(Amber)
“Love flowers best in openness and freedom.”
—EDWARD ABBEY, DESERT SOLITAIRE
“More?” Braden asks.
“Never enough,” I reply, encouraging him with a wave of my hand over the pot of polenta simmering on the stove top.
Braden dumps in another heap of freshly grated Parmesan. I stir it in, taking a taste once it’s all incorporated. Needs salt, maybe. I gather another spoonful and hold it up for Braden to try.
He narrows his eyes after tasting it. “S&P. Needs both.”
After a dash of each, I turn the heat down another notch. Braden drops the box grater into the kitchen sink and returns to his work at the small butcher-block island in the center of the kitchen. We decided that a quick puttanesca-style sauce would go well with the rest of our dinner, so Braden is chopping up tomatoes, green olives, capers, and garlic. The elk backstrap is ready for the grill, slathered with more garlic and some rosemary. We’ll wait until the last minute to throw it on to cook because backstrap is a coveted cut, equivalent to the best chateaubriand of beef, but with big game medium rare is the only option. Anything beyond that and you’ll end up with a hunk of shoe leather on your plate.
Braden works quietly, either because he’s spent or because he’s hungry—or both. He showed up right on time at six o’clock, but he did not arrive calmly. He basically stomped into the house while slamming the front door shut behind him, strode right past me in the kitchen, and disappeared into the bedroom. Only to storm back out and lurch to a stop a few feet away from me, clasping a condom in his upraised hand. He looked as if he’d barely made it home without cracking, and I’d barely made it through the day myself, so I switched off the burner and crooked a finger his way. Neither of us said anything until I had the counter edge in my hands, Braden behind me, one breath away from him sliding inside me.
“Longest day of my fucking life. All I wanted was to get back to you.”
I swear, I nearly came right then. Instead, that happened only a few minutes later for both of us. The shower we took together afterward was ten times longer than the act itself, but almost as satisfying because when Braden decides to wash your hair for you, he doesn’t half-ass the task—he massages and lathers, and kneads everything along the way. It’s like going to the salon, but one where you can feel free to moan as loud as you want while someone deep-tissues your scalp.
As a result of all that, dinner is later than planned.
I take a sip of the wine that Braden brought home and watch him for a moment, sure-handed with the knife as he works it through a small pile of olives. His back is turned, so I’m safe to stare without him questioning me. If he did, I’d probably mutter something cheeky or call him a Jolly Green Giant—anything other than disclose the truth, which is that I’m trying to figure out how it is that he’s still single.
He’s hot, smart, and actively employed. He’s awesome in bed. He’s a great dog dad, a good friend, and a dedicated employee. Basically, he should be someone’s husband by now. But he’s not, and I’m curious why.
“Tell me about the ex.”
Braden doesn’t flinch or falter, and continues chopping without slowing the knife.
“What do you want to know?”
I shrug even though his back is still to me, hoping the casual gesture comes through in my tone.
“What’s her name? How long were you together? You said she burnt you, but what is she like? Is she a health nut? Is she the reason you do all this cooking and sauerkraut-making?”
Braden snorts. “My mom’s the reason I cook and browbeat people about food. She had breast cancer about seven years ago, and when she got sick I wanted to know why. Both of my parents are professors, so I did what we egghead types do best: I buried myself in research. I came out of all that reading scared shitless about every FDA-approved additive that’s out there.” He notes my oh, shit expression. “Relax. She’s fine. It took radiation, chemo, and a double mastectomy, but she’s in remission now.”
I let out a long exhale. Braden sets the knife down and returns to the stove, setting a skillet on a free burner and lighting the flame. He adds some olive oil before turning back to grab the cutting board he’s been chopping on.
“As for the ex, her name’s Laurel. She’s healthy, but not a health nut. She’s a preschool teacher, she’s a democrat, she likes jam bands, and she’s a perfectly nice person. If I’m being honest, she’s probably too nice. We were together for three years.” He pauses. “We were engaged.”
Engaged? Braden was engaged? Apparently I was spot-on about the notion he should be someone’s husband by now, because he’d been well on his way to exactly that.
“So what happened?”
Braden tips the contents of his cutting board into the pan, and everything sizzles at once. He sets the board aside, grabs a spoon, and stirs the sauce until it quiets.
“When we were together, I was still working as a hotshot, which Laurel hated. Her family wasn’t exactly a Hallmark special; her dad bailed when she was a kid, and her mom couldn’t keep a steady job, so she got bounced around for years among relatives. Growing up that way meant stability was huge for her, and here I was, doing this job that wasn’t safe and took me away for weeks at a time. Finally, she asked me to quit. I loved her, so I did it. I gave up my spot on the hotshot crew and got a job as a park ranger.”
I watch as the puttanesca simmers away and decide that even without hearing the rest of this story, I already dislike Laurel. She likes jam bands, for Christ’s sake—that’s reason enough, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t the worst if it. I suspect by the time he’s finished I’m going to hate her. Braden reaches over and turns the burner down.
“A month later, I come home one day and she’s sitting on the stoop outside our place, some guy next to her with his arm around her, and all her shit is packed up and loaded into the back of a pickup truck. She was bawling. Said she was sorry, but she figured out that she fell in love with him long before she asked me to quit my job, hoping that might make her fall back into love with me.”
My jaw drops open. I pause my spoon midstir, letting it droop to the side of the pot.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Braden shakes his head, and I blow out a measured exhale so I can calmly summarize this bullshit that’s worthy of a daytime talk show, just to be sure I have it all correct.
“Let me get this straight. She was all ‘wah-wah, I want you to quit your job,’ then gave it a big thirty days to see if that would do the trick and make her feel better. When things didn’t miraculously improve after a month, she took off with another guy. One she must have cheated on you with, long before she gave you this selfish-ass ultimatum.”
He nods. I clench my hands into loose fists. I was right. End of story, and I hate Laurel.
“I cannot believe you can stand there and say she’s a perfectly nice person. She’s rotten—to the core. Rotten, manipulative, and awful.”
“No. She’s not.” Braden faces me, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “She’s just not like you. She’s not able to say exactly what she’s thinking, when she thinks it. This is a woman who would rather risk food poisoning than send back a plate of chicken that’s raw in the middle—that’s how much she hates anything remotely confrontational. And I knew that about her, but I never bothered to put in any real effort to get her to talk to me. By the time she finally worked up the nerve to tell me what she needed, it was too late.”
It’s my turn to shake my head, mostly to keep from grabbing Braden by the shoulders and shaking him until we can declare in tandem that Laurel sucks. After that, we’ll dig up an old picture of her, mount it on a 3-D target out back, and commence to demonstrate our archery skills on it. I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m going to hate her. And you can’t stop me.”
Braden leans in and takes my face in his hands so he can place a single kiss to my forehead. “Go ahead. God knows that’s how I felt when it happened, and why I thought I needed to move four states away from her. But she wasn’t the only one to blame. Either way, this shit happened three years ago, so it’s old news at this point.”
“How very mature of you,” I mutter. Braden snorts. I lower my voice. “I still hate her.”
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Out on the back porch, Braden runs a stiff-bristled brush over the hot grates of his barbeque before using a pair of tongs to take the backstrap off the plate I’m holding and place it on the grill. I trot back inside to dump the plate in the sink and return with a clean plate and our wineglasses. Braden takes the plate and his wineglass, takes a sip, then sets both off to the side.
“Since you asked about my ex, does that mean I get to ask you about something, too?”
I flop down in one of the rickety folding chairs he has set up on his flagstone patio and cross my legs, gazing out at the garden Braden has planted behind his house. He’s enclosed the small plot with tall panels of chicken wire to fend off the deer, but continues to fight the rabbits who want to sample his harvest. Even so, he has a thriving patch of cucumbers, peppers, squash, and carrots growing—not to mention the cherry tomatoes and herbs that made their way into our dinner tonight.
“Go for it. But I’ll save you the trouble, because I don’t really have an ex. At least not one worth mentioning. And I definitely don’t have anyone like Laurel. Also known as the founder, the mayor, and the mascot of the town of Rottenville.”
Braden gives the grill an absent smile before turning the meat over. “That’s not what I want to ask about.”
“Oh. Well, ask away, then.”
“I’m curious about what’s going on with your show. On the mountain, you said something about being unemployed if this hunt doesn’t go the way you need it to. Tell me what you meant by that.”
My breezy attitude breezes away. For nearly one full day, I hadn’t given much thought to my show, at least not in a dire way. I’d been enjoying myself too much to dwell on the fact we still hadn’t heard anything significant from the programming heads over at Afield or that one of my biggest sponsors had just announced they’ll be cutting their marketing budget in half next year and I currently have no idea which side of the fifty percent I’m going to fall on. But Braden’s curiosity means every anxiety comes rushing back. I haul in a long breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then exhale audibly. Braden continues to give the grill all of his attention, so I train mine on my wineglass.
“What I meant by that is exactly what I said. If this hunt doesn’t go well, I’m probably going to lose my show. My ratings are in a downtick, and in this business, a downtick means you’re as good as dead. Because TV? She is a fickle, fickle dame. Everything hinges on ratings, loyal sponsors, and fresh content. Without the trifecta, you may be the darling of your channel today, but tomorrow, nobody will return your calls. That’s where I’m at right now. The place where the head of programming at Afield won’t return my manager’s calls. Or mine.”
I smooth my hair down and take a sip of wine—for fortitude and all. “My brand needs a reboot and this hunt is all about trying to do that. People are tired of seeing me hunting high-fence ranches, and I’m tired of filming them. I want to get back to what my uncle Cal taught me, the skills I learned from him in the field—”
“Before you had boobs,” Braden interjects.
I chuckle, grateful for some levity, no matter how small.
“Exactly. The boobs are part of the problem at this point. So filming a solo hunt, DIY, on public lands, is the best chance I have to save my show. If it doesn’t work—meaning either I screw up or it doesn’t impress the programming head at Afield”—I pause and tip my eyes skyward—“then I’m getting paid to go topless.”
Braden jerks his head my way, frowning. “Ending up on a stripper pole sounds like an extreme outcome to losing your show. Try putting in an application at Cabela’s first. Pretty sure they’d hire you.”
“I’d be hella good at the gun counter,” I return drily. “But I didn’t mean stripping. It’s this reality show that’s been calling my manager for a few months. They’re filming a show down in Mexico and want me to join the cast as a sportfishing guide. The topless part was a joke because some girl’s bikini top always goes missing on those shows. But if another season of Record Racks doesn’t get picked up, then that’s my next best option.”
The grill top slams shut with a loud clang. Braden leans over to shut off the propane, and despite his craning down, I still see his jaw flexing tight.
“I highly doubt some crappy reality show is your next best option. Like I said, try Cabela’s. Bass Pro Shops. Shit, any no-name sporting goods store from here to Austin would be happy to give you a name tag.”
Braden then points the tongs directly at me. I raise my brows at the gesture. He clicks the tongs together a few times, leveling them on me in a challenge.
“But it isn’t going to matter anyway. Because if anyone can make this hunt a success, it’s you. You’re smart, you bust your ass, and you know what you’re doing. Even if you don’t kill an elk, just show them what you show me when you think I might be underestimating you. Do that and you’ll still have a show. A show that I’d watch.”
Braden draws his tongs down and lowers his voice.
“Even if how I feel about you isn’t at all what it was when we met, my feelings on hunting shows haven’t changed. If these pricks at the Afield Channel don’t get why you’re worth the airtime, then fuck them. You hear me? Fuck. Them.”
I nod my head jerkily, overwhelmed by the conviction in Braden’s voice. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that pep talk—from him. The same words from Trey or Teagan, Colin or Jaxon, wouldn’t have had the same effect.
“Yeah? Fuck them?” he goads.
I nod again, more certain now. “Fuck them.”
“Good. Now, let’s eat. I’m hungry.” He stomps off. The back door thwacks shut when he saunters inside, leaving me alone on the patio.
I take a deep breath and stare at the now-closed door. Braden seems to truly want this success for me, even when there was confusion in his eyes just now that made it clear he doesn’t understand why anyone would want it in the first place.
Braden may love the outdoors the way I do, and after last night, I’m confident that he certainly likes me, but there’s no question that this part of my life will never make sense to him. If tomorrow we try to say goodbye, then look at each other and realize that goodbye just won’t do, my job might always be something Braden accepts but never embraces—the same way his wretched ex tried to do with his work as a hotshot. We all know how that turned out.
Even so, I’m still grateful for the pep talk, despite his rude departure. In truth, though, I like Braden’s brand of rude, I think. It’s the sort that keeps me on my toes and makes it so I feel well within my rights to keep him on his toes.
Braden—tough-love pep talks and rude exits included—whether he knows it or not, just gave me exactly what I need to get through the next few months.
In the morning, I get my turn to set the pace. Finally.
And it is so worth the wait.
Unfortunately, morning also brings along with it a few too many grown-up realities. Things like long drives to the airport, plane tickets back to Austin, and the unspoken possibility that this may the last time Braden and I see each other. We manage to ignore those realities until Braden is loading my bags into the trunk of the rental car and jabbering on about the particulars of me crashing here while he’s gone.
“I’ll leave the hide-a-key out back, under that cinder block by the grill. Don’t worry about putting it back when you go, just lock the door and leave it inside on the table. Charley will be with me, but you might see my neighbor from down the road around with her dogs. She’s going to bring my mail up and water the garden for me unless we get a cold snap and everything freezes before I leave.”
I nod almost robotically, watching him rearrange the bags in the trunk, lining them up neatly side by side—for no reason whatsoever, other than to keep from shutting the trunk lid, which will bring us one step closer to me leaving.
“Don’t worry about buying any groceries, just eat whatever you want from here. Plenty of meat in the freezer, and if the garden’s still kicking, harvest what looks good.” He finally slams the trunk shut, then immediately shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll make a batch of those millet energy bars before I leave and put them in the freezer for you. Did you like the figs? If not, I can make them with something else, maybe cranberries or cherries. Just promise me you’ll eat them. Take a selfie with one of those shitty bars for your Instagram if you have to, but don’t eat it, OK?”
My answer is an eye roll, partly out of instinct and partly because my eyeballs feel weird. Weird in a watery, emotional way because he’s going to make special energy bars for me and I want to kiss him all over and stay here instead of going home.
“And promise me you’ll stay safe. Hunt hard but drink plenty of water, watch your footing, and make good decisions. Be sure you don’t set your pack down and walk away; you’ll lose track of it in the—”
“Oh my God, stop,” I blurt out.
He’s just fucking talking—about everything and nothing, at the same time—to avoid the inevitable. I pinch the bridge of my nose with two fingers and take a long breath. Exhaling, I open my eyes to find a slightly startled Braden studying my face.
“I do not need a lecture on the basics of outdoor safety. I’m a very competent woman and a very capable hunter.”
Braden fumbles over a protest, claiming he knows exactly how capable I am, but I carry on right over him. I know he knows that—I just needed him to knock it off with the pointless chatter.
“I hate that you won’t be here when I come back, Braden. Hate it. If I didn’t understand what it’s like to spend multiple seasons chasing one specific buck, I’d try to convince you to change your plans. But I do understand, so I’m just going to wish you good luck. Now please kiss me goodbye.”
Braden’s jaw drops open a fraction, then he sets his teeth to his bottom lip and leans in, slipping his hands into my hair, and the demanding way he pulls me to him turns my insides into a muddled-up mess of disappointment and need. Braden skates his lips over mine until I’m teetering on the edge of a whimper, then offers up a goodbye kiss that makes leaving feel nearly impossible.
I break the kiss before he does, not because I want to—because I have to. Braden keeps his hands in my hair and tips his forehead to mine with a sigh.
Finally, he leans back and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, then pulls them out and holds them open for me. A pair of blue lapis earrings are in one hand, and a matching necklace is in the other.
“I bid on these at the silent auction. They’re for you.”
I volley my eyes between his face and his palms. He looks nervous, which is making me nervous. I want to say the right thing, not only because they’re beautiful and just my style, but because I want him to know how much these few days with him have meant to me.
“Braden,” I sigh. “Thank you.”
I wrap my hands over his and he releases a held breath.
“Not sure what I’m going to do if this is the end of the road for us, Amber. Tell me this doesn’t have to be all there is. I know there are a hundred different reasons this probably can’t work, but I don’t really give a shit. We don’t have to make any promises—just say this isn’t it.”
My body replies with a sharp swell of relief that works its way up from my belly, through my heart, and meets my lips with a grin. Last night after his rousing pep talk, I imagined this moment. I wished for it, really—and this morning, nothing has changed. Here I was, about to drive away from the best sex I’ve ever had, with a great guy who is better than most I’ve ever known, potentially leaving behind what could have been the beginning of something more. Now I don’t have to.
“No promises? I’m not sure I like that.” I say slowly, tilting my head and locking my eyes on Braden’s. He doesn’t nod or flinch; he simply takes my gaze and meets it with his own. I lean in a fraction.
“Let’s make one promise, OK? Just one. That we ignore all the reasons this can’t work . . . and see if we can figure out a good reason it will work.”
Braden nods, a short and sharp gesture that would be more appropriate between two warring military generals than two people who just decided they want more than a few nights together. A shadow of relief follows, creeping across his face until he’s nearly smiling.
“One reason, then,” Braden says. “Easy enough, right?”