by Liora Blake
“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.
(Amber)
“But when you poured out your heart I didn’t waste it, ’cause there’s nothing like your love to get me high.”
—CHRIS STAPLETON, “TENNESSEE WHISKEY”
Only two hours in and I’ve mastered my newfound gig. Bantering with everyone who stops by, including those who recognize me and ask for a picture. I also enacted a workflow system to better serve our parched patrons. The system is simple: I greet them with a smile, help determine what drink best suits them, and then direct them to the beer bin as needed. If they want one of our other concoctions, Braden is to fill a cup with ice, handing the cup off to me so I can fill it up with their preferred swill and complete the transaction—with a smile.
In this kick-ass system of mine, Braden has one job. Unfortunately, he refuses to get on board with the system.
“Because it’s stupid. I’m already holding the cup. It has ice in it and I’m standing right here, next to the dispensers. Your little system is inefficient as hell.”
Braden steps in front of me to thrust a not-full cup at the old man in overalls who’s waiting for it. That’s another thing: he’s stingy.
I interrupt his hand off and grab the cup before it’s too late, filling it up to the brim.
“Here you go, sir. Enjoy.” I smile and the man gives me a bushy-browed wink.
Behind me, Braden lets out a careful exhale. I grab my own cup and take a sip of the cider rum punch I poured for myself once I paid my twenty-five bucks to properly support the Hotchkiss Volunteer Fire Department. I turn back to Braden and cock one hip out.
“My system isn’t based solely on efficiency. This isn’t a fast-food joint, it’s a fundraiser. A little sparkle goes a long way at these things, trust me. You do not sparkle. Whereas I am all sparkle.” I gesture toward myself with an open hand, fingers wiggling as I circle my face, batting my eyelashes for added effect.
“That’s the cider rum punch talking. How many cups have you had?”
“Two. Why?”
He shakes his head. “Because that punch is potent. We make it every year and the rum-to-cider ratio favors rum, so it will sneak up on you. Half the kids in this town were probably conceived in some sort of cider punch haze.”
“Well, I like it. I think it’s just right.”
I give Braden a grin, not for any particular reason, merely because I want to. And while I’m certainly not drunk, or even buzzed, I am pleasantly warm inside, enough that it’s easy to imagine how another cup of this stuff might lead to your clothes coming off in a rush.
Braden makes a show of looking in my cup to assess the contents, then raises his brows. I set the cup down and back away with my hands palms out, playacting as if I’m trying to keep a mountain lion at bay. Colin and Teagan come walking up just as I clear a few steps, each holding plates in their hands.
“Amber, you have to try this.” Teagan gestures at her plate where a hand pie sits, dusted in heaps of powdered sugar. I break off a piece and the dough flakes beautifully. Inside, the still-warm peach filling is sweet without being sugary, and the fruit is more flavorful than I’ve tasted before. I give up a satisfied moan.
“Right?” Teagan grins. “Imagine that, with your ice cream. The toasted almond one you make?”
While no one would call me Martha Stewart, I’m not a complete slouch in the kitchen, and homemade ice cream happens to be my thing. Don’t ask me to bring the seven-layer dip or the veggie platter, because in our circle, no barbeque or summer party is considered complete until one of my creamy frozen creations is dished up.
I nod and snag another bite, considering all the options. “Or the salted caramel. Oh, the gingersnap praline.”
Colin snags a beer from the metal bin and cracks it open. Passing off his plate to Teagan, he takes a long drink of the beer and swallows. “Your pistachio would kick ass with this pear thing.”
Teagan extends the other plate and a fork so I can sample the pear torte with a chocolate crust, making sure to sneak a sizable dollop of the whipped cream. Another long moan emerges when the concoction hits my taste buds, and I drop my eyes closed, murmuring as I try to savor the flavor.
“So. Good.”
I open my eyes and find Braden’s hooded gaze fixed on me.
“You have whipped cream on your lip,” he rumbles, his darkened gaze dropping to my mouth.
My heart starts to beat wildly as I consider how best to handle this situation. Use the heel of my hand to wipe the whipped cream away, recalling the grubby tomboy I once was? Perhaps. I could also find a napkin to dab it away properly. Or I could use my tongue. Peek it out and tick the tip across that spot, watching Braden as I do. With his rapt attention on my mouth, my decision is nearly made, right up until Braden’s eyes rise to meet mine, cautioning us both as if he knows what I’m considering. He’s as aware as I am that we’re in the middle of a crowded room, there’s an obvious attraction between us, and we’re both a little too tired to think rationally.
Which is why I pull my sweater down to cover the heel of my hand and use the sleeve just as I used to do when I was eight. Despite my going that route, Braden’s intense stare doesn’t let up.
Teagan clears her throat. “We’re fading fast here, Amber. Are you ready?”
Her pointed question snaps the spell, and Braden answers before I can, glancing at his watch.
“The band is about to finish up their set. We’ll be kicking everybody out to clean up right after, so you aren’t going to miss much.”
With that the band begins to play what may be their last song of the night, and the three of us recognize the opening bars immediately. It’s a country song that’s been covered more than once, but its latest incarnation these days is bluesy and raw, and fabulous. Colin shoots Teagan a grin, extends his hand, and they disappear into the crowd. My insides tumble unexpectedly. The good stuff, right there—so close, and a million miles away.
Without hesitation, without even looking at him, I take a deep breath and ask for my own little taste of the good stuff. “Dance with me, Braden.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But I love this song.” I turn to crook my finger at him. “Let’s go.”
To my surprise, Braden doesn’t put up one syllable of further protest. He simply sweeps his hand forward toward the dance floor with a deceptively neutral expression on his face. When we find a spot on the dance floor, he holds his hands up, fox-trot-style. I drop my head and chuckle.
“Come on. Stop that. You know where to put your hands.”
I grab his hands and pull them down, set them on my hips, then reach up to clasp my fingers together at the back his neck, teasing a few unruly curls of his dark hair at the nape.
Braden relaxes and draws me closer. “Thank you for your help.”
I glance up with a smile. “You’re welcome. I had fun. Even if you can’t follow my system.” He cracks a grin but stows it away before I have much of a chance to enjoy it.
The band starts in on the song’s chorus, lyrics that always make me think of my parents, a misty childhood memory of the two of them sitting on the front porch and sharing a glass of whiskey at our cabin in West Texas. The place we spent a few weeks every summer, the same place they went away to every year for their anniversary, and the same place they died when a forest fire trapped them in the house they loved. The song, the memory, the fundraiser—the freaking cider rum punch—all come together, and before I can stop myself, I’m sharing.
“The whole firefighting fundraiser thing hits me in a soft spot.”
Braden tips his head, listening carefully. I give an offhanded shrug before continuing, not because I feel offhanded, but because my heart demands I keep it safe from eyes that suddenly seem too prying.
“My parents died in a wildfire. We had a cabin in the mountains outside Fort Davis, and they were up there for their anniversary when a fire started. The cabin was remote, no phones, no communication. The fire was on them before they could get out.”
Braden’s entire face slackens in a sweep, from his forehead to the downturn of his mouth.
“Jesus.” He scans my expression for more, waiting. My heart locks tight on itself and I look down, watching as our feet barely move. “I’m so sorry, Amber.”
I shake my head. “It was years ago. I was ten, my brother was seven.”
Braden’s grip at my waist tightens. “Doesn’t much matter how long ago it happened, does it? You lost them. That sticks with you.”
The simplicity of that statement—the way he highlighted what I’ve always known—is what makes it almost too much to hear. We sway in silence for a few beats, then Braden pauses us and he moves one of his hands up my back, my eyes drawing up his body in time. He takes a labored swallow.
“I was a hotshot before this. Back in Oregon. So I’ve seen forest fires up close, the way they move and what’s left in their path. The destruction they can cause. So, I … fuck, I don’t know … I just …”
He pauses, fumbling for the words he wants. I want to tell him not to bother. No one ever has the right words, not exactly. Plus, the two of us barely know each other, and we seem to work best when we’re antagonizing each other, so this moment—no matter how real it feels—is nothing but a mirage. Courtesy of the contents of a Solo cup and hastened along by my memories and the right song. What he says next won’t make or break us, because there is no “us.” Braden takes a deep breath before speaking plainly.
“I hate that this happened to you.”
A few spare, sincere words—from a man who I’m still not sure knows what he thinks of me—that were somehow just enough. Just right, just enough, just shy of flawless. My heart hears every one, and suddenly I’m beyond exhausted. Not only from the whirlwind travel of the last few weeks and the mounting pressures with my show, but because it was overwhelming to hear someone say that they wished for something better for you. That you deserved more than what life may have handed you in a small, dark moment of fate.
Braden sweeps a lock of my hair away from my forehead, and then presses his hand to the back of my neck, urging my head to his chest with an impossibly gentle nudge. I tell myself to shore up and sober up, and most important, keep my head off of his chest. But when he exhales and speaks, my body has other ideas.
“I love this song, too. Just so you know.”
My head flops forward. Not gracefully or daintily. Not swoonily or softly. Nope. My forehead just thumps right into his sternum like it weighs three times what it should, and I groan, loudly enough that I feel Braden’s chest shaking beneath me on what I think is a silent chuckle.
“No more talking, Braden,” I mumble through the press of my face to his chest. His chest quakes again. I sigh, long and slow. “That punch has done snuck up on me, just like you said it would. And if you say one more nice, thoughtful, insightful, not-rude thing to me, I’m going to let the rum haze start doing the thinking here.”
Braden’s body goes taut. I know why, too. Because he knows how good a hazy night between us would be. And so do I.
(Braden)
“Infinite patience and practice are needed to make a hunter.”
—SAXTON POPE, HUNTING WITH THE BOW AND ARROW
Much of my career choices have come down to one thing: avoiding offices. Because you know what they have in offices? Desks, computers, and—worst of all—printers. More specifically, they have desks that are not properly sized for my body, computers that run molasses-slow, and printers that jam five sheets for every ten they actually print.
Also, offices have this tricky way of being indoors, and I prefer to spend as much time as I can anywhere but. Outside is always my first choice, but my truck is the next best thing. Turns out that even if I came to this job as a game warden simply because I was looking for an excuse to put a few states between me and my ex-fiancée, it’s nearly the perfect job for me.
Thank you for that, Laurel. Thank you for deciding that you were tired of waiting for me to get home from fighting some new forest fire in another state and that the dreamy, newly divorced dad of one of your preschool students—good old Brad, with his safe, stable, home-for-dinner job at the tire store—was a much better fit for that picket fence life you wanted. Not that I was blameless in the demise of our relationship, but I’m claiming the moral high ground because I didn’t cheat. I might have put my job as a hotshot firefighter ahead of everything else, I might have taken you and your easy temperament for granted, but still.
I. Didn’t. Cheat.
But thank you for your infidelity being the worst of it, and most of all, thank you for not trying to keep Charley from me. I need her and she needs me, and in her eyes, I’m perfect. In turn, I try damn hard to be home on time for dinner. Just like Brad.
Now I spend ninety percent of my time in the Colorado sunshine. And even if most people wouldn’t believe it, all that sunshine has been good for my disposition. The satellite CPW office I’m responsible for in Hotchkiss has limited public hours, which means I can keep my time here to only those required, plus a few extra at the end of the month, when certain reports I have to turn in are due.
Today is one of those days. Month-end reports are due ASAP, and as expected, given the scrap IT monies allotted to offices like mine, the computer has crashed twice and the printer has jammed one too many times to count. That alone puts me in a bad mood. Add in the fact that I’m also tense in other ways, and you have a recipe for office equipment disaster.
I take a deep breath and stare at the computer screen. I swear, if I hit print this time and that results in anything other than the prompt production of the ten pages I want printed out, then this hunk of crap and I are going to have it out in the parking lot, because I’m about to go Michael Bolton from Office Space on this thing.
Ten seconds later, the printer beeps loudly. And stops.
Calmly, I turn my attention to the LED display on the shitty piece of office equipment that’s about to end up in pieces.
OUT OF PAPER
OK, that I can deal with. You’ve been granted a pardon, Lexmark E460.
Shoving away from the desk, I sidestep out from behind it and do the same to clear the doorway in my so-called office, which was once a storage closet. Down the hallway, the main public area is only slightly bigger than my office. A large reception desk takes up half of the space, and display racks holding game regulation booklets clutter up the rest. I grab a ream of paper from the open shelving in the reception station and start back to my office, only to have a knock at the front door stop me.
Can’t people read? Office hours—not now—are clearly marked on the front door. I let out a heavy sigh, knowing I could ignore the knock, easily and without a guilty conscience. Bu
t being available to answer questions or field concerns from the public is a big part of my job. Even if I’m not one for a bunch of chitchat, for the most part, people who take the time to seek out a game warden are smart and interested in following the rules, and value the outdoors as much as I do.
Which is why I stride over to the front door and take a look out the sidelight window adjacent to it.
Well, I was right—sort of. Because the woman smiling at me from the other side of the glass is smart, yes. She also values the outdoors as much as I do. As for following the rules? That depends.
Amber makes a twisting motion with her hand, gesturing for me to unlock the door. Blank-faced, I point to the “CLOSED” sign next to my head. She kicks one hip out, sets her hand there, and tilts her head.
“Open the door, Braden.” Her voice is slightly muffled, but her antagonistic singsong delivery comes through loud and clear.
I twist the lock on the door and open it a few feet. I raise my arm up and brace my hand to the door edge while tucking the ream of paper under my other arm.
“Office hours are clearly marked. Come back tomorrow.”
Amber cuts her gaze to the hours posted on the door. “You aren’t open tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
“Stop it,” she scolds, then darts under my arm before I can do anything to stop her.
Fucking mountain sprites. Too damn wily for their own good—or mine.
Amber turns on her heel slowly, taking in the room, then stops when she’s facing me. She’s dressed in comfy-casual workout gear: yoga pants and a long-sleeve top that’s oversized but cropped like her sweater from last night, except this top also falls off of one shoulder to expose a spaghetti-thin bra strap. A good two inches of her belly are on display, and her toned abs rouse my first-ever desire to take part in a body shot, regressing my emotional age a good decade or so. Her hair is up in a messy knot on the top of her head, and her skin is free of anything that looks like makeup. And she still smells like strawberries.
I’ve spent the hours since we parted ways at the fundraiser trying to forget everything about last night, especially how much I wanted to kiss her. Just kiss her. Not only because I imagine her body is kissable everywhere, but because for those moments when she was in my arms, a great song playing in the background while she shared something real about herself with me, it felt like the beginning of something.