Untamed: Heath & Violet (Beg For It 3)

“And we love that,” I assured him, not even really knowing what I was talking about. “But surely your business owners will understand the bottom line. Shows broadcast on the Fame! Network attract millions of viewers. You get, say, a local quilter.” Vermonters quilted, right? I hoped I’d picked the right example. The mayor nodded.

“You show a couple of her quilts on one episode,” I continued. “Then, bam, people are checking out her website. Within a month she’s shipping out quilts worldwide.”

“June would need more time to make that many quilts.” The mayor shook his head at the thought.

I hopefully suppressed my eye roll. Apparently the concept of scaling up a business had not made its way this far north. But where there was a market, there was a way. If this town had something special—and that remained to be seen—there’d be people sniffing around in no time, helping pave the way to increased revenues. For the right price, of course.

A waitress appeared at our booth and put a scone the size of a small watermelon in front of me.

“Oh, I didn’t order this.” I pushed it away, the sight of so many contraband carbs in one compact lump making me slightly dizzy. Navigating the menu in the diner had been difficult. It wasn’t an L.A. “diner” with organic egg whites and turkey bacon. It was a diner diner, with a carved wooden bear out front and maple syrup from local trees sitting on every table in little metal pitchers. But I definitely hadn’t ordered a scone. Scones were right out.

“It’s on the house,” the waitress insisted. “We hear you’re guests of Marty.”

“No, I couldn’t.” I pushed the plate farther away. When was the last time I’d eaten something like that? Maybe when I’d been about seven years old?

The waitress looked more than disappointed. She looked personally injured. “But we just made them, fresh.” She had the kindly face of a Norman Rockwell grandma. Rosy cheeks, her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun, she looked a lot like Mrs. Claus. You didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Claus. You might wind up on the naughty list.

I took a bite. Heaven. Before I knew what was happening, she slathered butter on it. Homemade butter. Probably churned out back. I had no idea what churning was, but it sounded awesome.

Butter. Carbs. Warm from the oven. Holy hell what had I been doing all my life without them?

Sam watched me with a gleam in his eye akin to a vampire spotting fresh blood. But he exerted more willpower than me. No, he brought his arm up over his eyes as if shielding from sunlight. We didn’t usually encounter anything this tempting in L.A. Juice bars, sushi bars, vegan protein bars, that was the way we rolled. We were wrong.

“Good, right?” Mrs. Claus winked at me, then ducked back into her magical workshop with the elves where they were hopefully making more scones. I wanted to bring some back with me to the condo.

“Some folks here will be friendlier than others.” The mayor returned to his earlier theme. “Just go easy on them. Take it slow. I haven’t done much talking about this opportunity to anyone. I didn’t want to…” He paused and looked at me and Sam, choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to give you a chance to meet folks yourselves, in person. That’s always the best way.”

Funny, I’d been in a meeting just last week about how virtual reality avatars were soon going to replace most business travel. No more boarding planes and sleeping in hotels for a morning meeting, then turning right back again. You could simply send your avatar in your place. We were apparently only a year or two from that technology. Guess Vermont hadn’t gotten the memo.

After stuffing the rest of the scone into my mouth and buying a half-dozen to bring back with me—no I did not what to know what was in them, thank you, I told Mrs. Claus who apparently was also the baker—the mayor took me and Sam out on the town. And by out on the town, I meant driving around remote, wooded roads that all looked pretty much the same. Heavy snow, large trees, barely any buildings at all.

It was pretty, though, in a remote arctic apocalyptic kind of way. Too bad the concept for the show wasn’t nuclear winter with a small batch of survivors. That could definitely be filmed on location.

But all the red barns with their silos, the stone walls that had stood the test of time, the mountains in various hues layering into the distance. I had to admit, Watson was pretty.

At a tour of the local elementary school, Sam found something else pretty in the form of a bright and cheerful 23-year-old kindergarten teacher. She literally wore a pink cotton dress with white flower springs all over it and her hair up in a high ponytail with a pink and white ribbon. If a super popular cheerleader from the 1950s grew up to become a kindergarten teacher today, she would look like that. Enthusiasm and pep radiated off of her.

“Would I?!?” she exclaimed when Sam asked if she’d like to join us for dinner.

The sarcastic bitch in me almost asked back, “I don’t know, would you?” But I put that sarcastic bitch right back in my hip pocket and smiled at her. She’d be perfect for the show. I’d bet money she was a virgin. We’d have to find her a hunk to fall for all under the watchful eyes of millions of viewers. They’d eat it up.

No sign of a giant, sexy as hell mountain man, though. And we hit all the local hot spots, the post office, the general store, the yoga studio. Actually, it didn’t seem to just be a yoga studio. The woman who worked there, wearing long, dangly earrings, hair woven into two, long braids and a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, explained that it was a meditation center, a yarn shop, a yoga studio and a community gathering space. However it functioned, it was in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Plus, something about the woman was super off-putting.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Sam muttered to me as we pretended to look through a flier advertising psychic services. Apparently the woman was a medium, too.

“YOU!” Suddenly crisp and clear as a bell, the psychic hippie lady turned to me, grabbing me through my parka which in and of itself was an impressive feat. The jacket had a lot of padding. “I see big changes for you!”

She looked right into me with her strangely pale blue eyes. I froze, caught in the spotlight, praying she was a fraud as I’d assumed she was. Please don’t let her say anything about a tall, dark, handsome man!

“A tall, dark, handsome man! Entering into your life!”

“Wish he was entering mine,” Sam murmured to me, still clearly dismissing her as a nutjob.

I pulled my arm away. “Thanks, maybe I’ll come by for a reading.”

“You need to let go and embrace this!” she told me, her eyes wide.

I stifled a laugh. I’d let go and embraced Heath all right. I’d let go and embraced him all the way to a crazy intense orgasm in the cab of his truck.

“Thank you!” Sam rescued me, waving goodbye at her and pulling me with him as we exited the store. “So that’s a no,” he declared once we were outside. “But how about that ador

able kindergarten teacher? Can you say storyline?”

“Storyline.” I pulled myself together, pulling up the zipper of my parka as far as it would go. She probably told everyone that she saw them meeting a tall, dark, handsome man. I wouldn’t fall for that.

Speaking of falling, I braced myself on Sam, which didn’t help. He weighed about 120 pounds. I needed better shoes. I guessed I could break down and buy some, but where? Did Amazon Prime deliver out here?

The mayor took us over to the town’s pizza place for lunch. Would you like some carbs with your carbs? It apparently was a place people traveled from all over to eat at. But maybe that wasn’t saying much if the alternative was a Dairy Queen?

Inside, the exposed brick walls and rafters overhead set a homey and inviting tone. The menu featured all sorts of locally sourced organics, enough to impress even an L.A. foodie. And even better than the yumminess on the menu, more yumminess joined us for the meal. The town constable was in his fifties, stooped over and wearing suspenders. Again, without irony.

But the fire warden who came with? Yum, yum, yummy. I put him in his late 20s, all shoulders and chest, about six feet tall with a great gleaming white smile and a dimple. Sam was practically falling out of his chair in joy. I agreed, he was nice to look at, but he didn’t set my heart pitter-pat. That was better, now wasn’t it? I felt more like myself. I wasn’t in danger of doing something stupid with this firefighter, or fire warden, whatever he called himself. Warden, constable, this town had funny names for everything. Whatever his title, I wouldn’t let him haul me off into a truck. Only Heath hadn’t had to haul me off. I’d jumped him.