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

by Elaria Ride

  14

  Mariah

  “This is wrong.”

  Carter’s graveled words thunder through my head even louder than the spray from the shower. I screw up my face and draw deep breaths, trying to refocus my attention on anything else. On everything else. It’s a small mercy that this incident happened on the heels of something much more traumatic… because otherwise, I think I’d still be worried about that.

  Now, though, my mind is the furthest place from that pig head. I’m trying not to be overly sensitive. I’m trying to think about things objectively. But for fuck’s sake, did he have to phrase it like that? I shake my head beneath the spray from the shower. I’m not just embarrassed — I’m mortified.

  After Carter pushed me away, I flew to my bedroom and slammed the door shut, wondering how the hell I’d gotten myself into this mess.

  Sure, Carter is sexy as hell. Sure, I’ve felt his eyes on me since he got hired… and more often since he dropped the caveman shit. Sure, I’ve thought about him in this very shower more times than I can count. But I was the one who threw myself at him in a fit of weakness. I was the one who made things blatantly unprofessional.

  I groan, my forehead resting against the tile. This is all my fault. It’s never been clearer that he’s not into me. At least not in the same way I’m into him. I’ve seen the girls he canoodles with in magazines. Sure, he’d gotten an erection, but I have enough experience with men to know that doesn’t mean much. They wake up with those. It’s not particularly… personalized.

  I finish up in the shower and throw on the least attractive sleepwear I own. A nagging voice in my head taunts me for even trying. He was ashamed to be aroused by me. And I acted like a spoiled brat when he called me on it. Lovely.

  When I finish towel-drying my hair, I notice a cup of tea on my nightstand. I stiffen but take a sip. Carter’s not interested in a relationship, but he wouldn’t poison me, either. As I suspected, the tea is definitely Sabrina’s, and it tastes extra strong tonight. Good. I haven’t really had time to process the pig head yet, but I can imagine that my dreams tonight will be especially awful.

  With that in mind, I finish the tea as fast as I can and settle into bed. The nightlight by my bed stays on, but I switch off everything else. Hopefully, a good night’s sleep will take care of my pounding headache. One thing is for sure: I’m exhausted. I’ll have a clearer understanding of everything in the morning, even if it means having one hell of a time tonight.

  Just as my eyes close, I hear two knocks from the wall beside my bed. I freeze at the sound. For a brief moment, my heart pumps with renewed adrenaline. But then I hear Carter clearing his throat on the other side. Despite how awkward things are, I slump against my pillows in relief.

  There’s a pause, and then he knocks again. Twice. This time, I can almost hear what each syllable means. It’s more of a question than a statement: Prin-cess?

  I reach out a shaking hand and respond with a single knock.

  Yes.

  When I wake with a start, sunshine is already flooding my room through the pale blue linen curtains above my bed. I take a furtive glimpse around, not quite believing that I’m ok. How is it possible I made it through the night without a single nightmare?

  Then the events of last night rush back to me. I let out a groan and to head into my en suite bathroom. I guess mortification won out last night over pulse-pounding fear. I don’t even remember a single dream. Maybe my mind couldn’t handle how overwhelming everything was and spared me the indignity of a rehash.

  I emerge from my bathroom a few minutes later and hastily change my clothes. I will apologize to Carter, once and for all. Rod was right: he goes above the call of duty. I’m just the one who takes advantage.

  A gentle rap from the door pulls me from my thoughts. “Mariah?”

  I swallow. It’s definitely Carter, but I can’t imagine what he’d want. I’d think he’d want to keep his distance. I pad to the door and draw a deep breath, hoping he won’t make me feel even worse with his generosity.

  I swing open the door to face him — but he’s wearing an expression that surprises me. A lot. For starters, he looks awful… like he slept far worse than I did. His short sandy hair looks disheveled, and when he peers down at me, his eyes are red-rimmed.

  “I, um…” Luke clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have to go. Now.”

  Go?! Surely he doesn’t mean —

  “I’ll be back,” he adds hurriedly, reading the look on my face. “I’ve just got some, uh, business that needs attending back home.”

  I cock my head, not entirely sure I believe him.

  When he speaks again, his voice is a low, commanding rumble. “This has nothing to do with… with last night,” he insists, looking at me again. I inhale sharply. Despite how fishy this looks, there’s a spark of sincerity in his eyes. Is it crazy that I believe him?

  I rip my eyes away, suddenly unable to confront the honesty in his gaze. “When, um… when will you be back? We have a charity ball tomorrow, and—”

  Carter lets out a snarl. “Yes. I know. I’ve spoken to PMS about that. After yesterday, I’d prefer you didn’t attend… but as Russ reminded me, I won’t even be here. Despite my best efforts, I don’t get to control everything.”

  There’s a stony silence.

  “I’ll be back by Wednesday,” he says after a moment. Relief floods through me, but his face remains stoic and impassive. I haven’t scared him away. He’ll be back.

  “You’ll be looked after in the meantime. We’ve already made arrangements for that. Is that all right with you?”

  “No,” I confess, staring at my red-painted toenails. I make a face. Now the vibrant color just reminds me of blood. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “You got that right,” Luke clips, his voice stiff and serious. And then, at a whisper: “Princess.”

  15

  Mariah

  My cousin Emmett would not be my top choice as Carter’s replacement. But as Carter himself admitted, choice is something I don’t really have. Shitty things just kind of happen sometimes… things beyond our control. Tori, for instance, has spent the last two days in a furious strop that we cut one of her songs. It didn’t fit in the overall production, but that hasn’t made her less angry.

  Just like being at this gala without Luke hasn’t made me less angry.

  I stare over at Emmett Bosco, my cousin who remained back on Biggal Mountain when the rest of us left town. Emmett’s siblings have carved out little niches for themselves back there — and just like with my branch of the family, the Boscos reproduced like bunnies for a few years. I’ve often considered retiring to Biggal, in my old age… if I can ever find a fella to do it with.

  It’s impressive, honestly, that the Bosco children are now the biggest source of income the mountain has to offer. I keep in fairly close contact with my cousins, all of whom are settling into a rhythm with their respective wives and girlfriends. So far, Emmett’s one of the few holdouts on that front — but the family grapevine has made passing references to a lady friend somehow associated with a rodeo championship.

  I’d like to ask for details, but I know Emmett won’t give me anything. I glare at him as he chats with another tuxedoed man at the charity gala. Emmett’s even worse than Luke with being so damn private all the time. I sigh, slumping over in my seat. Simply put, Emmett is six feet, three inches of muscular ginger asshole — much like I assumed Luke to be, back before I knew him better.

  I get that Emmett’s on the job… but an occasional social pleasantry wouldn’t kill him. Luke’s surveillance is suave and meticulous, but Emmett’s is blunt and unforgiving. When he arrived, he greeted me with a clipped “hi” before asking me a series of violating personal questions. I get that he’s an attorney who dabbles in private investigations… I get that. But I swear, he’s a one-man question machine in the meantime.

  I take a draw from my champagne flute as the quartet on stage ann
ounces they’ll be taking a break. Not that it matters to me. I’m usually a social butterfly at these types of events, but the past few days haven’t left me feeling very bubbly.

  The place is absolutely gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. The PR team for Country Soul gave it their all — and it shows. Gorgeous crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling of the ballroom, and perfectly set tables with matching crystal centerpieces enhance the effect of opulence.

  A loud laugh catches my attention from the other side of the room. Of course. I should’ve known. It’s Brannon Pierce and his current gorgeous, blonde sidepiece — the one he ditched me for when he figured out I couldn’t get him acting gigs. I shake my head and stare at the beautiful couple. Brannon and I broke up so long ago that I don’t really care, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what an idiot he is, either. It should’ve been a red flag that he wanted to start his acting career in Nashville, of all places. But I was pretty naive.

  I wince and think about our awkward run in this evening. Brannon and I arrived at the same time, and we were subjected to a thoroughly awkward photo shoot on the red carpet outside. Two enthusiastic reporters pushed us together, cameras flashing in our faces, and he grabbed me by the waist and planted a smooch on my cheek before I could stop him.

  I shudder, looking away. Gross. Can’t wait to see what the tabloids (and my dad) say about that. Brannon’s sidepiece (Colby? Katie?) grabs him by the arm and escorts them both to their table — thankfully one far away from us. I think she’s a backup singer? Maybe?

  The crowd in front of me thins as everyone returns to their seats. The MFB are together at my table, plus Emmett. The overhead lights dim just as Emmett plops down beside me. He gives me the formality of a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I try not to think about how Luke would make everything better.

  A moment later, Chase Harlan and Becky Dane stride on stage. They’re former country superstars and emcees for both the tour and tonight’s event. Becky’s all right, as far as former superstars go… but Chase is someone I’d rather not think about again. I shudder through a polite smattering of applause around the banquet hall.

  Except from Mike, who decides to groan instead of clap.

  “She looks amazing,” he notes from the other side of me, his eyes focused on the slit running up the front of Becky’s shining silver ball gown.

  I give him a plain stare. “She’s forty-five and married, dude. Keep it in your pants.”

  Mike cracks a smile. “Even better. It’s a challenge.”

  I roll my eyes and drain my champagne flute. For the first time, I agree with Russ on something: I’d rather not hear the details of someone else’s sex life.

  Except for Luke’s, that is.

  I bite my glossy lip, my mind traveling far away from the gala. I can’t help but consider his words back at Matthews Mountain. Is it possible he actually hasn’t slept around that much?

  “Howdy, folks!” drawls Chase from the podium on stage. “We have a beautiful event planned for y’all tonight. Our fabulous donors have arranged for this charity gala to promote the tour we’re all working so hard on. In just a few minutes, we’ll begin by acknowledging each act on the tour!"

  “Everyone will receive a little SWAG bag as a symbol of our gratitude for your service,” continues Becky. “We have some big-hitter performers this year, and we’ve drawn bigger crowds than ever before! Y’all deserve a round of applause!”

  There’s a boisterous clapping from around the room that leaves me feeling more hollow than ever before. Is this the closest I’ll ever get to a solo tour? I snag a waiter to refill my champagne flute. Between seeing Chase, missing Luke, and this dismal possibility, it’s best not to give my mind too much space to wander.

  I maintain a painted smile throughout the gala, providing golf claps as Chase and Becky recognize each act. My brothers and I are called to the stage last. A nasty voice in my head can’t help but think the order of our appearance has something to do with how we were the last hired… and the least wanted. Still, we all maintain a facade of black-tie elegance (me in a floor-length, wine-colored ballgown, my brothers in tuxes) as we accept the fancy SWAG bags and head off stage.

  “Don’t open until you get home, now!” Chase reminds us, wagging a playful finger at the audience. “What we packed is a special surprise — one you’ll enjoy much more at home. And with that, we’d like to bid y’all good night. Can’t wait to see you when we start tour preparations next month!”

  Chase and Becky give a final wave at the crowd as the string quartet plays them off stage. We all clap a final time as the lights rise on the auditorium, but an excited energy hangs around the audience. Everyone wants to know what’s in our bags.

  I roll my eyes, but I’m unsurprised to hear Mike fidgeting with the string on his. “That’s for later,” I hiss, casting a furtive look around. Clearly, though, I needn’t have bothered. Nearly everyone is doing the same. Only the older members of the show are taking the instructions seriously as they leave with unopened bags dangling from their wrists.

  “Oh, nice!” says Mark appreciatively, peering into his bag. He tips it over onto the table. “Cake!”

  Huh. He’s right! It seems the bags are insulated. A quick look around the room confirms they each include a piece of cake enclosed in a plastic shell. Mike pulls his out, and I get a closer look. It’s a surprisingly cute idea. A little edible microphone adorns the top of a cake slice below the words, Congrats, Star!

  “Aw, man, you got a microphone?” asks Miles, peering over. “Mine’s a gramophone. I’ll trade ya!”

  “Hell no! I’m keeping my microphone. Unless Mariah has something better.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say primly, “because I’m going to follow instructions and open it at home. It’s hotter than Hades outside. I’m sure they told us to wait because once you crack the insulation on the bag, you only have so long for it to stay co—”

  I’m interrupted as Emmett snatches the bag from my hands.

  “Uh, excuse me!” I exclaim, reaching for my bag back. “That’s mine! When did I give you permission to—”

  Emmett gives me a firm look. “No,” he says. “I don’t want your cake... I have a weird feeling. Luke — Carter — warned me something might happen.”

  “I know his first name,” I whisper, looking away. I’m unwilling to consider what he’s saying… mostly because I agree with him. Something feels wrong.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Emmett doesn’t quite ask, his fingers quickly untying the bag.

  I wave him off, looking away, and pull my satin bolero jacket more tightly around my shoulders. My pulse thunders in my ears, but I can’t deal with looking at him right now. I’d sooner die than have my expression reveal the cold fear racing through my stomach. Well, says a nasty voice in the back of my head, you just might get your wish.

  But instead of acknowledging that voice, I focus instead on drawing deep, steady breaths as I stare at the chandelier in the far corner of the ballroom. I examine the individual crystals and strands of pearls dripping over the rose gold fixture... just as I once examined my mother’s ring. Before the cops confiscated it as evidence.

  And just like before, I refuse to let myself process what’s happening, even as the events thunder and explode around me. As Emmett releases a startled cry, I gaze at the chandelier, drawing the steadiest breaths I can, even as my whole body shakes...

  Because from somewhere in my periphery, I hear Emmett’s normally dry, serious voice rippling with a mixture of repulsion and fear.

  “Threat five confirmed,” he anxiously announces into his walkie talkie.

  An instant later, I hear a series of swears followed by the bustle of everyone moving very, very fast. And then there’s the sensation of someone’s arms — Mark’s? — wrapping around me as I’m rushed from the gala... shuffled away to safety. I guess.

  And all the while, my ears ring with the most uncharacteristically horrified proclamation I’ve ever
heard from my cousin: “Get her the fuck out of here!”

  16

  Luke

  My plane’s barely touched down on the tarmac when I get the call.

  “You back yet?” Emmett demands, the second I answer my phone.

  I snort. “Nice to hear from you, too. Had a lovely time giving a deposition for your client, actually. I did what I could, but—“

  “Look, Luke. I’m gonna be straight... you need to get back here. Now.”

  My veins flood with ice. I knew leaving her was a bad idea. “Is she—?”

  “Mariah’s fine,” Emmett allows through a swallow. “But at the gala, she—”

  Well, that fucking explains it!

  “—You let her go to that?” I seethe, my fist clenched. The elderly woman in the seat beside me flashes me a horrified look. I raise my palm in apology.

  Emmett sighs. “Dude, we had no choice. It’s part of the press package. Each member of the MFB had to be there or they’d get fined.”

  I swear under my breath, earning me another look from my seat companion. “Fine,” I mutter, running a hand down my face. “Where is she?”

  “Her penthouse. Waiting for you.”

  That gives me pause. We hadn’t parted on fantastic terms. “Why would she be waiting for me?”

  “No idea, man. If I knew the slightest thing about women, do you think I’d have sent you all the way back to Washington for the deposition?”

  I let out a dry chuckle. He’s not wrong. “Well, tell her I’m on my way. If she cares enough to hear that.”

  There’s a beat. “Look,” Emmett sighs after a minute. “I’m not getting involved in... whatever the hell is going on there. And I’m not an idiot, Luke — so please don’t bother pretending it’s nothing.”