Untamed: Heath & Violet (Beg For It 3)

Heath was so freaking amazing. We’d spent the night together in his workshop. We kept meaning to get up and get dressed. He’d wanted to show me his cabin, and he’d gotten concerned that I was getting cold or uncomfortable. Then we’d start kissing again and that was that, lips, skin, sighing, moaning. Before we knew it the sun was filtering through the window and we hadn’t moved from my parka spread out on the floor planks. The Fame! Network had put me up in some pretty swanky hotels, but I couldn’t think of a bed I’d ever enjoyed more.

Sam knocked on the bathroom door, startling me. “Who was it?” he called from the hallway. “Was it Tom?”

“Go away,” I shooed him off. I was used to his nosey ways. Everyone back at the office was like that. Kissing and telling was as much part of the Fame! Network culture as bitchy backstabbing competition. And that was the problem.

It wasn’t exactly as if I’d done something forbidden. A woman was allowed some fun, after all, and it wasn’t as if Heath was on one of our shows.

But I didn’t know what Sam would do with the information if he found out we were hooking up. I did know that I had a bad feeling about it in my gut. Maybe it was better to let him think it was Tom.

I washed my face and pulled my hair up into a messy bun. A turtleneck would call too much attention, so I opted for a shirt with a collar and hoped Sam wouldn’t do too much investigative reporting.

“So Steve and Kenny come tomorrow?” I tried to steer our conversation into safer territory as I finally emerged, gratefully pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Not Miguel?”

“Miguel’s booked. But you and I need to figure shit out. They want something end of next week.” Sam and I had done such a good job selling our boss that he wanted to see some preliminary footage. Just with the people who’d signed a release, just in a couple of locations. Enough to get a taste of what Hot Off the Grid could be like.

Today was Thursday, so we only had a day to sort out what we wanted to capture before the cameramen arrived. The line between scripted and free-for-all with reality shows was a fine one, as I’m sure anyone who’d ever watched one would know. Producers could spice things up and package scenes in all kinds of ways to create drama.

“We’ll need to feature your hunk of burning love,” Sam declared, settling himself into a chair at my tiny kitchen table. “Maybe we can set a fire somewhere?”

“Arson, OK.” I nodded, sitting next to him, revealing nothing. I hoped. “Let’s make that our fallback plan.”

“It is Tom!” he exclaimed with delight.

I shrugged, letting him believe it was the fire warden. “I had a fire that needed attention.” Not exactly lying, but definitely misleading.

“You saucy minx.” He winked at me.

“So if arson’s plan B, let’s sort out plan A.”

As we hashed and sketched and debated, it didn’t take long to realize Sam and I had entirely different conceptions of the direction we needed to pursue. In addition to our agreed-upon main characters—firefighter, K teacher, brewery owner (roughly 30 and ruggedly handsome), and organic farmgirl (25 and adorable), he wanted to cast a teen mom torn between her baby daddy and her new boyfriend. I wanted to feature some of the local businesses and the characters involved with them, like the ladies of the antique store and the yoga/meditation/dance studio/yarn shop.

“Boring!” he declared.

“No, it’ll be cute! Sweet! Like the Gilmore Girls!”

“People watched the Gilmore Girls to find out who the mom and the girl hooked up with.”

“Lorelai and Rory,” I corrected him. “And it wasn’t just that. People loved the town, the charm, the eccentric characters.”

He yawned dramatically. “When did you turn 65?”

“This is Stars Hollow!” I declared, gesturing around me. OK, at my small condo, but I meant Watson. It was gorgeous, charming, friendly. We’d be stupid not to feature the setting and the quirky charm of the businesses and their owners as much as any romantic entanglements we could discover.

“I know someone over at the BBC working on documentaries. Would you like me to see if he can get you a job there?”

To be resolved later. We weren’t going to see eye to eye, so we agreed to disagree and just get some preliminary footage over the weekend that we could shape later into a pitch. If we even could do that.

We still had the town hall hurdle to jump over. Monday night the entire town of Watson was going to show up in a community gathering to debate the merits of a reality show filming in their midst. We needed the town’s green light if we were going to do this. I’d never been subjected to a democratic vote before. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

But I had better things to look forward to, much better.

Heath called me around one in the afternoon. Thankfully, Sam had left and I was alone to answer his call.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked. He was concerned, but I also detected a note of masculine pride in his voice.

“Sore,” I answered with a grin. He knew what he’d done to me. And how I’d loved every second of it.

“I know you are,” he answered, and I could hear a satisfied smile in his voice, too. But he did add, “Too sore?”

“Are you worried it won’t happen again?” I teased.

“Oh, it’s happening again,” he assured me. “I just need to know how much of a break my woman needs.”

I flushed at the words. Such a backwoodsman, claiming me as his woman. Why did I love it so much? “I don’t need a break,” I whispered, feeling a naughty tingle. Did he want me as much as I wanted him?

“I’ll pick you up at seven. We can have dinner. And then I have a surprise for you.”

“You do? What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

§

An afternoon spent reading Nancy Drew mystery books and watching the snow fall. I couldn’t believe my life had gotten so good so suddenly. I’d popped back to the antique store downtown and impulsively bought a set. And I’d poked around, crunching in my boots, warm in my parka and mittens and hat. In the yoga/dance studio, a woman was leading a tai chi class. In the general store, I bought some locally-made maple sugar candy. On the way back to my condo, I stopped by the local brewery and picked up some of the hard apple cider I’d fallen in love with right from the source.

Watson was like a little beehive, everyone doing his or her part, working together. I could see plotlines falling into place, stories waiting to unfold. Maybe Sam was right and I was being an idiot, but the network wanted something different, didn’t they? Sure, the show I could see getting filmed in Watson would be more wholesome than what we usually did, but it would have more heart. It would connect with p

eople on so many more levels.

Sam didn’t buy it, but maybe I could create my own compelling case? The camera crew arrived tomorrow. Maybe with their help I could start capturing the story I could see? Then it would be up to the powers that be back at headquarters.

By the time Heath picked me up at seven, I’d completely convinced myself. I didn’t need Sam’s help. I’d build this story on my own. There were enough local gems here the execs would have to realize they’d found a diamond mine.

“Hey.” Heath stood outside my door, big and dark with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a knit cap on his head.

“Hey.” I smiled up at him shyly and he took me into his arms, wrapping me in an embrace and a kiss like I’d been dreaming about the whole day.

“I missed you.” He nuzzled into my hair, pressing my lower back with his large hand.

L.A. Vi might have teased or laughed, maybe even felt a little stifled by his words. Vermont Violet sighed and admitted, “I missed you, too.”

I didn’t understand what was going on. Heath was such a strange and unusual mix of gruff and sweet, alpha and dominant and possessive and yet it didn’t piss me off. It made me feel so treasured and safe and protected when I was with him. My brain couldn’t process it all. He’d spanked me last night. Spanking! And had I turned and run from his cabin? Kicked him where it counted? Nope, the rough feel of his large, strong hand smacking, then caressing my ass had gotten me so wet I’d felt a slow, lazy drip right down my inner thigh. He’d found it, too, and I’d even liked that, him discovering my arousal, making me admit it to him.

Whew. Too much for my brain to make sense of. So I just smiled up at him, put my hand in his and let myself enjoy the ride that night.

We got dinner at a homestyle restaurant featuring farm-to-table cuisine. Inside, on this winter’s night, soft twinkling lights combined with country curtains to give it warmth and charm. The food was on-par with anything I’d had in L.A., with the added bonus of no pretention whatsoever. I guessed that was what struck me the most about Vermont. Everyone was just what they seemed, no putting on airs or trying to be something they weren’t. It was such a refreshing approach, a simple menu with only about eight options, all things you’d heard of like ribs or cod or meatloaf, all mouthwateringly delicious and served with a smile.