by Elaria Ride
“Ohhh,” I whisper, piercing the silence. I thread my fingers through my hair and tilt my chest back even further. “Oh…uhhh…” I lick my lips, completely uninhibited. My hips gyrate beneath me as I trace my other hand down the front of my uniform.
“YES!” I finally cry, throwing my hands into the air. “YES! YES! YES! YE—”
Suddenly, a chuckle interrupts my false throes of passion. I freeze on the spot.
There’s a two second pause… and then a gruff voice whispers, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Oh.
I whip around, but this time my coffee remains firmly gripped in my right hand. Even if I hadn’t recognized his voice, I’d have known that was Asher anywhere. Since I’ve properly introduced him to technology over the past six months, he’s become obsessed with romcoms. I now doubt that any other man alive could quote as many random scenes.
I purse my lips and give him an appraising look. Shit, he’s handsome… even more handsome than the first day I met him, if that were possible. He’s leaning against the desk, his towering form slouched to support his weight. He’s wearing an easy grin and an unbuttoned shirt, one that reveals the slightest hint of muscle beneath.
Mmm. He’s definitely yummy… but he won’t get away with that interruption so quickly!
“Hey!” I pout, putting my mug down on the desk. “You didn’t let me finish!”
He arches an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Director Walker, I think I… how did you phrase it? Let you finish?” His face relaxes into a knowing smirk. “Yeah. I did that a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh you did,” I confirm, rolling my eyes. “Which is why I figured you’d be too… worn out… to open with me this morning.”
Asher’s smirk spreads into a grin as he strides towards me. There’s just the slightest hint of a limp in his step — but even that much pisses me off.
Unlike Nick, Asher hadn’t deserved to get pinned beneath the tree; he’d just seen the most selfless option and sacrificed himself. Because that’s the type of reckless, noble, impulsive, beautiful person he really is…
“Well, what can I say?” Asher breathes, his hands resting on my hips. “We both have opening rituals around these parts.”
I giggle and lean into his embrace as his right hand trails up to cup my jaw. Moments like these are made even sweeter knowing that we almost never had them. We almost never got to experience what we’d worked so hard to achieve…
You see, I’m aware that Asher could have (and perhaps should have) died the second he body-slammed Nick into the ground. He placed both of them in the direct path of the enormous, falling branch — the one Nick hadn’t even counted on. He and Nick both lost consciousness immediately from the sheer strength of the blunt-force trauma, but by some damn miracle, emergency services arrived just when the tree came crashing down.
I guess Asher’s decision to call for backup had raised some eyebrows. As soon as he’d made the SOS, the local authorities (and the state, too) had plowed a path up the winding mountain roads. As it turns out, there are some benefits to your family essentially owning the mountain.
I remember little of the emergency services arriving. It all happened in a horrible blur of bodies slamming to the ground beneath the sickening crunch of the tree. I recall rushing over to them and screaming hysterically, clawing at the bark until my nails were bloody stumps. Fortunately, the emergency services intervened with Jaws of Life and rushed both of them to the hospital, where Asher’s entire family was already waiting. It was an awful day, don’t get me wrong — but being welcomed with their open arms made things slightly less terrible. Sylvie and I hit it off right away, too, which took my mind off things.
To my tearful (and pleasant) surprise, being crushed beneath the branch had looked worse than it was. At least for Asher. He’d broken several ribs and two bones in his left leg, but fortunately he hadn’t perforated a lung. The doctors had promised me he’ll have a full recovery — but that it would be a slow process. Over the past seven months, that’s just something I’ve had to accept; Asher’s physical therapy appointments and occasional use of mobility devices are unpleasant reminders of the jackass who’d nearly ended his life.
To my displeasure, the jackass responsible for all of this hadn’t died.
I know how cruel that sounds, but it’s Nick we’re talking about. He’d been in critical condition following the accident, but after two abdominal surgeries to control internal bleeding, he’d made it. I rarely wish death on people, but an asshole of that magnitude deserves it more than anyone else.
More context came when the hospital ran some labs on him, though; apparently he and Anastasia had both been nursing nasty meth addictions while they lived in LA. Nick had continued to be a functional drug addict after her death, which explains a lot about his bizarre behavior and sudden violence. It’s my understanding that he had a mental break around the time Anastasia died, and at some point, his grief morphed into revenge. To his warped mind, the best opportunity to get even was decimating and poaching the forest Asher cared so much about.
Still, authorities deemed Nick mentally fit to stand trial. Just last week, he’d received 25 years to life at his final sentencing. His prison term would have been longer, but in true Eddie Haskell fashion, he’d agreed to rat out all of his black market co-conspirators. Allegedly he’d had several people waiting down the mountain, but as it turns out, addicts aren’t the best judges of blizzard-related road conditions. Or that black market shit-weasels probably wouldn’t be willing to meet him halfway.
Nonetheless, this “cooperation” (although I hate using that word to describe someone like Nick) resulted in a lowered sentence. By the time he gets out, he’ll be 55. It’s my hope that he’ll find something else to do with his life, but I’m not holding my breath. If you ask me, 25 years is lenient given the physical and psychological damage he caused, but I guess he’s paying, one way or another.
There is a definite silver lining to this whole catastrophe, though: after hearing about Asher’s heroism, the Biggal Mountain community (and the NNS) had rallied to help. Within days of the accident, we received so many donations we’d finally been able to make some basic repairs around the property. The state also provided us with five new hiring slots to help with poaching and security risks.
Asher received medical clearance in March, and two weeks later, his brother, Emmett (the attorney brother) had formally requested a public hearing regarding park funding. The room had been jam-packed with nearly every single member of the Biggal Mountain community — which had warmed my heart more than I can describe.
In the hearing, Asher had taken the stand and explained that following asinine, mandatory rules had gotten us into this mess. If I hadn’t been forced to wear soaking, slippery boots, I might not have fallen. If NNS hadn’t required Nick to carry weapons on him at all times, he might have posed less of a safety threat. If Asher, himself, hadn’t been forced to keep WiFi from reaching his cabin, we could have gotten help much, much sooner.
Asher had then given the NNS an ultimatum. They had two choices: they could allow him to design rules to fit our park’s needs, or they could find a new senior ranger. To our surprise, they immediately (and unanimously) chose the former option. Apparently, they’d had been so pleased that we’d prevented further decimation of the Pacific red cedar that they would have given in to basically anything.
Naturally, Asher picked up on this grateful attitude. And pressed his luck.
Besides the rule changes, he’d then requested the addition of a Biggal Mountain Wildlife Refuge to the visitor’s center. To everyone’s surprise, the committee agreed to this too; their only hesitation had been finding a suitable hire, but Asher had an answer prepared for that. He’d just smiled at the state officials and pointed at me in the audience; I’d promptly blushed from my toes to the roots of my hair.
“I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Ranger Autumn Walker,” Asher had announced. There had bee
n a collective murmur at his words, but no one had voiced objections. With a flash of his charming grin, Asher had continued to declare that I’d be taking over the position of general park director while he refocused his energies on running the wildlife refuge.
So that’s how we got here — at least on the professional front.
Our relationship had developed nearly as quickly. I’d officially moved in with Asher the second I could get out of my lease, but I’d started spending the night as his place long before that. The tiny cabin his brothers built is a little cramped, but it’s nothing we can’t expand if we need to. Our home — as he insists on calling it — has an undeniable sentimental value after all we’ve shared inside its walls.
And now? I cock my head and stare at Asher again as a blush spreads across my face. Yeah. Even without the sex (which is phenomenal), things between us are downright amazing. In retrospect, the time I spent being single was perfectly adequate for what it was — and I’m sure I would have lived a happy existence if I’d never been stationed here on Biggal.
Still, there’s not much that compares to sharing your life with someone who truly loves you, exactly as you are.
To say that Asher doesn’t detract from who I am would be the world’s biggest understatement. There’s not a single aspect of my quirky personality he’d ever dream of changing… not my weird tendency to name random parking spots, not my propensity towards greeting inanimate objects with movie quotes. As evidenced by the NNS hearing, he’s fully invested in my career, too — something my mother still fails to understand.
So yes… six months into the best relationship of my life, I can safely say that it’s possible to love someone else while still loving yourself. Asher doesn’t complete me; we complete each other. It truly is a two-way street.
Asher clears his throat from somewhere nearby, and I realize I’ve been staring into space. I shake my head. Oops. Can you blame me, though? At least I wasn’t fantasizing about him. Not this time.
Speaking of him, though… Asher isn’t where I left him.
I look around, confused, until my eyes finally settle on Asher’s crouched form on the floor. He’s shifting his weight to his good knee as his right hand pulls a little black box from his pocket.
Oh.
My.
God.
Shock squeezes the air from my lungs. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?! The world swims before my eyes. Fuck… this is why he’s spent so much time in physical therapy strengthening that knee, isn’t it?
“Autumn,” he begins, his eyes penetrating mine. I’m frozen, stock-still, unable to process what’s happening. Asher removes a box from his pocket — one that’s mahogany, beautifully engraved…
“When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone,” he starts, opening the lid of the box.
I let out a rattled gasp. I can’t believe this is happening… I can’t believe I’m here…
Asher clears his throat, and I can tell he’s trying to swallow the well of emotion that’s making it hard for him to speak, too.
“You want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
He creaks open the box as my tears fall in earnest. I’m blubbering like a baby as the world swims around me — but the ring is gorgeous, even though it’s a little blurry through my tears.
Shit. My hands fly to cover my mouth. Without a doubt, that is the most gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen; the stone is marbled Rhyolite, a volcanic rock like walls of Holiday Canyon. The canyon I’d almost fallen into, all those months ago.
I marvel at the ring for a few minutes before Asher’s voice reminds me he’s still kneeling there.
“Autumn,” he mutters through a pained expression. “Do you… uh…” He shifts his weight, trying to make himself more comfortable on his leg.
Oh! He’s still waiting for an answer!
Without waiting another second, I release a noise somewhere between a shriek and a laugh as I lunge straight for Asher, pressing him flat on the ground. He chuckles against my mouth.
“So… I guess that’s a yes?” he ventures in between heated kisses. Tears stream down my face, my heart filled with more joy and happiness than I’ve ever felt.
“YES!” I explode, moving to straddle him. “YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!”
He releases a watery chuckle as I cradle his face, my lips never moving from his. After several panting seconds, he takes my hand in his, stares into my eyes, and slides the ring onto my finger with a shaking hand.
For several minutes, we just stare at each other, our eyes full of tender, aching passion.
Then his face spreads into that same mischievous grin I’d fallen in love with so many months ago — and even before he says it, I know exactly what’s coming next.
Asher shifts his mouth to my ear, his hands pressed to my hips. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
THE END
Thank You
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Elaria Ride
Elaria Ride considers herself very well-adjusted for someone who lives in Washington, D.C. She’s a writer, teacher, wife, and mother who loves cats, dirty books, and handsome mountain men!
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Next from Elaria Ride
Stay tuned for a sneak peak of The Booty Guard, the next title in the Babes of Biggal Mountain series!
Expected release November 2019.
Available for pre-order as soon as the link goes live!
The Booty Guard
Chapter One: Mariah
I’m not the sort of person who takes orders well.
Unfortunately, the Nashville Chief of Police disagrees.
I glare at Captain Schmidt from across his desk. His thick gray unibrow is furrowed in contemplation, and he’s giving me a wary look as he leans back in his leather seat.
I figure he probably looks at a live bomb the same way… like one false move might be the only difference between his body and a pile of rubble.
But really, can you blame me? The mere suggestion is insulting. How dare this jerk tell me I need a body guard, of all things!
I roll my eyes and turn to my father, expecting to see a matching look of bewilderment on his face. But instead of giving me a reassuring nod or cocking his head in confusion, Dad’s staring at the wall. And refusing to look at me.
This is a terrible, terrible sign.
The back of Dad’s neck is bright red, his hands stuffed in his tailored trouser pockets. He’s studying Captain Twit’s police certificates with such scrutiny that you’d expect them to feature naked women.
My fist clenches in silent rage, but even I know there’s nothing I can do to stop what’s coming. My dad gave a whole new meaning to the term “stage parent,” which can only mean one thing: Dad not only agrees with Captain Twit’s assessment — but he’ll force me to agree, too.
No.
I know Dad’s overprotective. I know he’s worried about his little girl — though it’s been a long time since I’ve been little, in any sense of the word. But over the past six months, Dad’s acted more alive and excited than he has in years. I’ve attributed this to his reprisal of Dad/manager (or Dad-ager) of the Matthews Family Band — the musical group he started back when his five kids were actually kids.
Now, though, the Matthews Family Band is all grown up. My four brothers and I are no longer the quirky, backcountry kids who perform on late night TV shows and music awards. We’re adults… and anyone would agree we’re past our prime. The MFB probably would have indefinitely remained in that awkward sea of former child stars, too, if the Country Class Comeback Tour hadn’t approached us six months ago.
<
br /> Disappointment thrums in my chest as I continue staring at Dad’s back. I really thought we were on the same page. But I guess not. It seems he’s back to his old habit of jumping at shadows to “protect me” (read: shelter me) while my brothers get to “experience life” (read: party their butts off). To say the least, this double-standard is infuriating. Had I been a fool to think he’d ever treat me like the 25-year-old I am?
I make an angry tutting noise in the back of my throat; this catches Dad’s attention… but not in the way I’d like.
“Mary,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping. Then he slowly turns around and stares at his shoes, as if answers will appear on the tips of his expensive Italian loafers.
I’ve lived with Dad-ager long enough to know that the expression on his face is another Very Bad Sign. His once handsome features are now drawn and ashen, as if he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. The overhead fluorescent lights play off the gray undertones of his skin, highlighting deep under eye circles I’ve never noticed before.
Once, Dad’s hair had been a rich auburn, just like mine. Now, his hair is tufted with gray and white. He looks old. Much older than his fifty-five years. And this whole ordeal is only making things worse.
For the first time, I feel the tiniest bit afraid. Should I be afraid of these threats?
“This is the weirdest night ever,” I murmur, scarcely aware the words have traveled from my head to my mouth.
Captain Twit chuckles from across his desk. “I don’t disagree. But weird or not, death threats are a serious business, Miss Matthews.”
I scowl; that really chafes… the implication that some creepy-stalker bully matters more than I do.
“My career is a serious business too, Sir,” I snap, my eyes narrowing.
Dad heaves a heavy sigh, but Twit just smirks and folds his arms over his broad belly. “Be that as it may, we can’t take chances. Between your family’s fame—”
