by Carly Keene
“I do not!”
I laugh out loud, because she’s so lying—and she’s so pretty up close. “You’re hurt.” She’s clearly a city girl, and she can only have come from the ski resort. “I can take you back to the resort, but you have to get in the truck first. And anyway,” I wink at her, “you’re so dead-set on seeing my permit.”
“Let me go, you asshole,” she says, but there’s a note of fear in her voice and I realize it was pretty caveman to just pick her up like that. Something about her is making me be primitive. I have to be a little more civilized.
“Look, you’re safe,” I say, and step back a pace. I grab my shirt from where it’s slung over the truck bumper and put it on. I button it up, not taking my eyes off her. “I swear that I would never hurt you.”
She blinks. Takes a deep breath. Leans her weight onto the truck. “Okay then.”
I open the passenger door and reach into the glove box. “Here’s my permit. I am legally allowed to cut deadwood.”
She scans it, then looks up. “Well, it seems pretty official.”
“It is. My brother’s a ranger—he’d never let me mess with his forest.” I try a smile.
She gives me one back. It’s a little wobbly, but something inside my chest cracks a little and I can see what she might look like when she’s happy. She’d be breathtaking.
“They let people come in and cut firewood,” I explain. “Only trees that are already dead, and not ones that are currently being used by animals as habitat.” I point across the clearing to a big log lying partly in a stand of mountain laurel. “See how that one’s marked with a dot of blue paint? That means to leave it alone.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “It’s spring. Why do you need firewood?”
“I have a woodstove,” I explain. “It gets cold at night. And I cook on the damn thing, too.”
“Oh.”
“So what happened?” I ask her. “Get lost hiking?”
“Fell off my horse,” she says begrudgingly. “I think he got stung by a wasp or something.”
“And the trail ride leader didn’t come get you?”
“We got lost before that,” she says even more begrudgingly.
“Ah. They put you on Duke, did they?” I shake my head, smiling. “Stubborn as a damn mule when the wildflowers are blooming and he wants a snack. He’s known for going off on his own.”
She snorts through her nose and shakes her head, too. “I got distracted, else I could have handled him.”
“Probably.” She seems capable of it. “Don’t worry, he’ll head home eventually when he wants his oats. Always does. What’s your name?”
“I’m Tia Montgomery. I’m organizing an executive retreat at the ski resort, not staying there as a guest,” she says, and holds out her hand.
I shake it. “Wyatt Fields.”
She finally smiles as our hands touch, and I feel the shock of it all the way down to the base of my spine. “I know. I read your permit. You live here, Wyatt?”
The sound of my name coming out of her mouth makes my hard-on pop right back up again. “I do. Family’s been here two hundred years and more?”
“That’s a long time.”
“We’re kin to the Hatfields, way back. You know the Hatfields and McCoys? Those Hatfields. But it was a long time ago, so no more feud.” I can’t help smiling at her, just to see how glorious her smile is. Her red peasant top rises and falls with her breathing, and her tits underneath it are just as glorious as her smile. I smooth my beard down.
“Do you often have to explain your woodcutting permit to people from the resort?” she asks, with a flash of long lashes, and I realize with a jolt that she’s flirting.
I step closer. “I’ve never had to before. Always a first time for everything.”
“For everything?” she asks, her voice suddenly full of air, so I know I’m affecting her the way she’s affecting me.
“Just about.” I step closer still, and I put my hand under her chin and look into her eyes. She looks back, and then she leans a little toward me and I do it. I kiss her.
It’s perfect. Her lips are soft, but the kiss is hot and fierce, a spindle of blazing desire piercing me all the way to my heart. She makes a little noise in her throat, and I kiss her deeper, feeling her hands on my arms, and then up around my neck, and I put one arm behind her back and pull her to me as our tongues dance together. For a moment it’s odd how much kissing her feels new, and then it feels familiar and right and perfect, and the kiss does something inside me, it pulls my heart to hers and ties them together in a way I’ve never felt before, no matter how many girls I’ve kissed before.
FOUR
Wyatt
I don’t want to let her go.
But eventually I do. I let her pull back, and when I open my eyes and look into her face, she seems dazed, sun-stunned as an owl in daytime.
“Whoa,” she says.
“Yeah, me too.” I take a deep breath and force myself to step back. My lonely dick protests, and my whole body misses her warmth. “If you don’t have to get back to the resort, would you like—”
“I have to go back,” she interrupts me, and then she lets her head fall back against my truck. “I have to. It’s my job.”
I’m not arguing, but she keeps saying reasons she has to go back. “I have to make sure the place cards are all perfect for dinner. I have to make sure the entertainment is set up. I have to check with Nicole. I have to . . . Um, what time is it?”
I check my watch. “Quarter to five.”
She gasps. “I’m late! And I have to shower. Oh my god. Can we go now?”
I help her into the truck and head for the resort, my chest aching. “How long are you staying?”
“Checking out tomorrow,” she says, and she sounds miserable. “At least that was the plan. I don’t know.”
I keep asking questions while we’re driving the twenty minutes to the resort. Where’s she from, how old is she, what does an event coordinator do, does she like her job, has she ever been here before. And she answers me, but like she’s distracted. Before I can ask about her family, she turns in the seat and puts those glacier-blue eyes on me.
“What does it take to live here?” she asks. “Is it hard to be so remote? Do you ever wish something would happen around here?”
I laugh out loud. “Things happen around here all the time—it’s just that they’re not big things involving a million people. If you’re looking for a two-hour parade that you had to push through a couple thousand people to see, or sirens screaming at all hours of the night, then no, this is not your kind of place. But there’s always something going on. Like Willie Maude Gentry has had this feud going on with Sarah Lou Powers for the past sixty-five, and they always have to outdo each other. Lord, the gossip! Somebody always stirrin’ the damn pot.”
“You get involved in old ladies’ feuds?” She laughs. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Oh, I have to. Willie Maude sells butter and eggs so everybody knows her, and Sarah Lou’s my great-aunt.” I turn in at the big sign saying MOONLIGHT RIDGE SKI RESORT. “Tia, can I have your phone number?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Shyness? She’ll yell at me to protect the forest, but she’s not sure when a guy asks her out? Minutes pass as I drive up to the portico in front and put the truck in Park.
I get out and go open her door, and when I see her eyes I see that it is shyness, or something like it. “Thank you,” she says, so softly I can barely hear her. “I—oh. I don’t know if I’ll have time before I leave.”
“We can talk after you leave,” I say, but a little zap of panic hits me at the idea of her leaving when I’ve just met her. “I’ve never dated anybody long-distance, but I’ve never wanted to before, either.”
She blinks, then smiles.
“Put some ice on that ankle. Don’t forget.”
“It’s better already.”
“Phone number?” I reach in and grab a piece of paper and
pen out of the glovebox. “Please?”
“Give me yours?” she counters, and I rip off a corner and write mine down for her. “I have to go.”
“Yeah, you gotta shower. You said.” A picture of her naked in the shower, suds sliding down her sleek body, fills my brain, and I have to shake it out of my head. I give her a hand down, and her ankle only wobbles a little bit.
“Thanks again.”
“Thanks for getting lost in my woods.”
She looks right into my eyes, and puts a hand on my chest. Then she turns and walks, barely limping, into the hotel, and she doesn’t look back.
There’s just enough daylight for me to go and finish cutting that load, so I do it. But I don’t stop thinking about her. I think about the smell of her skin, and her crystal-blue eyes. I think about the way she felt in my arms. I remember that kiss, and how although it was just one long kiss, it felt like a thousand, but maybe a thousand would never be enough.
FIVE
Tia
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god help me.
I’m so late, and I’m so scatter-brained right now that only a short cold shower and a recheck of the arrangements for tonight’s retreat activities is going to wrench my head back to where it should be.
Instead of thinking about that mountain man. The sight of him in the clearing with a chainsaw, chest and back muscles rippling in the cool spring air. The reddish-brown beard, and the soft lips in it. The glint of intelligence in those dark eyes. The smell of his sweat on his clean skin, and the strength of him when he picked me up. The feel of his body against mine. The taste of his mouth. The way how, when he realized I was scared, he stepped back and told me he would never hurt me.
My breathing has gone all funny, while I strip off my clothes for the shower. My nipples are taut peaks, and I can actually feel moisture on my thighs where they rub together, and my lower belly is full of heat.
I get in the shower and almost shriek at the chill. No way, I’m not doing this. No matter what. I turn the temperature warmer, and let my hands slide over my own body, feeling its aliveness and readiness. I use the hotel’s shower gel and it smells a little like him, citrus and vetiver, and I almost moan out loud at the thought of my skin smelling like his. Before I know it, I’m rubbing lather luxuriously over my own breasts and my mound, and then—I can’t help it—over my ladyparts, gasping at the feel of my fingers over my swollen clit.
I’ve never rubbed one out while thinking of a specific man. Not before this. It feels faintly shameful, but I can’t help remembering that kiss, and how he looked at me. How gorgeous he was, all tall and muscled-up and strong. And I go back to touching myself, pretending my fingers are his, wondering how he would touch me. How he would feel inside me.
I picture Wyatt Fields’ face. I imagine the scrape of his beard on my thighs and his big fingers on my little pearl, and I’m suddenly coming harder than I’ve ever come before. I lean my head on the side of the shower stall, and let my spasms gradually slow.
This is a first for me, but now I am wondering if I should take my few days’ vacation right here at Moonlight Ridge.
I could see Wyatt.
Maybe I could kiss him again. Maybe we could do more.
The thought keeps me going through the evening, which does go relatively smoothly except when it turns out somebody put the wrong spreadsheet on the PowerPoint, and nobody can blame me for that.
After Sunday brunch, the AraTech execs have a closing session, and after that, the CEO personally compliments me on a successful retreat, and says that he’ll have his secretary book with Louise Craft for next year as well.
That feels so good! Knowing I’ve turned in a stellar job has buoyed me to really think about leaving Louise and working here. I’m still not sure about that, but I’m definitely ready to consider it.
I head up to the front desk after the herd of guys in upscale sportswear tromps out to the airport shuttle, relieved that no sales guys managed to grab my ass on this retreat.
I make arrangements with Jeff the Activities Director to meet with the resort manager tomorrow afternoon, and he arranges for me to stay another night. I postpone my flight to Florida (thank heavens for travel insurance), and have dinner in the hotel restaurant. Before I head back up to my room, I stop by the front desk and chat with one of the clerks about the beautiful rustic wood furniture in the lobby. “I hear this was all handmade,” I say. “Do you know if it took the furniture maker a long time with it? There’s a venue my boss likes in Denver that would look so great with something similar.”
The clerk shrugs. “I don’t know how long it took. But it is all handmade, so it might take some time. The furniture guy is local—Wyatt Fields. He’d know for sure.”
My jaw has dropped. Wyatt made all this? It’s handmade and, yes, rustic, but it doesn’t look like cheap pine. It’s lovely. “You know him?
“Oh yeah. Nice guy, very professional. He lives near here, got a cabin up over on that ridge over there.” She points out the window. “I daresay we’ve got his phone number around here somewhere, if you’d like it.”
“Yes, please,” I say without thinking. I’ve got his number, but maybe it’s less weird if I call about the furniture?
Or not.
I don’t know.
How do you call someone that you need to talk to for business purposes when you also have carnal purposes in mind?
I take the elevator up to my room, fiddling with my cell phone the whole time. Call him, don’t call him.
Call him.
He answers on the second ring, a folksy “’Lo” in that baritone voice, and I shiver. “Um. Hi. It’s Tia. Tia Montgomery.”
“You mean the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met?” The voice is a little amused, but mostly warm as the tone of his hair and beard, and I shiver again.
“Flatterer.”
“Telling the truth.” I’m still trying to calm my body down when he goes on. “I’m really glad you called. Have you checked out yet? Would you like to get together, maybe have something to eat?”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “I already ate.”
“We could go get a beer or something,” he suggests. While I’m trying to think of a nice way to say that I hate beer, he goes on. “Movie? The theater in town is doing John Wayne movies on the weekends.”
“John Wayne movies?”
He laughs. “I think Miz Garner who runs the place still has a crush on him.”
“Did she name that horse I was riding today?”
“Duke? I couldn’t say.” There’s a pause before he says, “Well, would you maybe like to come out and look at the stars with me?”
That’s more like it. “Yes, please. Can you come get me.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m in the lobby.”
“Oh,” I say again, not disappointed this time.
“Where would you like to look at the stars?” he asks. “There’s a nice patio out here at the resort, or—”
“Your place,” I say firmly.
SIX
Tia
All the way to his place, in his big truck, we’re talking. Movies we’ve seen—me more than him—and books we’ve read—him more than me—and our favorite things. He likes porch swings, Arnold Palmer drinks (sweet tea and lemonade), working outside, red meat, whiskey, dinner with his extended family, his great-aunt’s biscuits, Steve Earle, and Dwight Yoakam. He’s been to the beach once, but he liked it. I like papasan chairs, herbal tea, smoothing out other people’s problems, seafood, gin, dinner with my extended family, my mother’s lemon poppyseed scones, and Lin-Manuel Miranda. I love the beach, but I also love the mountains.
“Here’s my place,” he says as the cabin the clerk mentioned comes into view. The “cabin” is not some log shack; it’s a long cozy building that clings to the mountain like it was born there, not built. There’s
“Did you build this?” I ask, stunned.
“Not all of it, no. This older part my granddaddy bu
ilt.” He gestures. “The part with the porch—now that, I built with my brother Weston about five years ago.” He gestures again. “That’s the dog kennel. I’ve got two good coonhounds in there, but they’re fed and bedded down at this time of night.” He smiles at me. “You warm enough out here? The temperature will drop now that the sun’s gone down.”
I changed into jeans and a cardigan at the hotel, but I’m shivering a little now. “I’m a little cold.”
“I might have to keep you warm, then,” he says, and the heat starts to rise in my abdomen again at the sound of his voice gone a little husky. “There’s a patio out back that’s good for sky-watching.”
We swing through the house, which is every bit as inviting on the inside as it is on the outside, to pick up a blanket and a quilt, and then he settles us on a wood bench and covers us with the blankets. “You warm yet?” he asks, putting an arm around me.
“Not yet,” I say, and lean my head against his shoulder. “Tell me about your grandfather. Was he a Hatfield?”
“No, my mama’s grandmama was a Hatfield.” He tells me how his family sort of hid from the Civil War up here in the mountains, raising pigs and just enough food to feed themselves. How his grandfather served in the Navy in WWII. How his brother went off to college, and how Wyatt decided then that he just wanted to make furniture.
“It’s beautiful furniture,” I tell him. “How much do you charge?” He names a price for a bench like the one we’re sitting on, and my eyes get big. “That much, huh.”
“I’d be lying if I told you I charged more than it’s worth.”
“No, you’re right.”
“I have a good idea of what things are worth,” he says, and then he looks into my eyes. “Like you. I’d say you’re about priceless.”
My body, which is now quite warm indeed, pretty much melts. So does my heart.
“I can’t stop thinking about kissing you,” he says.
“I know the feeling.” I reach up and turn his head toward me. “I think we should do it again.”
