Montana Wild

by Vanessa Vale

  Chapter 9

  I found Mike in the man cave with the others—he hadn't settled in yet like Jubal and Mr. O—and he abandoned the game for me. The others were so riveted to the set they wouldn't have noticed if I'd walked in the room naked.

  “What's that?” Mike pointed at the gnome beneath my arm.

  He led me down the hall toward our room, one big hand gentle—hot—on my waist.

  “This...is George. He's a stowaway from home.”

  He looked at the gnome. “There's a story here.”

  “I'm sure. I don't know what it is yet. I'll keep you posted.”

  We'd made it as far as the hallway off our bedroom, right next to the laundry, where the twins had waylaid me. He lowered his voice. “Did you talk to your mom?”

  “Did you talk to yours?” I countered.

  “I told her to downplay it for a bit.”

  “You did?” I was surprised. I didn't think he'd do it. He'd been so concerned about her feelings he'd concocted the whole scheme in the first place. Her feelings were important enough to fly me—at short notice and during high season—to Alaska. But maybe it wasn't all about protecting his mom anymore. When he'd changed our relationship status, he now had to start worrying about my feelings, too. The fact that he'd considered my words, considered my frustration and had done something about it felt good. Like he cared. That was a start.

  “She understood we want to keep it quiet for now. I just think she's thrilled you're here.”

  “She is?” He could have said Jubal had adopted a pet moose and I wouldn't have been more surprised. “Mrs. O?”

  He propped one shoulder against the wall, ankles crossed. His sheer size blocked most of the light from the recessed can in the ceiling. Casual, but I knew looks could be deceiving. “You don't like my mom, do you?”

  “She scares the shit out of me.”

  Mike grinned. I melted. Why did the wilds of Alaska make a man look rugged and...virile? Maybe all the fresh air pushed my hormones all out of whack. Man, he was hot. I wouldn't mind doing erotic things with him. That stupid caveman kiss had me all imaginative.

  “Sometimes she scares the shit out of me, too.”

  “How about my mom? Does she scare you?”

  He ran his knuckles down my cheek, surprising me, and eliciting a completely different reaction than when Jean-Luc or Marc had done the same thing earlier. This time I tingled in all the right places. “Now that we're engaged, both of your parents scare me. Does your dad have a shotgun?”

  I nodded. “And a rifle.”

  Mike swore under his breath. “So, how did your mom react?”

  “I talked to Goldie instead. She says we're big news down there, but my mom knows the real story and is fine.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Probably cleaning the shotgun.” I wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. If our little engagement ruse went back to Bozeman with us, I couldn't wait to see how Mike dealt with my dad. He wasn't as big as Mike, but he could be intimidating when he wanted. He loved to mess with my dates—Veronica's, too—so I had no doubt he'd give extra torture for a fiancé.

  “Shit.” Mike ran a hand through his red hair, a little bit sticking up here and there. “That's it?”

  “Seems that way.”

  I heard the door slam on the dryer.

  “So, now what?” Mike asked.

  “We steal your mom's phone so she can't Facebook any more, we avoid Susan at all costs, and have some fun.”

  Mike grinned, leaned in so his forearm rested against the wall by my head, crowding me in. He was just so big, so overwhelming.

  I leaned in, put my forehead against his hard chest. He smelled of soap and Mike. The way we stood, it was just like with the Frenchmen earlier, but this was better. Way better. Everything about how Mike put all of his focus on me was...delicious.

  “I like the fun part,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

  The door to the laundry room opened and there stood Jean-Luc. No, Marc. Oh hell, one of them. He did not look happy seeing Mike. With me. If looks could kill and all that.

  Mike lifted his head in that male way of greeting. “Hey, Jean-Luc. Or Marc. How's it going?”

  How could men have a confrontation only minutes before and let all the angst go? Two women would hold a grudge for years. Clearly, he was confident he'd gotten his point across and thought the men were no longer a threat.

  Jean-Luc or Marc walked by us, a stream of French curses in his wake, all of which I learned the first week of ninth grade. It was a good thing Mike didn't speak the language because there would have been a fistfight in the hallway otherwise.

  “That didn't sound good.” Mike commented. Nope, it didn't, but I wasn't going to translate.

  This close, his blue eyes were almost gray. His five o'clock shadow was a dark ginger and I wondered if it would feel scratchy or soft beneath my fingers. For ten years, I'd been mad at this guy. Now, in less than a day, I was forgetting why I'd been so mad at him. God, he was solid muscle, hot skin, and soft touches. Thoughtful gestures. He'd taken me fishing first thing. For that alone, I should marry the man and forget about the past.

  “I think he wants to have some fun, too,” I told him.

  Mike arched a brow, understanding what I meant. The glint in his eye told me he wasn't too happy about it. “I don't share.” He lowered his head so his lips were just above mine. I felt his breath, warm against my skin. A hint of beer from dinner lingered.

  “I think he does,” I replied.

  His free hand curved around my neck, fisted in my hair and tugged gently. I gave a little gasp of surprise. My eyes met his. “Mine.”

  He kissed me in a way that matched his words. All-consuming. Overpowering. Hot.

  Mike was definitely not eighteen anymore. This was a man pinning me to the wall, overwhelming all of my senses, mouth practically branding me. Taking what he wanted. Giving me what I needed.

  He was so in control of his life, of his practice, that I should have figured he'd be so in-charge with a woman. I liked it. Oh, I liked it a whole heck of a lot. Rationally, why would I want a man to take control? To claim me as his. He'd done it with words, and the kiss backed it with very...steamy actions. I was perfectly capable of doing that for myself, but when his hands, his mouth, were on me, I wanted to give him that same control on a silver platter. A little garnish of parsley on the side.

  How did Goldie know these things? It was like she was a sex whisperer or something.

  Mike held my head in place with his palm, the hard wall at my back. His equally hard chest pressed into mine, holding me right where he wanted me. My nipples hardened at the contact, the rest of my body softening, ready for more. When his tongue met mine, I knew. This was a real kiss.

  There was no doubt he wanted me. I felt his...eagerness against my hip. His hand tightened against my neck reflexively, a groan escaped from his throat.

  “Oz,” I breathed, drowning in sensation, longing, when his mouth moved to the curve of my jaw, slid soft kisses down the side of my neck. The nickname slipped out, like old times.

  George the Gnome slipped from my fingers.

  “Ow, shit,” Mike breathed against my neck. The gnome had landed on Mike's foot. I couldn't help but smirk.

  He lifted his head, pushed back, gave me some room but not enough to escape. We were both breathing hard as if we ran a race.

  “Mine?” I asked, once the lusty fog cleared from my brain. I felt the muscles bunching in his lower back beneath my fingertips. I couldn't help but run my hands over him.

  Mike nodded once, his eyes dark and dangerous. His gaze made my knees weak. “I don't want anyone seeing you like this.”

  “How?” I ran a shaky hand over my hair, looked down at my shirt to make sure I was still dressed.

  “Hot, needy. Horny.”

  My mouth fell open. Oh God, he was right. I was all three. Realizing my hands were feeling up his very fine, jean-covered ass, I quickly let go
. I felt my cheeks flame.

  He picked up the gnome and carefully handed it to me. “The gnome gets a free pass. Otherwise your kisses are for me alone.”

  “Since when?”

  “Graduation night.”

  What? He thought I'd been sitting by the phone waiting for his call, saving up all of my kisses, all of my feelings for him for over a decade? Sure, no guy I'd dated had compared, but that didn't mean there wasn't someone out there who'd more than meet all of my needs.

  He was so full of himself! I pushed George into his chest. He grabbed it like the quarterback he once was, a surprised look on his face.

  “You're an asshat, you know that? You lost that right a week later when you left and never came back.”

  “Hey, that's not fair.”

  “Not fair?” I hissed. “You chose medicine over me.”

  “I chose medicine over everything,” he replied, his voice dark, serious. “No way could I walk away from something as important as that.”

  I felt sucker punched. “Yeah. I figured out pretty quickly where I stood.”

  “Vi,” Mike said as he messed his hair up again and sighed, the tension leaving his body, his shoulders slumping. “I didn't mean—”

  I held up my hand. My emotions were too raw, too near the surface to continue. I was afraid I'd break down in front of him, to let him see what he'd done to me, to see how his actions from a long time ago still shredded me inside. I hadn't waited for him, but I definitely wanted closure. With his abrasive words, I had it.

  “Don't.” I walked to our bedroom, but turned at the door. Blood pounded in my ears with the harsh, angry adrenaline coursing through me. I took a deep breath. “Don't worry, Mike. I've always known where I rated with you. It was somewhere ahead of bat shit crazy Susan, but after feet. I'd do well to remember that. Trish is expecting us to go out later for drinks. Since we need to keep up the charade, I'm going to go get ready.”

  Mike nodded and didn't say more. It seemed he was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

  Chapter 10

  Thirty minutes later, we zipped through the rain in the clown car. Once again, Mike was wedged in like a sardine in a can. We couldn't fit anyone else in with us—Banks, Trish, nor the twins—so we took two cars.

  I wasn't in the mood for company, but we'd committed to joining the group for drinks. If we didn't, they'd all think we were canoodling. As if that was ever going to happen. I was hurt and unbelievably mad at Mike. Emotions I'd shoved down years and years ago bubbled back to the surface. I hadn't held out for him all these years. But I had held out hope that I'd at least meant something to him back then.

  I'd imagined many scenarios that had kept him away: dengue fever at summer camp with months of quarantine, top secret military service, the Peace Corps.

  No way could I walk away from something as important as that. His reason hadn't been elaborate or complicated. It had been simple.

  I hadn't been important enough to him. I'd come in second to his career.

  My eyes felt like sandpaper. I was exhausted from the late flight, time change, the mental gymnastics, and trying hard not to cry. I needed to have my anger take a big old swing at my hurt. Knock it down, stomp on it and kick the crap out of it.

  “We need to talk,” Mike said, his hands a death grip on the wheel. His face was hard set, like granite.

  I flipped down the visor for the mirror and put on more lip gloss. Stalling.

  The pine scent was overpowering. Cloying. I pointed to the dangling air-freshener. “Can we get rid of that stupid thing?”

  Mike yanked it from the rear-view mirror, unrolled his window—by hand—and chucked it out. “There, can we talk now?”

  “Litterer.”

  “Cardboard, babe. It's compost. Let's talk.”

  “I need a drink first. Maybe two.” I shifted my hips, pulling one knee up onto the seat so I faced him. “My role on this little trip from hell is to be a force field around you to deflect Susan. That requires my presence alone. I don't actually have to like you. Nor do I have to be sober.”

  We were going to some bar, I didn't know which one, nor did I care. I wasn't sure Banks or the others knew either since none of us was a local. None knew where anything was. Some of us didn't even speak English. But Uncle Bob gave directions to his favorite watering hole and we were on our way. I wasn't a lush, but sometimes a girl needed a drink.

  Two hours later, I'd learned several things. Banks didn't usually dress like a bum. Malibu Barbie had some brains behind the blonde. Mike got a tick in his jaw when he was mad. Jean-Luc and Marc could line dance like two boys from Dixie, and I really liked a drink called an Alaskan Suntan. In fact, the third one went down even smoother than the first two.

  We sat at a high-top table near the dance floor with Banks and Trish. The room was dimly lit and smoky, the country-western music loud. A large moose head graced the wall behind the bar with some Mardi Gras beads dangling from the antlers. Jean-Luc and Marc were on the dance floor with two women they’d met while getting drinks. I wasn't sure how they lured them to dance since they couldn't communicate, but with moves—and looks—like theirs, they obviously didn't need words. They must have sensed my mood and been avoiding me. It was pretty obvious I was cranky. Or maybe it was the caveman glare Mike sent their way that had them seeking other female prey.

  “I'm Vice President at the local bank. I have to wear suits every day,” Banks stated, taking a pull from his beer. “Including Saturdays.”

  “I'm a lawyer so I have to wear a suit, too.” Trish tilted her head toward her husband. “But he doesn't have to wear heels.”

  Amen, sister. My teacher's wardrobe was fairly casual, with a hideous seasonal sweater thrown in to make the kids laugh. But I'd trade a tie for heels any day.

  “Since I can relate, he gets to be a complete bum on vacations,” Trish added as she patted the top of his hand. “I vowed not to interfere with his wardrobe holidays.”

  That explained a lot. At the moment, Banks wore a pair of jeans with a hole ripped open at the knee and a different sweatshirt since dinner with some kind of orange stain down the front. Cheese puff dust?

  “I'm over two thousand miles from home. No one knows me. If they do, they won't blame me because wearing a suit sucks ass.”

  “Definitely,” Mike added. They clinked beer bottles in male commiseration.

  The table was small enough where we had to sit close together. My right thigh pressed against Mike's left and it was definitely a distraction. Everything about him was a distraction. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen Mike in a suit. There was little doubt I'd forget that devastating look if I had. And there I was, mad at him but still lusting after his body. Crap.

  “I can't go out looking like a slob. Genetics, I think.” Trish took a sip of her beer. “I'm what you call high maintenance.”

  “No,” I said sarcastically. She had good genes, all right. Not everyone was born looking like her, and I had a feeling she didn't have to put too much maintenance time in.

  Between myself and my sister, I was definitely the high maintenance of the two. I liked makeup—I wouldn't be caught dead out in public without at least mascara—used a hair dryer and made sure my clothes matched. Veronica was a little more...carefree. Her job as a plumber afforded her the opportunity since she spent her days wedged beneath a kitchen sink or installing a toilet. But no matter how much time and energy I spent primping, I couldn't compete with Trish.

  “I get to wear scrubs all day,” Mike shared.

  “Lucky bastard,” Banks grumbled. “But you get to deal with other people's athlete's foot and bunions, so it evens out.”

  “I'm only interested in what's beneath the grimy clothes.” Trish waggled her eyebrows at Banks and got yanked into his lap for a kiss.

  That went on. And on.

  I took a big draw on my straw until it slurped against the bottom of the glass.

  “Need another?” Mike asked as he rubbed the back of h
is neck, clearly as uncomfortable as I felt by the PDA right in front of us.

  “Absolutely.”

  We walked to the bar leaving the lovebirds to make out without us. With every step, I quickly realized I was more than buzzed, easily on my way to drunk the way the room blurred around the edges and all my problems didn't seem quite so bad. The floor vibrated with the beat of the music, or at least that was my explanation.

  I watched Jean-Luc and Marc dance while we waited for our drinks, one woman being passed from move to country move between them. It seemed I wasn't the only one they were considering. Mike leaned against the bar. After placing a bill on the counter and handing me my drink, he turned, moved closer to me. He was definitely in my space because I could feel the heat from his body. I had to tilt my head back, way back, to look at him. Up close, he so was incredibly hot it made my mouth dry, even after three drinks. Dark red stubble roughened his jaw. His eyes were strikingly blue in the dimness and his mouth—

  “Vi, what I said earlier—”

  I put a finger over his lips, which were warm and soft and, crap...kissable. “Don't. I understand. It was just one night. What's there to remember?”

  Mike clenched his jaw so tight if the music wasn't so loud, I was sure I'd hear teeth crack. I dropped my hand and took a small step back, but he reached out and took a gentle hold of my upper arm. Amazing, he could be so strong, so intense and possessive, yet so careful.

  “It wasn't like that and you know it. That night meant more to me than any night like that since.”

  I winced. His words offered no redeeming value to me. “TMI. I really am not interested in all of your other conquests.” I took a long pull on my straw, the pink drink disappearing quickly.

  “There were no conquests.” Mike took swig from his beer, placed it on the bar.

  “Mary Jane Cooper. Amelia Lane. Stephanie Clink. Renee Kolckowski.”

  Mike closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. Where did you hear about them?”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”