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.”
Oh, was Heath the mayor now? I pulled myself up to my full height. Even in heels I only came up to Heath’s shoulder, but that didn’t matter. I didn’t like bullies.
“Some people want us to do a show here,” I informed him.
“Is that right?” He took a step closer to me, the ferocious set to his jaw making my heart flutter. In the wrong way.
“That’s right.” I set my own jaw, refusing to take a step back. Even though he now stood close enough I could almost reach out and touch him. And I sure remembered touching him, the rough feel of his cheek, the warm caress of his lips.
“Look at the time!” the mayor cried out slightly frantically. “I need to get you two to the next stop on your tour!”
If a man could growl like a grizzly bear, Heath would have done it. His whole, huge body stood tense and ready for a fight, his big paw of a hand clenched into a fist by his side. All man.
Sam hooked his arm into mine and pulled me toward the
door. Good thing, otherwise some strange and powerful force would have kept me glued to the spot.
Leaning into me, Sam murmured, “He’s a storyline!”
Sam had no idea how right he was.
CHAPTER 8
Heath
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.
All right, it wasn’t Casablanca and Violet and I weren’t exactly war-torn lovers reunited. We’d made out in my truck. Not exactly Bogie and Bacall caliber romance.
But when Violet had first walked in, I had no idea what the hell she was doing in my store. And, OK, it wasn’t exactly my store. It was a jointly owned collaborative, so Vermont.
Funny thing was, Harriet had just been talking to me about visitors we were going to have that afternoon. A couple of TV network executives were going to swing by as they toured our town as a possible location for a reality show.
It might be the worst idea I’d ever heard. A muck-slinging, scandal-hounding reality show filmed here in our small town? It would pry the lid right off of the private, secluded life I’d built for myself, all while ruining everything about the town I loved. I’d seen what money could do to people, and fame worked the same way. The two went hand in hand. People got a taste, it went to their heads and before you knew it they started flying around with undocumented monkeys. Shout out to the Biebs.
It had to be proof of how poorly my brain worked around Violet that even when I’d had the intro, all the background details about who and why and what for, once she walked into my store I forgot it all. She didn’t see me. I was in back, lurking where I liked it behind the scenes. She roamed around admiring and enjoying, and then wouldn’t you know she sat right down in my rocking chair.
Apparently I’d built it for her. She looked perfect in it, so delightfully content. With a smile playing softly on her lips and her eyes closed, her hands roamed the wooden arms the way she’d roamed mine the night before last. I’d gotten a nice long look in before Harriett had announced me.
Then things had tumbled downhill fast, with the dots connecting and me realizing that she of the luscious curves and delicious sighs was none other than a reality show slimeball here scoping out Watson as a possible shooting location. I knew it. Or I should have known it. Part of me—the better part of me—had recognized her straight away for what she was, exactly the type you couldn’t trust. It was the other part of me that had grabbed her like a Neanderthal.
“Wait, don’t leave so soon!” Harriet called after them. Violet was heading out the door with the man who’d tried to give me his card so he could set me up with head shots. I’d rather take a shot to the head.
“Can we interest you in seeing some of the artist’s workspaces? We have a lot to offer here that I think your viewers would like.” Aw man, so Harriet wanted them to film here. She’d sounded neutral when she’d told me about the visit, but clearly that had been her way of trying to ease me into it. She had no idea what she was wishing for. She’d only had limited exposure to the kinds of people who would descend like a plague of locusts upon the small, naïve town of Watson.
“That’s a great idea, Harriet!” Marty the mayor chimed in. Of course he was in on the deal. I’d never liked that guy. I’d bet my truck he had his eye on a state senate seat. He’d set up shop in DC and never look back. “How about Benny?” he asked Harriett. “Could he give them a tour tomorrow?”
Benny was our resident glass blower. He also operated a ski lift over at Mad Mountain. But anyone truly plugged into the town’s goings-on knew his father had taken a turn for the worse and Benny had gone to visit.
“Out of town.” Harriet shook her head. “But you liked that rocking chair, didn’t you? Heath, maybe you can show them your workshop? Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
I scowled at the suggestion. Of course I was free, but I wasn’t going to play along and be a selling point. Though, come to think of it, if they came out to my workshop I could be an active deterrent. I could warn them off, describe all the reasons they shouldn’t film here, tell them about all the townspeople who’d fight them. Hell, I’d make up a haunted graveyard if it would get them out of here.
“Wait, I think tomorrow afternoon I have them at Applewood,” Marty remembered.
Damn it, they’d like Applewood. The cidery had taken its time creating a cool tasting room with a 1940s throwback vibe and, most importantly, they made kick-ass hard ciders. I remembered Violet had ordered one the night she’d come into the bar. She looked like she hadn’t tasted anything that good in years. She probably hadn’t. She probably lived on a diet of green tea and kelp, the L.A. way. Not that she looked too skinny or scrawny. She looked just right, with perfect curves and enough ass a man could sink his fingers right in.
“How about that?” Whoops, Harriet had asked me something.
“What was that?” I’d been too busy thinking about Violet’s ass to catch the question.
“Tomorrow afternoon, a tour of your workshop?”
“I thought they were going to Applewood?”
“We can split them up. Sam can go there. Violet can come by your place.”
Sure, she could come. Maybe twice. I wondered if her mind was heading in the same direction. A flush stole across her cheeks, and she refused to meet my eyes. Yup, seemed like the same thoughts were distracting her as well.
“You should see some of Heath’s other pieces,” Marty chimed in. “People from all over are buying his work.”
I grit my teeth. Was I the only one who saw what a disaster it would be to film a reality show in Watson? I needed to step up and stop this madness.
“Sure, why don’t you come by around two?”
“Great!” Harriet exclaimed.
“Perfect!” Marty agreed.
Violet squinted at me, unsure.
“I won’t bite.” I grinned at her.
This could be fun, scaring her off. She’d come by my workshop tomorrow, and I’d make sure to send her running for the hills.
§
I didn’t hear her come in. I was deep in my work, somehow managing to forget even the prospect of a damn reality show, the lowest form of human entertainment, filmed right here in Watson. By the time I looked up, Violet was standing there watching me.
She’d already gotten herself comfortable. No parka on, she stood there in a sweater that looked way too thin and soft for Vermont. In this state, sweaters functioned as a barrier between skin and the elements. Violet’s sweater draped and decorated, enhancing her figure, caressing her swells and curves, tapering in at her narrow waist.
I cleared my throat and put down my smelting torch. Flipping up the lid on my helmet, I glared at her.
“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” Sarcastic and gruff, I launched my campaign: Say No to the Show!
Her eyes widened in indignation. “You invited me. So here I am.”
“I didn’t invite you. They invited you.”
“I think your exact words were, ‘I won’t bite.’”
“And you believed me?” I moved a step closer. She took a step back, her defiance faltering a bit. I’d like to bite her. But I had business to attend to. Maybe afterward, though.
“You know filming a show here would be a disaster.” I got right to the point.
“No, I do not know that.” Her eyes flashed with defiance, such a deep blue they almost veered into purple. Violet eyes. But that wasn’t the point.
“This is a small, simple town. People like it that way.” I took off my helmet and removed my gloves. If I had boxing gloves, I’d put them on instead. They’d help me win a fight. And keep me from reaching a hand out to entwine it in her hair, shiny and smooth, and I knew it would be silky like it had felt Saturday night. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what smelled so good, her hair, her skin. Maybe it was just her. Standing there, a few feet away, I could catch a whisper of her scent.
“Maybe you like it that way,” Violet protested. “But others are interested. The kind
of show we’d do would put this town on the map.”
“The best thing about the town is it’s off the map. Why would you want to put it on the map?”
“Why are you so difficult?”
“I’m the difficult one?” She was the one causing trouble, barging into my workshop in impractical heels and form-fitting jeans. I bet her ass looked amazing in them. I had half a mind to haul her right up over the workbench and give her a spanking. First I’d start over the jeans, my hand coming down hard on her fully clothed bottom. She’d be startled, of course. But I bet she’d get turned on quick, fast enough she’d want it when I pushed down her jeans and found her bare ass with the palm of my hand.
I turned around, facing away from her for a moment. I needed to think, and not those kinds of thoughts. She was the enemy. If telling her to leave wasn’t working, I had to try a new tactic.
“What kind of a show do you think you could film up here?” I asked, heading over to a half-completed project. There were a few tools I’d left strewn around. I could focus on straightening them up while I talked. That would be safer than standing around looking right at her.
“I’m not sure, but there’s a lot of appeal to small town USA. We could focus on some of the local businesses. And the people.”
“Didn’t you say you work for the Fame! Network?”
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you doing shows about famous people?” They’d love my rockstar brother, Ash. I bet her network had played a role in hounding him. Paparazzi leapt out of bushes and rappelled down the sides of buildings to catch his private moments. Scum of the earth.
“The network wants something new.”
“Do you know how boring Watson is?” I turned to face her, folding my arms across my chest. I wore an old short-sleeved T-shirt, and I saw her gaze flit over to my biceps. She liked what she saw. Problem was, so did I when I looked at her.
“You know what big news is in the town of Watson?” I tried again. Eyes up here, I wanted to tell her. It didn’t help to see her pink tongue dart out and lick her bottom lip. “Big news is a blizzard that keeps everyone indoors.”
Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) Page 8
