Page 56 of Ten Mountain Men

Except for the ten minutes or so I don’t.

I creep to my bag and retrieve the surveillance cameras from where I’ve carefully wrapped them in T-shirts. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that though my phone and high-speed camera are both dunzo, these are still exactly how I packed them. Totally unscathed. They’re shaped like snails and stones and things, designed to be inconspicuous in the great outdoors, not inside a log cabin. But in this particular log cabin, stuffed to bursting with knickknacks and diddly-dos? I am pretty certain I can find places to sneak a few realistic ceramic snails and stones in amongst the fray where they’ll go unnoticed.

Do I feel bad about it? Yes.

But my questions are getting me nowhere.

And it’s not like I’m going to film them without their consent to show the world, or a single soul other than myself for that matter. No, the footage will just be for me.

It’s still an invasion of privacy, my conscience hisses at me.A gross invasion of privacy and you know that!

I shush it.

This is for the greater good. Beyond that, it’s the only way.

If the Björnsson brothers are sons of my Sasquatch, they know where he is. It’s not even about the documentary at this point. I just want to see him again. To thank him. To tell all the brothers that their father saved my life!

I have to admit to myself that none of my interviewing techniques are going to get my mountain men to tell me the truth. They’re locked up like vaults. And I’m not going to use my feminine wiles to manipulate them. Especially not when Grumpy Luke apparently already thinks that’s the type of person I am!

But…what makes reality television such a phenomenon is that when we’re cooped up with people we even sort of trust—even if we so very much shouldn’t—in a confined space, eventually, we say things we otherwise wouldn’t.

I know for almost a fact the brothers are already covertly having the conversations I need to hear. But they’re never going to let me be present to hear them.

So.

As quickly and carefully as possible, keeping my eyes and ears wide open, I hide the cameras in the main living area. Obviously, I’m not going to put them in the bathroom or bedrooms. That would be way over the line.

I’m careful—I can’t risk getting caught and I’m so glad when the deed is done.

I’m not going to use any information I get to exploit them. Period. I won’t even make any documentary taking place on this mountain without their unanimous permission and blessing, if it’s true. But I have to find out. I have to know. If their father saved me, that would explain why I feel such an instantaneous connection with and attraction to these brothers!

I go back to the couch and keep casting glances in the locations where I tucked the snails and stones on the packed shelves, wondering if I’ll even be able to find them again amongst the Björnssons’ overwhelming stash of bric-a-brac when I go back to get them later. Maybe I should draw myself a map. At any rate, there’s no way they’ll draw attention and lead any of the brothers to notice them. I hope. I triple-checked that there were no lights to indicate they were running or anything. They’re totally inconspicuous.

I pop a couple of acetaminophen from my bag because I wasn’t exactly careful on my ankle while I was rushing around trying not to get busted. Then I doze off.

I’m woken by a door slamming and Lynx calling out, “We’re back!”

“With lots of fish!” Nash says.

The scent in the air confirms the announcement. My nose auto-scrunches. Unless it’s sushi from a tried-and-true restaurant, I’m not really a seafood girl. I definitely don’t need to see it in its original form before it becomes a meal.

“Everyone’s outside,” I tell them.

Lynx gives me a sweet smile but, yep, that white-hot desire is still there in his eyes. And I feel it in my groin.

“After we wash up, you want to finish what we started, darlin’?” Nash asks, his white-hot desire a less subtle variety.

“Um…” I hedge, thinking of his finger, right there, so close to being inside me. And also very aware that every moment of this exchange is being filmed. If we want to pick things up again, we’ll definitely need to go to the bedroom because I’m not about to record my first time for posterity with a sex tape, nor am I going to make a sex tape with someone else without their explicit—no pun intended—consent.

“Let us let the others know we’re back and pass off the haul for cleanin’, then I’ll wash up and check over your ankle,” Lynx promises. “Did Luke treat you too bad?”

I shake my head, reminded that Luke doesn’t want me starting any orgies and I don’t want to piss Luke off, so I say to Nash, “My ankle really is bothering me, so…I’m probably not up to fooling around right now.”

He looks disappointed but nods. “Well, if you get to feelin’ better, you just holler,” he says with a wink. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be up for foolin’ around with you, pretty lady.”

I give a nod I hope is noncommittal, but I’m thinking,Ohhh, I bet you could make me holler, big boy.

It’s about ten minutes later that Lynx returns. He examines my ankle, rubbing it down in poultice again and rewrapping it, before taking a closer look at my forehead. My forehead is not a pretty sight.

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