(Braden)
“We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope . . . ”
—EDWARD ABBEY, DESERT SOLITAIRE
Let us take an inventory.
A roomful of guys telling hunting stories that sound too good to be true? Check.
A buffet-style dinner with sad-looking lasagna and an even sadder-looking iceberg lettuce salad? Check.
A silent auction overloaded with once-in-a-lifetime (overpriced) guided hunting trips and limited-edition (ugly) framed prints of game birds in a farmer’s field? Check.
Every element I expect from a foundation dinner has been met tonight. Only one thing is different: my date. A certain blonde in a blue dress who is currently standing on the other side of the room chatting up another local couple who can’t seem to get enough of all that sparkle Amber knows how to make use of. I’m proof enough of that—I’m here, after all.
I wander past the silent auction tables again, pausing once more at the blue lapis necklace-and-earrings set on display. As cheesy as it sounds, the stones are nearly the same shade as Amber’s eyes. Enough that I’ve actually debated putting a bid in on them. The main thing stopping me has been that I have no idea how I would give them to her.
Would I present them ceremoniously, wrapped up in a gift box? Or would that be too much? Maybe I’d be better off to just casually toss them her way in a plastic bag.
Also, when would I give them to her? Before sex? After sex? Both assume that we’re going to have sex, and even if that’s the case, neither is a good option. Whether pre or post, both offer too much opportunity for misinterpretation—like I was putting a deposit on services to come, or a tip on services rendered. And I’m not interested in wading into that tsunami. The bigger issue is that gifts—jewelry, especially—are for girlfriends, fiancées, or wives. None of which I’m lucky enough to call Amber.
Still, I find myself fingering the small bid sheet on the table and darting a glance at the ballpoint pen laid aside it. Amber’s laugh breaks my concentration, and my head jerks up, picking her out immediately in the crowd.
She’s now talking to two old-timers, both of whom look like this is the best night they’ve experienced since some USO show back in the day. Amber gives the old guy on her left a playful swat on his forearm, then laughs when the one on her right obviously says something at his pal’s expense. When they both return her laugh with their own, she offers up her signature Amber Regan smile, the one I now know is manufactured for the camera and conjured up for her admirers. Her private smile is something else entirely. Unguarded and honest in a way no camera could do justice to.
Fuck it. Right or wrong, girlfriend or not, I don’t care. I grab the ballpoint pen, scribble down a bid that’s sure to be enough, then toss it back on the table and walk away before I can change my mind. If the perfect moment to give them to her never arises, that’s fine—I’ll shove them in the back of a dresser drawer and try to forget they’re even there. But if the moment does come and I don’t take a chance on earning another private smile from her, I’ll wish that I had.
I spot Garrett sitting at one of the folding tables near the bar, talking to Cooper Lowry as they each work on another beer. Cooper is a retired pro football player who recently relocated to the Grand Valley to play house with his hippie-dippy girlfriend Whitney and help run the organic orchard she owns in Hotchkiss. Their relationship works for reasons no one quite understands. Whitney also happens to be very, very pregnant. Perched on Cooper’s lap, her belly acts as the perfect shelf for a paper plate holding a slice of chocolate sheet cake.
I make my way over to them and drag out a chair, dropping onto it so heavily the flimsy plastic creaks under the force of my weight. Garrett and Cooper both raise their brows, beer bottles poised near their lips.
“What?” I snap.
Garrett takes a swig of his beer then uses it to gesture toward the rest of the room. “Aren’t you missing your new sidekick?”
I rub the back of my neck. “She’s off being Amber Regan. Capital A, capital R.”
“And you aren’t allowed to be there when she is?” Cooper asks, frowning.
I shrug, slouching down in my chair. I don’t know if I’m allowed to or not. I do know that I’m running out of steam on sharing her with this roomful of people, many of whom either want to fuck her or fawn over her. Selfish or not, I want her all to myself and away from prying eyes, even if I get why she’s impossible to ignore. Amber dressed in a gunnysack would draw attention, but clad in a bold blue dress that traces every one of her many curves? A room goes silent when she walks in.
Whitney pipes in idly, managing to distill all of my frenetic thoughts into something that makes sense.
“He doesn’t care about the capital A, Amber. It’s easier to wait it out, even if it drives him nuts. His Amber will show back up eventually. That’s the person he wants to go home with, anyway.”
Whitney’s eyes dart my way, a strange alliance between two nobodies who found themselves falling for two somebodies. While the term “his Amber” is a reach, the rest is dead-on. My eyes flare just enough to silently tell Whitney thank you, grateful that she’s put words to what I can’t.
“Well, if it were me? I’d get my capital A-S-S over there before that guy tries to feel hers,” Garrett says, his eyes trained on the other side of the room.
Hackles rising, I follow Garrett’s gaze, knowing I’m not going to like whatever it is that’s caught his attention.
Amber is easy to find again, a cobalt-blue fantasy in a room of beige and brown. She’s standing near the far side of the room, flanked by a tall, skinny cowboy fuck who clearly has no sense of personal boundaries. Amber takes a few steps backward, her signature smile still in place, until the length of her back is pressed to the wall behind her. Cowboy Jones leans in, outstretching an arm to the wall just above Amber’s head, and her body language changes the moment that he does. Shoulders back, chin up, spine straight. All to make herself seem taller or more imposing, while still keeping that smile on her face.
The chair creaks when I stand up to head her way, my entire body coiled tight like a python ready to strike. Amber is tough, I know that. She may not require my help, or need me to back her up, but if Cowboy Jones does anything that Amber doesn’t want him to, I’m determined to be close enough that I can show him exactly what it feels like to have his space crowded.
I stop near enough to suit me, cross my arms over my chest—and wait. Amber sneaks a look my way and there’s nothing particularly troubled in her expression but I notice that one of her lowered hands is twitching slightly. Maybe that’s a covert signal—Amber encouraging me to go ahead and clothesline Cowboy Jones the way I want to. Either that or she’s flexing her fingers so she can deck him herself. We can only hope, because that is a show I’d fucking pay to see.
I’m not sure, though, so I stay put . . . and wait.
Her smile fades when Cowboy Jones winds closer, boxing her in with his posture. Amber does not want to be boxed in—that much is clear, simply from the faint tick in her jaw and the caution now in her eyes. Five long strides put me a hairsbreadth away from Cowboy’s neck, but I keep my hands to myself even when he cranes his face my way with a sneer and all I want to do is grab him by the neck and sling him across room.
“Sauerkraut,” I growl, my eyes on Amber’s.
Relief spreads across her features, and Amber ducks under Cowboy’s arm. “Took you long enough.”
I outstretch my hand. “Sauerkraut, sauerkraut, sauerkraut.”
Amber puts her hand in mine, letting out a little chuckle when she does. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here.”