CHAPTER 1
Violet
There came a time in every woman’s life when she had to wonder, what the fuck? For me, that time was now. Driving through central Vermont in a January snowstorm in the middle of the night in a hot red MINI Cooper convertible. What. The. Fuck. And did I mention I didn’t have GPS? No bars on my phone, no way to know if I’d accidently slipped down into the ninth circle of hell.
But hell would be hot, wouldn’t it? Here, it snowed. Why snow? I personally didn’t see any reason for it. I understood, plants and I guess people needed water and all that, but that could happen with perfectly normal rain. Back in L.A., we didn’t even have to deal with that too often.
Yet here I was, a world away from home, peering at road signs through a raging blizzard trying to navigate the way pioneer settlers did back hundreds of years ago, practically bushwacking and using my thumb to figure out which way the wind blew to head west. All because the network I worked for had decided it was a brilliant idea to send me out into the wilderness. And I’d been stupid enough to say yes.
“No one’s done it before!” my boss had declared, hunger in his eyes. Now I knew why no one had. The Fame! Network had grown, well, famous, for making the world’s hottest, hippest, edgiest, over-the-top reality shows. But we needed something new. Rich housewives throwing cocktails into each other’s faces? Done. Gorgeous young models ranting and smashing lamps against walls? Seen it a million times. Young celebrities waxing their privates and “accidently” flashing them on camera? Yawn.
But no one had tapped into that glorified small town America vibe. Yet. Sure, we’d all enjoyed fictionalized accounts on TV. The wacky locals on Northern Exposure, the close-knit drama on Friday Night Lights. My personal favorite was Stars Hollow from the Gilmore Girls. The sleigh rides, the quaint downtown with the village green, and of course the hottie down at the local diner you got to see every morning. Sure, other reality shows had ventured into the wilds, but those were done by the Discovery or History Channels where people had bad teeth and wore sensible shoes.
Our network sold sex. Not explicitly, of course, but the people on our shows knew how to work it. Plucked from obscurity, featured on TV, our reality stars went on to launch their own brands.
We had a new concept for a show: Hot Off The Grid. We already knew remote Watson, Vermont was off the grid. Now it was my job to find out about the hot. Sure, I’d be checking out the location to verify that it was cute and quaint. And I’d start brokering all the headaches—I mean agreements—to allow us to film there. But most of all, I’d be looking for diamonds in the rough. The celebrities waiting to be discovered. Because a hit on our network needed sex in the form of hot “real” people with enough chemistry and appeal that viewers would tune in week after week to see what happened next.
I had my doubts. A big long list of them. But I had to admit, I felt a tingle of excitement, too. What if I pulled it off? What if I tapped into a goldmine and found the real Stars Hollow? A hit reality show like that, the first of its kind, would be huge. I probably wouldn’t shoot straight up to lead producing my own show, but at least I could break out from being the one who fetched coffees for the ones who brought the coffees to the people filming the Kardashians. OK, I wasn’t actually that far down on the food chain. I’d worked myself up in the seven years I’d been in L.A. I was 25 now and had spent a couple years actually helping to produce shows, but I hadn’t been able to do anything yet that I really owned. Anything that I honestly felt invested in. Not yet. But someday I would.
Now if only I’d flown in on the same flight as my co-worker, Sam, joining me on this mission. Then I wouldn’t die before it all began. I’d somehow gotten booked into Burlington with a nighttime arrival while Sam had flown into Boston where he’d party with friends, stay at a harborside hotel and then drive up to Vermont at a decent, daylight hour the next day.
I had to talk to our network’s travel people. Better arrival cities and times were up there on my list of demands. But at the top: no convertible MINIs without GPS in Vermont. I knew the Fame! Network has appearances to keep up. It wanted employees driving around in hip, cool cars. But that strategy only worked if employees also stayed alive.
Wait, up ahead. There was a God. I saw a sign, battered and faded: Entering Town of Watson, VT. Population 1,708. I’d never thought I’d be so happy to be entering into a town of nothing, nowhere, with no one living in it. I had a condo reserved for me in this town for three weeks. With any luck it wouldn’t even take that long to suss out if there was a story to build there, and then, if there was, to get the locals on board with filming a reality show.
Lights! Up ahead. I whimpered a bit in relief. Pathetic, I know, but I was a city girl through and through. Ask me to navigate traffic in L.A. or the subway in NYC and I’d have no problem. Here, I half expected a Yeti to pop out in front of the car and swallow me whole.
At a stoplight, because apparently even the main highways in Vermont had stoplights, I took a left, then a right and low and behold, the shimmering glimmer of a window. It looked like it might be a bar. I managed to pull my tiny car up front in what may or may not have been a parking space. How could you even tell in all this muck?
I zipped up my parka, placed my fingers on the door handle and braced myself. At least I had my parka. Last week, in a panic over my upcoming trip, I’d done some late night online shopping. I
’d bought the largest, craziest looking parka I could find, the kind with enough padding for an army and wild fur tufting out along the edge of the hood. It made me look about three times larger than I actually was and right now I felt grateful for it.
No cell phone service, no GPS, I was at the mercy of whomever I happened to find in what I hoped was a friendly bar. Small towns were supposed to be friendly, right? Maybe a kindly baker or an elderly quilter would greet me inside and give me directions to my condo? Yeah, that would probably happen.
Stepping out, I instantly learned that my shoes weren’t as onboard with the snow program as my parka. Damn it. Picking my way along the icy, snowy path in heels I had to admit, I probably should have invested in some sturdier footwear. But my shoes! I loved my shoes. I felt so sexy and powerful in my shoes.
Right now, though, one hand against the building as I guided myself toward the front entrance, I mostly just cursed. Cursed my boss for having this lousy idea in the first place. Cursed myself for agreeing to go along with it.
Pushing open the door, I walked into heaven in the form of a small, simple, mostly empty bar. It was warm. It had electricity. And who knew, if I was lucky they might even have some vodka.
The ten or so people inside all watched me as I made my way over to the bar. I didn’t make eye contact with any of them. I just needed to warm up, figure out where I needed to go and then get there. The time for making nice with these people would come once I was no longer numb.
Then I looked up. Sitting at the far end of the bar, I saw a man who seemed as if he’d been talking to the bartender. But now neither of them said a word as they looked over at me, watching me pick my way along the rough wooden floor planks in my heels. I didn’t so much notice the bartender, though. It was the other man that had me riveted.
My step wobbled. I could blame it on the heels or the melting snow I’d accumulated on my parka in my short walk to the door. But those weren’t the reasons for the wobble. It was the man.
Thick black hair, dark intense eyes, broad muscles filling out his shirt, he was straight out of a naughty late night fantasy. True, I was a city girl, but I had to admit I had a soft spot for a good Highland romance, the type featuring a massive Scottish warrior who’d brave fire and brimstone to be with his woman. The type so broad and tough he’d fell an army with the swoop of his battle axe while still managing to grasp you in his free arm, pull you up with him on his horse and ride off with you pressed against his huge, barbaric, manly chest.
He was sitting right there at the bar watching me. I swallowed, feeling my face flush. I tried to look away. I had street smarts. A woman on her own didn’t walk into a bar and instantly make steady, heated eye contact with a gigantic strange man. My brain knew that. But my brain wasn’t in charge at the moment. Something else had taken over entirely, and I continued walking toward him with nothing but a vaguely formed “wow” on my lips.
“Welcome,” the bartender greeted me.
“Hi.” I managed to veer my attention away, at least for a moment, and stop myself from climbing straight onto the man’s lap. That wouldn’t do. Even though it had an almost undeniable appeal. I chose a stool a couple down from him—proud of myself for exercising such restraint—and sat down.
“How you doin’ tonight?” the bartender asked.
“Um, fine,” I said weakly, clearly far from it. I swallowed again, biting my lip. I was all atwitter and it wasn’t just because of the harrowing drive I’d survived navigating through a raging snowstorm in a toy car.
I couldn’t help it. I snuck another glance. Wow. At least I hoped I hadn’t said it out loud. You could see he was strong, really strong, even though he wasn’t wearing anything like the type of shirt guys wore in L.A. to shamelessly flaunt their physique. Tissue-thin, painted on, I’d seen enough guys showing off to last me a lifetime. This man blew them all away in soft, faded cotton, the kind of shirt that looked like it had been worn to do work. Real work, work that made you sweat and weathered your clothes out under the sun. It wasn’t tight, but it clung and draped, suggesting more than revealing. Those broad, strong shoulders, the glimpse of his forearm I got where he’d pushed up his sleeve, thick and corded with muscle.
“Is that a MINI you drove up in?” the bartender asked me. Because, right, he was still standing there in front of me behind the bar.
I cleared my throat. “MINI convertible,” I confirmed.
“Good thing you got here in one piece. Can I get you something?”
“Yes,” I responded, gratefully. I wasn’t a big drinker and, yes, technically I still needed to drive. But my nerves were shot and my feet were frozen blocks of ice and sometimes a girl just needed a drink. Maybe I could eat something along with it before I headed out again. My stomach growled at the thought.
“I’d love an appletini. And can I see your menu for apps? Something light, maybe a tuna tartare?”
The bartender squinted at me as if I might have spoken a different language. He had a big, bushy mustache and looked somewhere between 30 and 50, weathered and plaid.
I could still feel Mountain Man watching me, too, his gaze heavy and intent. It was definitely warm in the bar. They must be cranking the heater. Of course, I was also wearing the parka that ate all of the other parkas for dinner. I unzipped it and shrugged it off, draping it from my stool. It felt like shedding a cocoon and I stretched, enjoying my freedom.
“That’s the menu.” The bartender tilted his head behind him toward a chalkboard. Handwritten, it listed ten or so brews. I looked at it, no clue what to order. I’d never really drunk beer, and I couldn’t say I knew anyone who did, either. Cocktails were the way to go, preferably skinny. Beer bellies just weren’t done in L.A.
“Maybe…the one with the apple in it?”
“It’s a hard cider, made local. It’s good. You’ll like it.” I nodded and he moved to pull me a drink on tap.
I twiddled my fingers together. I looked down at the polished wood of the bar. But what was I supposed to do? I had a powerful magnet, huge and dark and brooding just a few feet over to my right. I snuck another look.
Fuck, he was hot. He was ready-for-his-closeup hot. And I lived in a city renown for its hotness. I got served coffee in cafes by actors and models. I went to parties with actors and models. Even my current not-exactly boyfriend—more like sometimes-around friend with benefits—was a model. All day, every day I was surrounded by men who made their living from being hot.
This man made them all look like little wispy wimps. He looked like he could pick them up and pump them into the air with one hand. If he were a firefighter, I’d burn my house down so he could come save me. His dark green Henley shirt had just one button undone at the top, but it drew my attention like a red flag drew a bull. I wanted to lick him, right there, right at the top of his chest and the base of his throat. Then I could unbutton the next one, and the one under that, then rip his whole damn shirt off.
“Where’re you from?” The bartender set a glass down in front of me. It was him asking me the question, not the man I was starting to pant for a few seats away. I needed to get a grip.
“L.A.” I took a sip of my cider. Crisp, refreshing, delicious. “This is so good!”
“Told you.” The bartender gave me a nod.
“What is it again?”
“Hard cider.”
I was about to ask the calorie count, but stopped myself with the question on the tip of my tongue. Everyone in L.A. knew the calorie count of anything and everything you might possibly ingest. Somehow I guessed here, not so much. Like a shy eighth-grader nearly embarrassed in class in front of her hopeless crush, I felt a rush of heat from the blush on my cheeks.
What was going on? This wasn’t normal for me, not at all. I had friends who went off their rockers, crazy over guys. I was the one who talked them down, told them not to do anything stupid. I was queen of practical sex, career before fluttering hearts. But right now, my perfectly manicured nails were clutching the bar to
literally get a grip. Could he tell I was having this reaction to him?
Maybe it was the beard. I’d seen beards before, of course. They’d made their way to L.A where they were frequently paired with carefully styled hair, earrings, suspenders, wingtips, all the trappings of a hipster. I knew beards were popular, starting to show up in all kinds of ads and on young celebrities. But the kinds of beards that had surfaced in L.A. were prissy, fussy little cousins of the beard on this man.
I’d never found one sexy until now. Holy hell, his beard. It wasn’t big and bushy by any means, just a notch up from thick stubble, but it was dark and kind of framed his face and somehow made him look even more rugged and mysterious. Like he might drag me off to his mountain cabin, strip me down and take me all night long.
Was there a chance he lived in this town? My body growled MINE. But my brain fought for space and announced, “goldmine!” Did I want real people with major sex appeal to feature on a reality show? Had one just landed in my lap? Or had that been me who had wanted to land in his lap?
“What’s a girl like you doing around here?” There it was, the come on, only it wasn’t from the man sitting a couple stools down from me. The one I was about to start hitting on myself because a woman could only stand so much hotness. No, it was from a guy of indeterminate age sporting a trucker hat and a big hunting jacket. He sat down next to me.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes!” Another one who looked pretty much the same sat on my other side.
“Hi,” I sighed and dug in my bag for my phone. Of course, it wasn’t the guy I wanted to hit on me who was hitting on me. It was the guys I hadn’t even noticed when I’d walked into the bar. Different town, same story.
On a happier note, my cell phone had one bar! I checked messages and texts. Nothing from Sam. He was probably partying the night away at hot nightclubs in Boston. Nothing from Vincent, either, my somewhat, kind of guy at the moment. That wasn’t a shocker, though. We had an open thing, casual. I didn’t expect him to check in on me after a harrowing travel day. But it would have been nice.