(Amber)
“The sweetest hunts are stolen.”
—ALDO LEOPOLD, A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC
The Hotchkiss firehouse sits near town limits, a gray cement-block building with large red bay doors spanning the front. Tonight the bay doors are raised, music pours out, and based on the size of the crowd, the entire town is in attendance.
We pull into the parking lot and Braden slows to glance in the rearview mirror for Teagan and Colin, then drives around back to park. He sets the gearshift in park with a shove and shuts off the truck.
“You guys can go in through the front there. I’m going in the back way with this ice. Have fun.”
Then he just gets out.
Maybe I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect when we arrived here, but based on what was happening back at the liquor store, being treated like some fare he’s delivered to her destination, was not what I had in mind. There was touching and lingering looks just a few minutes ago, after all. Lingering looks where his hooded eyes were on my mouth and I wanted him to keep staring—just like that—because the whole scene made my head swim pleasantly.
I watch Braden disappear around to the back of the truck before shoving open my own door and following. He slings two bags of ice up to rest on his shoulder and tips his head toward the far side of the building.
“Just walk around the side there, but stay on the asphalt. The grass has big holes in it because we had a few sprinkler heads start leaking this summer. We dug them out but haven’t replaced them yet. Need the ground to thaw before we can put in the new ones.”
“Thank you for the landscaping update. Fascinating.”
Braden lets out a tired sigh as he bends his knees slightly, then lurches up to seat the bags of ice on his shoulder where he wants them. He gathers two more in his free hand, letting them hang at his side. And for a moment, my corrupt mind takes up a fantasy where I’m over his shoulder and he’s tossing me about so I’m exactly where he wants me, before dragging me inside his Fortress of Solitude.
Braden clears his throat and my eyes shoot up to his pointed gaze. He tilts his head toward the side of the building again. No words, just a silent order for me to get moving.
Has he not figured this out yet? The worst way to get me to do what you want is to order me around—with or without words. You want to tell me what to do? Go ahead, knock yourself out. I’ll be sure to do the opposite.
I grab a bag of ice in each hand. “How about I help you with the drinks?”
All I hear is a groan as I walk away, headed for the back of the building, where a door is propped open with a sandbag. Braden catches up easily, muttering under his breath. He lets me go through the doorway first then immediately cuts in front to lead the way. The band is playing a George Strait cover about getting carried away, every note bouncing off the unforgiving cement-block walls and floors, but no one seems to care about the poor acoustics. Braden moves through the crowd to a far corner of the room, where two folding tables are set up. One table holds ice-filled metal tubs stocked with a variety of beers and the other has three large glass dispensers of what look like sangria, a lemonade, and something with apples floating in it.
Braden shimmies behind the tables and lets the bags of ice drop to a third table near the wall, where there is a large clear bin that looks low on ice, surrounded by endless bags of Solo cups. Garrett, I assume, is busy busting open a case of Coors Light.
“Ice,” Braden says. “And no, I did not get you any cough drops. I got waylaid.”
Garrett’s head falls forward weightily. “I thought we were friends. I thought you cared, Braden. My throat is on fire, and it’s like you don’t fucking care. Waylaid by what? What could waylay you from my comfort, my well-being, my goddam health?”
“Well, you were incorrect. I don’t care about your comfort. Comfort is what girlfriends and moms provide. My only job is to point out that you’re acting like a fucking pussy.” Braden thumbs in my direction. “Amber, Garrett Strickland. Garrett, Amber Regan. The waylayer in question.”
Garrett immediately cranes his head to track Braden’s gesture. And despite being really good-looking—in a redneck, hide-all-the-farmers’-daughters way—he also looks worn-out, sporting the same bedraggled expression that my brother does when he has a cold. When he spies me, his eyes light with surprise.
“Amber Regan. As I live and breathe.” He coughs a little, covering his mouth with the crook of one arm while sending Braden a weary glare. “I’d shake your hand while I tell you I like your show, but I’m ninety percent sure I’m brewing the world’s worst head cold. I may also have pneumonia. Bronchitis. And SARS. And the bird flu. In short, I may not live to see another day. Now, if I had the cough drops I requested, I might at least enjoy the small comfort they provide before this affliction finally takes me.”
Braden pretends he’s deaf, ignoring Garrett completely, and sets about tugging his coat off, revealing a dark blue pocket T-shirt underneath. Every contour of Braden’s chest is highlighted by the perfect fit of the shirt and my eyes drift shamelessly over his body for a moment. But my inspection comes to a halt when I zero in on the left side, where one word is printed in large block letters over the pocket.
hot.
My eyes go comically wide. “Oh my God. Please tell me why your shirt has ‘hot’ printed on it. I mean, other than the obvious.”
Braden looks down at his shirt as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. With a throaty chuckle, Garrett pulls back the placket on the flannel he’s wearing over his own T-shirt, revealing a matching design.
“They’re the shirts our captain’s wife had done up for tonight. We all have them.” He makes a little twirling motion near Braden’s head. “Show her the back.”
Braden locks his eyes on mine, half-pitiful and half-challenging, and then turns slowly.
When he’s completely turned around, I don’t know what to do first. Laugh? Sigh appreciatively? Go over there and rub my hands all over the expanse of his broad shoulders?
Because printed across Braden’s back is the image of a cheesy cartoon-style woman fanning herself, surrounded by similarly silly cartoon flames. At the bottom is another cartoon, this one a firefighter aiming his hose toward the overheated gal with a toothy grin. And sandwiched between are words I’m sure it pains the ever-uptight Braden to know are printed—loudly and proudly—on his back.
IS IT HOT IN HERE?
SUPPORT THE HOTCHKISS VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPT.
WE FIND ’EM HOT—AND LEAVE ’EM WET!
I drop the two bags of ice I’ve been holding awkwardly this entire time, letting them hit the floor with a theatrical thud. Braden faces me again, shoulders slouching as his expression quirks, all but saying go ahead, I’m waiting with his body language.
“Introduce me to the woman who designed those shirts. And somehow wrangled you into wearing one. I want to shake her hand.”
Garrett lets out a croaking laugh while Braden merely goes about tearing open a bag of ice. I gather the bags I’d dropped dramatically and shimmy behind the tables to put them with the others. Braden continues filling the ice bins as Garrett hauls the case of Coors Light onto the front table, leaving me with nothing obvious to do—which means the Jolly Green Giant is about two seconds away from shooing me out of here. But I note that the beer tubs are sorely low on Budweiser products and—ta-da—I suddenly have a task. I spot a case of Bud Select, heft it into my arms, and head toward the bins. Braden cuts me off by stepping directly into my path.
“What are you doing?” he gripes, simultaneously moving to swipe the beer from my arms.
“Helping.” I swivel myself out of reach in one smooth move.
“You don’t need to do—”
Garrett interjects and unknowingly buys me just enough time to skirt around Braden.
“So, Amber, given that I’m dying, I have to know now how your day with Braden went. Was he a camera hog? A diva on set? Did he demand you only shoot his good side?”
I barely stifle a laugh, catching Braden shaking his head out the corner of my eye.
“No, no diva moves today.” Dropping the case onto the folding table, I tear the top open. “Although he did make a bit of a splash on my Instagram.”
Garrett freezes, his hands clasping the last few beers from his case in midair. “Details, please.”
I decide to let my app do the talking by pulling up the post so Garrett can see for himself. A few new comments have come in, all with hashtags that have nothing to do with me.
#hottieswithbeards #camochasersunite #luckygirl #ihearttheyeti
Garrett leans in and scans the comments with a smirk on his face, then clicks his tongue a little.
“I told you all that scowling would look bad on camera, George Clooney. And here you are for all the world to see, with crow’s-feet and those wrinkles between your eyebrows. Hashtag no filter.”
Braden steps up next to me and elbows his way in to unpack the case I brought over.
“Stop talking, Strickland. An hour ago you were whining about losing your voice, so why don’t you prove it?”
Garrett shakes his head thoughtfully. “Someday, Braden, when we’re old and gray, you’re going to ask me to tell you a story about some duck hunt we went on, or every time I kicked your ass shooting sporting clays. You’ll want to hear me talk.”
Braden scoffs as a reply and Garrett laughs until the sound becomes a cough. Once the cough dissipates, his eyes turn unfocused and his face pales a shade.
I tilt my head just enough to find his line of sight. “You OK?”
Garrett meets my eyes then ticks them toward Braden.
“See that? Compassion, Braden. Florence Nightingale and I have known each other for ten minutes, and she’s expressed concern for me.” He ignores a loud snort from Braden. “In fact, do me a favor, Amber. Feel my forehead, will you? I think I’m—”
Just as Garrett closes his eyes and starts to bend at the waist to lean toward me, his forehead hits the heel of Braden’s big palm, now thrust between the two of us.
“No. She will not feel your forehead. Christ.”
At the same time, Braden starts to do exactly that. He pats Garrett’s cheeks a few times, then returns his hand to Garrett’s forehead. I check the urge to coo, because it’s the sweetest, funniest, most endearing act ever, between this yeti and his redneck.
“And, yes, you’re hot. Really hot,” Braden says.
A loopy grin covers Garrett’s face. “Thank you for finally acknowledging that. Cara agrees, though, so you two are going to have to fight it out to win my heart. Fair warning, she’s stronger than she looks.”
Braden uses the hand on Garrett’s forehead to give him a stiff-armed shove backward. “She can have your dumb ass. Go home. I can handle this.”
“No way,” Garrett insists. “That’s not happening, there’s too much work to do and the clean up is a bitch, so just forget about it, I’ll be—”
“I can help,” I blurt out.
Both men look my way, clearly taken aback. I narrow my eyes on Braden, who looks especially suspicious. “I’m more than capable of doling out ice and refreshments.”
They continue to look at me as if I’ve just offered to rewire a nuke rather than help hand out beer and party punch, so I turn on my heel and go to work. Granted, most of what happens is that I start to fiddle with the plastic cups, gathering them into stacks and lining each up evenly, like good little plastic soldiers. Behind me, a man conference is under way, Braden griping and Garrett protesting, all while I attempt to look indispensable.
“May I have a cup of that cider punch, sweetheart?”
I look up to find a sixtysomething woman gesturing to the large glass carafes.
“Coming up,” I answer, all confidence as I fill a cup with ice, only to stride over to the dispensers and hit a stumbling block. The lemonade is obvious, but the other two are less so. I volley my gaze between them trying to decide what looks more like cider.
Before I finish my analysis, Braden’s body is behind mine—my back grazing his chest, my ass brushing the front of his pants—reaching around with both arms to gesture at each carafe as he ticks off their descriptions.
“Red wine sangria. Lemonade. Cider rum punch.”
His arms drop out of sight, only for his hands to find a home on my hips. A loose grip at first, but when a measured exhale leaves me, I swear he urges my body backward. Only an inch, maybe less. Even so, it’s enough to shorten my breath and turn my heart beat erratic. I let a curve settle in my low back, naturally shifting my lower body closer to his. Braden’s fingertips meet the bare skin above my jeans and just under the hem of my sweater, then he slides his hand forward so that more of my bare skin is now under his touch. My mind goes blank.
Shit. I definitely need him to point out which one is the cider again.