least bit apologetic.