Untamed: Heath & Violet (Beg For It 3)

“Same thing that’s wrong with me,” I agreed, my hands around her waist, fitting her to me tight. I pushed the hard bulge of my cock, straining at my jeans, up against her pussy. Right where she was still wet, had to still be sensitive from the orgasm I’d given her.

“You feel so good,” she groaned, pushing against me, biting down on her bottom lip. “But I have to go.” Abruptly, she reached over, opened my door and practically tumbled out of the truck.

Her lips swollen from our kissing, her hat falling off of her, she held up her finger in warning. “Don’t come in.”

I watched her walk up the stairs, open the door and close it behind her without looking back. I shook my head and swore under my breath. Being around that girl felt a lot like riding a roller coaster. I’d always been more of a Ferris Wheel man myself, enjoying the views at a relaxed pace. But with Violet? She had me hurtling up, down and all around.

CHAPTER 11

Violet

Strange things were happening to me in Watson. Part of me felt all mixed up about Heath. I hemmed and hawed and stewed and simmered.

But something else was happening, too. Crunching along the snowy sidewalk of Watson’s downtown, sipping a steaming hot cocoa, I didn’t know when I’d ever felt so relaxed. The pace of life moved so much slower in Vermont. There wasn’t even a rush hour. The daily ebb and flow stayed at a constant, lazy drift, people stopping to chat, ask after someone they knew.

My pulse still raced to the city beat, but I had to admit, I was enjoying the break. That afternoon I had nothing on my schedule but a dance class. The yoga studio/meditation center also hosted a modern dance workshop. I’d always wanted to try the hiphop dance class at the gym I belonged to, but I’d never worked up the courage to go. I’d peeked in the window a few times and it looked like everyone was a professional, waiting for their moment when they’d be chosen for a music video. And they were right. Agents and talent scouts and other people who knew people all belonged to that gym. It was a place to see and be seen.

Here in Watson, I figured I could make an ass of myself and it wouldn’t matter. The stakes were pretty low. We hadn’t started filming. I could try to bust a move and even if I busted a hip no one back home would ever know.

“Hey, Vi,” a shopkeeper greeted me as I moseyed into her antique store. I’d only been in the town 10 days and already it seemed everyone knew my name. It was a friendly place. Plus it helped that Marty the mayor had been introducing me to anyone and everyone who’d give me the time of day. He wanted this show bad.

Surprisingly, the Fame! Network did, too. Our boss was ecstatic over the early concepts we’d floated, the fledgling cast of characters. Sam talked it all up as if it were the greatest thing since sliced bread, and so far our production manager was over the moon, telling us to take the full three weeks to flesh everything out and get everyone on board. Privately, Sam expressed more doubt to me. He still wasn’t convinced there was enough scandal and intrigue in this wholesome, family-friendly town. But he sure was dedicated to sniffing it out.

Me? I was on the fence, one moment teetering this way, one moment the other. On the one hand, I could see a show shaping up, maybe not a megahit show but something interesting and—dare I say it speaking of a reality show—real, featuring life in small town America. On the other hand, the typical Fame! Network show involved DRAMA in all caps and I wasn’t seeing even a hint of that in Watson.

On the other hand, and, yes, I realized I now had too many hands but cut me some slack, I was feeling mixed up—all I could think about was a huge mountain man who gave me the best orgasms I’d ever had in my life and yet still seemed to want nothing to do with me. And I didn’t think it was a good idea to want anything to do with him. Probably. At least, not much.

I drifted around the antique store, admiring the odd collection. My fingers played along the keys of an old typewriter.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

I nodded, admiring the heft of its black body, the satisfying click of the keys.

“You can mess around with it if you want,” the shopkeeper offered. “I’ve got some paper in back.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I smiled at her and looked at some of the other oddities on the shelf. An old-fashioned egg beater operated by a crank. A pair of wooden snowshoes.

The drumbeat of L.A.—of the shows I made, the life I’d been leading—was all new, new, new. The teen years were the prime years, for modeling, acting, even market research. If you captured the teen demographic, you were golden. Every hotel, bar and office space I knew was constantly getting remodeled. Anyone over the age of 30 had touch-ups and tucks and peels, employing all sorts of alchemy to delay the effects of the steady march of years.

And I liked it, I still did, the pursuit of the new. It was invigorating and exciting and fun. Just-released music, new spring fashion trends, the hottest fresh lipstick shades.

But I guessed I’d never thought about what you missed out on if you threw out all the old. How that frenetic pace rushed you right past stuff that might be just as cool. I guessed it was like the difference between flying and walking. If you flew, you could see more quicker, waste less time in transit. But if you walked, maybe the travel itself became the adventure? Maybe you’d cover less ground but have a better time anyway?

I didn’t know. I didn’t have the answers. But maybe it felt good to admit that? I spent so much of my time pitching, selling, competing with others trying to get a promotion, out at events so I could grow my network. It required such vigilance, such a manic energy, the blowouts and fabulous shoes and ball-busting confidence I had to project at all times.

The other day in Watson, I hadn’t even put on any makeup.

“Going native?” Sam had asked me wryly, picking up a curly strand of my hair. Without product and 20 minutes with a hair drier, my hair got pretty wavy. That was something no one in New York or L.A. knew. But Watson, Vermont knew it.

Heath knew it. I’d primped less for our sleigh ride date than I typically primped to go grab a coffee on a weekend morning. No one got coffee in L.A. without getting camera-ready. Your makeup would be applied to achieve a glowing and casual effect, of course, but you didn’t just walk out the door unprepared. It simply wasn’t done.

But for Heath, I’d deliberately stopped myself from getting all gussied up. I’d never looked plainer, but no man had ever made me feel more beautiful. What was up with that?

Before he’d picked me up last night, I’d given myself a pep talk. No gazing dreamily at him. No flirty banter. And no, absolutely no kissing. I had plenty of good reasons.

A) I’d be leaving Watson in a week and a half and I’d never see him again. And somehow I already knew if I got into it with Heath, I’d be in deep. He was an intense man. He wasn’t a fling. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did.

B) He was trying to ruin the project I was trying to get off the ground. Only he didn’t seem to be trying that hard. He talked tough to me, but then he mostly seemed to keep his opinions to himself. He hadn’t launched operation Get Out of Town as I’d expected at first.

C) He wasn’t my type. Except what was my type, exactly? Self-absorbed preeners? Competitive posers? Heath made every previous boy crush look just like that—a crush on a boy.

Maybe that was why my checklist of reasons to keep my hands off had flown right out the door the second I opened it the other night and saw him standing there, gruff and huge and gorgeous in a knit cap. He was such a man. There was his size, of course, his off-the-charts burliness I honestly didn’t think I’d ever seen before in person. But there was also something else about him, some sort of stillness. He didn’t talk much, didn’t show off. He didn’t want to get head shots, didn’t even seem to market his furniture. There was the rat race, of which I was an official card-carrying member, and then there was Heath, standing big and strong off to the side, his arms folded across his chest as he watched us crawl all over each other. It made a woman wonder.

But it was time for my dance class, so I hustled on over. At least the Watson, Vermont version of hustling, which involved chatting with the antique shop owner a few more minutes about her collection of Nancy Drew mysteries and then taking a bit of time before venturing outside again to fully wind my scarf around my neck, pull down my reindeer hat and zip up my parka.

The studio was about a five minute walk away, and by the time I arrived I was thrilled to step indoors again away from the chill.

“Welcome! You must be Vi!” A big, rosy-cheeked woman with short grey hair dressed head-to-toe in purple gave me a hearty greeting. “I’m Helga!”

If ever a woman should be named Helga, it was this woman. I caught the hint of a German accent and she commanded the attention of the eight or so women in the room with a clap of her large hands. The group ranged in age from around 20 to about 70. If I had to guess, with Helga pushing the latter.

“You need to bring it, you L.A. girl.” Helga pointed a finger and warned me. I liked her instantly.

An hour later, we’d all danced our booties off to an eclectic mix of ABBA, Taylor Swift, Earth Wind and Fire, and Bruno Mars. You hadn’t lived until you’d had a sassy older woman named Helga guide you through a dance routine to Uptown Funk.

“This is what he means when he says ‘white gold,’” she said to me with a wink, pointing to her white hair. I wanted to be her when I grew up, so full of spunk and self-confidence. She had enough energy I bet she could power a city grid.

“You like our town?” she asked me after the class.

“I do,” I answered, surprising myself by realizing I meant it. I didn’t think I could live there permanently—a thought I didn’t share with her—but as a place to visit and get away from it all? Definitely.

“We have the best people here,” she told me, giving hugs and pats on the back to the women filing out the door. “We take care of each other.”

“That’s really cool,” I agreed. I remembered a lot of times growing up when my mother could have used more of a hand. On her own, she’d struggled a lot. My father had drifted in and out, more out than in, and her parents hadn’t been all that supportive, either. Sometimes Mom had a reliable crew at her salon, but not always. What would it be like to live in a community where people really took care of each other?

“Have you met Heath yet?”

I started at the mention of his name, an instant flush flooding my cheeks. Had I met Heath? Had I been able to keep my hands off of him was a better question. I managed a simple, “yes.”

“He fixed my roof,” she said and I looked up. “Not here,” she explained, “at my house. Last summer. I needed it patched up, and he did it for me. Wouldn’t take a penny.”

“Really?” He’d built a fence for old cranky Fred, fixed a roof for Helga. And given me the best orgasms of my life. Something of my dreamy expression must have shown on my face, because she said what was on my mind.

“He’s quite a catch, you know. Some young girl like you should snap him up.”

“Oh, I’m not here for long.” Damn it, I could tell I was blushing furiously and in no way convincing her of my disinterest.

“It doesn’t take long. You young people make everything so complicated. But take it from me, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Is that right?” I smiled at her.

“It is.” She smiled back. “And I tell you what, if I were a little bit younger, that Heath wouldn’t be so single anymore.”

I laughed. “Well, Helga, I’ll be happy to put in a good word for you if you want.”

She shook her head, clucking her good-humored disapproval as she gathered her coat and flicked out the lights. “You young people. Always making things more complicated than they have to be.” She locked the studio door and looked straight at me with her ice-blue eyes. “When you know you know.”

I stood there watching her walk to her car and wondering if maybe Helga knew exactly what she was talking about.

§

Later that night my phone rang. Look at that, it was the man in question, the one I’d given my number to but somehow had still never expected would call.

“Are you calling to tell me to leave town?” I asked Heath, sitting down onto the couch in my condo.

“No, I’m calling to have phone sex.” Good thing I wasn’t drinking anything or I would have spit it right out.

“What?”

“You asked a stupid question.”