(Braden)
“Praise her endlessly. It’s wonderful what a compliment does to hearten us girls.”
—THE SIERRA CLUB WILDERNESS HANDBOOK, “ESPECIALLY FOR MEN,” C. 1971
This is what I get.
I should have known better. You can’t obsess over a woman like a fucking teenager and expect that shit to go without consequences.
You also cannot have a seriously insane conversation with your dog about the object of your obsession, complete with you showing your dog a picture of her on the internet, then blathering on about how in person she’s pint-sized, but her hair is even shinier, and she smells like strawberries. Fresh strawberries muddled up with honey and oranges and . . . just other things I want to suck, lick, taste, and otherwise make use of my mouth on.
All of this happened; all of this was discussed. In detail.
With. My. Dog.
It was weird and pathetic, and inappropriate, really.
And I may not believe in luck or fate, but I do believe in willing what you want. So spending the last few hours rehashing every detail of my day with Amber must have sent a siren call out into the universe, only to conjure her up in front of me. Right here, standing near enough that her strawberry scent is impossible to ignore. I dare myself to look her way, completely, to take her in without accidentally owning up to that earlier conversation with my dog.
She’s traded in her gear from earlier for an entirely new outfit: dark jeans the color of red wine that hug her every curve, some little boots with heels, and a sweater that’s oversized but cropped, revealing how low those jeans sit on her hips. Her hair is down, loose and wavy around her face. When she flips it back over one shoulder, I get hit with a strong wave of strawberry. It’s her shampoo, I realize. Which may mean she’s showered since I last saw her.
Either that or I’m just like all those other guys who drool over her and we all like thinking about her naked. And wet. And soapy.
Fucking hell. I’m such an asshole.
“What’s with all the ice, Superman? Doing some renovations on your broody little ice castle in space?”
I swing the two bags of ice in my left hand into the bed of my truck, then follow with the two over my right shoulder, and start to stack them with the others.
“It wasn’t an ice castle. That makes it sound like the Superman version of a Barbie Dreamhouse.” I slam the tailgate shut. “It was his Fortress of Solitude. And it’s not in space, it’s in the Arctic. But it’s not always made of ice—depends on what incarnation of Superman you’re talking about.”
Amber lets her lips quirk up on one side.
“I don’t like the way you just implied that a Barbie Dreamhouse is somehow inferior to your little Superman Ice Capades Wonderland or whatever. Also, serious nerd alert there, Braden.” She lowers her voice, growls a little. “ ‘But it’s not always made of ice—depends on what incarnation of Superman you’re talking about.’ ”
Another pathetic growling sound. I crook an eyebrow.
“Let me get this straight. I don’t give the right props to some plastic piece of crap that looks like a Pepto-Bismol factory exploded on it—and I’m an asshole. But you can mock me and that’s OK?”
“Yes.” She steps closer, lazily dragging her fingertips across the top of my tailgate before she tips her head. “Haven’t you noticed? I play by my own rules.”
Reflexively, I lean back. When I realize what I’ve done, I can’t decide if I’m losing my mind or if I’m just rusty when it comes to this stuff. Because I haven’t done this in a while. The flirting, chasing, wanting, and craving. Any of it.
But when you come home one day to find all of your fiancée’s belongings packed up and loaded into the back of some other guy’s pickup, it’s easy to end up shell-shocked when it comes to women. No man in their right mind should want to go through that again, which made it simple for me to settle on a life alone. And this is the first time in three years that I’ve wanted anything different—with Amber Regan, of all people. A woman I was convinced couldn’t possibly hold her own in the field, only to figure out quickly that she knows her stuff. Once I acknowledged that, I realized how easy it is to typecast people into roles they don’t necessarily belong in. This—seeing Amber as more than an obnoxious trophy hunter clad in hot pink camo—takes more thought.
Hours of thought, if my afternoon is any indication.
Amber’s phone beeps and she pulls it from her back pocket to scan the face. Then she rises up on her tiptoes and gawks across the street toward the True Grit parking lot, giving a wolf whistle in that direction. Colin and Teagan emerge from behind one of those God-awful decaled trucks and head our way, Colin taking Teagan’s hand when they start to cross Main Street. Safety first, kid. Because the traffic here is so treacherous.
They stroll over to us, and Colin immediately sends me a glare.
“I need to find some liquid amnesia after that dining debacle. Tequila, maybe. Seriously, man. What were you thinking?”
I return his glare, confused by the attitude he’s tossing around. “What?”
“It’s like sending ol’ Giuseppe from Rome to the freezer case for a Red Baron when he wants a pizza. Or swinging by Taco Bell with the abuela who wants a burrito. It’s—”
Teagan cuts Colin off, yanking her hand from his with an eye roll. “Ignore him.” Her eyes move to Amber. “How bad do you need a drink? Everything OK?”
Amber’s shoulders sag as if a weight has been placed there, shrinking her in a way I don’t like. That and the obvious concern in Teagan’s tone puts my body on edge, and not just in the way I’ve felt since the moment I met Amber. Instead, I want to know exactly what Teagan is angling at and wrestle that weight from Amber’s shoulders. But Amber cuts a glance my way, then straightens her spine and pulls her shoulders back, making it crystal clear that she isn’t interested in sharing.
“I’m fine. But I could go for a drink.” Amber looks to me again and her eyes take on a teasing gleam. “In fact, Braden is headed back to his Fortress of Barbie Dreamhouse Solitude and I think we should join him.” She steps closer, near enough that her thigh brushes mine.
“Do you have drinks at the Fortress, Braden? I bet you do. I bet you have lots of pink drinks and fruity cocktails there—look at all this ice. Take us, Braden. Take us to your Fortress of Frosty Doom.”
Jesus Christ. Why do I want to smack her ass and kiss the fuck out of her when she talks to me like that? Why am I fighting a laugh, a growl, and a hard-on all at the same time? My entire reality has been turned on its ear, and even when I should be doing everything in my power to turn things the right way around, my body refuses to get on board.
“It’s called a Fortress of Solitude for a reason,” I grumble, then gesture down the street with a jut of my chin. “There are no bars in town except for the Elks Lodge. So unless Colin’s an Elk, you’d better stock up here before old man Carl closes up for the night.”
I start toward the front of my truck, but Amber stops me with a palm to my chest. My jacket is unzipped, so her warm hand rests over what now feels like the flimsiest, most threadbare T-shirt I own. Fucking great. Now she’s touching me. Tame, yes, but she’s the first woman in forever who’s made my dick ache, and now she’s touching me. My heart starts to work overtime, beating too hard and too fast.
Amber’s eyes meet mine. “But where are you going? With all this ice?”
The heat of her, so close and so good, means any hope I had to walk away without a second glance becomes impossible. I swallow thickly.
“It’s a local thing. You guys wouldn’t enjoy it.”
Her hand starts to trail down my chest. “Is it a party?”
“Kind of.”
“Are there drinks? Entertainment of some sort?” Her nails scrape lightly over my abs and each one contracts until her fingers meet my belt. Only when her hand drops away am I finally able to breathe properly again.
“Yes.” I nod my head toward the bags of ice. “My buddy Garrett and I are in charge of the drinks. Needed more ice than we planned on.”
“Sounds like a real fiesta,” she offers. “But now I’m curious—do you and this Garrett fellow do the whole Cocktail bottle-tossing tomfoolery? Or anything else that would earn you status as a beefcake bartender? Bare-chested body shots, bar-top dance acts, or something a Coyote Ugly gal would wholeheartedly endorse?”
There it is again, the urge to lay my palm across her ass—hard—as a reprimand, and then kiss her until we both can’t breathe. I give up and lean in just a few inches, but it’s nowhere near where I truly want to be.
“No,” I answer.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Either tell us where this party is or you two need to just get a room.”
Amber and I both snap our heads up and jerk our attention to an exasperated Colin and a ridiculously entertained Teagan.
“I vote for disclosure of the party’s location. Because, honestly, dude?” He points an accusing finger my way. “After sending us to that so-called barbeque joint, where the ketchup they call ‘sauce’ did nothing to fix that brisket nightmare, you owe us a drink.”
Amber and Teagan try to stifle their snickering and I finally figure out what has Colin’s dander up. Apparently, True Grit did not meet their expectations. Too bad. Even so, there is no way Amber and I are getting a room, leaving only option A.
“It’s over at the fire station. Our annual fundraiser for the Hotchkiss Volunteer Fire Department. Twenty-five bucks a head, but that includes all the drinks and desserts you want, plus some crappy carnival games, and there’s a band playing.”
Teagan’s eyes go wide with a grin, and she starts to clap her hands like an overexcited tween girl. “Dessert!”
Amber does the same for a moment, then goes still suddenly. Pointedly, she puts both of her hands to my chest, and I peer down at her. A smirk curls across her mouth.
“Oh my God. Are you a firefighter, Braden? Or do you just play one in a calendar?”
There’s something new in her eyes. Appreciation mixed with curiosity, but tempered by that ever-present sass. Why, I’m not sure. I’ll bet it’s more complicated than some overblown fantasy about firefighters, though. One I ran helmet-first into more often than I care to remember when I was a hotshot. But I’m not buying the idea that Amber is the sort who is keen on that crap, or likes those charity calendars she referred to—the ones that apparently require a drum of canola oil and a rucksack of docile kittens on set.
I scan her face when I reply, “I’m on the volunteer squad, yes.”
My answer earns a full smile from her. A real, genuine, not for the camera or the internet, smile. And it’s like sunshine I can feel, warming my entire body, in my bones and my every nerve ending.
Amber’s smile tapers slowly. “Well, let’s go, then.”
Her lips then ease into a soft pucker—one that she’s a smart remark or another smile away from having kissed or nipped. Or both.
“And I’m riding with you, Mr. December.”