Page 91 of Ten Mountain Men

Goldie

Ihave to pass by the cabin to get to where the other nine Bangable Björnssons told me I’d find Luke—somewhere out there beyond the backyard, chopping wood, losing himself in the rhythm of swing and split. Ash’s exact words. So poetic, right? I commit it to memory, like one of my quotes.

So. I have to make peace with Grumpy Luke. I can do this. I can DO this. I CAN do this. I can do THIS.

First things first, though. I need to stop calling him Grumpy Luke—it’s hardly going to help me win him over.

No, from now on, he’s just Luke. Plain Luke, with an ax. Well, not plain, that’s not fitting, because there’s nothing plain about that man.

Just Luke. Just Luke with his ax, and presumably, his disapproving eyes and frown. So, there’s this man who can’t stand the sight of me, getting all Paul Bunyan, and here I am, about to approach him—without a plan, which makes me feel a little desperate. I always have a plan. And usually grumpy men with axes aren’t a part of my plans. Hopefully he won’t swing and split me in half.

As I approach the cabin, I decide a quick detour inside is crucial. Who knows when I’ll have another chance to get the cameras down—and I have got to get them down. I swear, I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about the damn cameras and my damn stupidity.

After I have them all wrapped back up and tucked into my bag—where I should’ve left them in the first damn place—it’s probably a good life choice to make myself more presentable. At the very least, I need to change out of this clingy, damp dress of a white T-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. A glance down tells me both my nipples are sayingWhy, hello there!andWhy, yes, we’d love to be sucked!This convo is gonna require an outfit that won’t make his suspicious mind jump to the conclusion that I’m trying to seduce him with the deadly combo of my feminine wiles and see-through fabric.

Wait, no. I need to change first, then tackle the cameras, so I don’t drip all over the place and leave a telltale trail behind.

I make a mental note to grab my desperately needed tube of PureGold Lips lip balm, which I originally tried because hey, it’s got my name in it! Plus it’s pink champagne–flavored and shimmery, and it had all five-star reviews, many of which incorporated the word “perfection.” It’s downright cheap and normally I wouldn’t take a chance on putting something that costs under five bucks on my skin because you get what you pay for, right? But now I wouldn’t even consider straying to another brand because it makes my lips feel so plump and plush, like PureGold. And right now my lips feel like bald tires. But in the best possible way. I need to inflate these suckers so they’ll be ready for some more kissing, stat.

I head for the dry clothing first, then the balm.

Thinking about what’s to come has chill bumps popping up all over my body. Hell, thinking about what’s already happened has chill bumps popping up all over my body.

I’m about to sneak out into the living room for camera-retrieval when all of a sudden, the cabin is filled with a roar of bass and twang that nearly makes me pee myself. The music is so loud and so sudden and so surprising and so country. Like I’ve been transported to a honky-tonk bar where no one is aware of noise-induced hearing loss. I recognize the opening notes to the song instantly—Mother had this one in heavy rotation after husband number…two?

Wait. The Björnssons have a radio? Wait…is someone singing? Well, yes, duh, someone is singing. Billy Ray Cyrus, because it’s his song that’s playing. But it’s a duet. There’s another voice. I grin because this means the guys are back.

Yeah, I still have to deal with Luke and the cameras, but if the guys are back, the cameras will have to wait. Not ideal, but I have no choice. And there’s no harm in seeing if my PureGold Lips is a fast-acting formula by sneaking a little smooch or nine on the way to talk to Luke, right?

I exit the bathroom, turn the corner, tiptoe forward, nearly trip over a canoe-sized shoe, regain my balance, sidestep a pile of flannel shirts, and peek around the corner. It’ll be reassuring to see that there isn’t any tension between the Björnsson bros when they don’t know I’m watching, to make sure our arrangement is as copacetic to them as they all made it seem. To see them singing and happy and shaking those fine behinds.

My eyes widen and my jaw drops open at what I see. It’s not Lynx or Clay or Rusty or Ash or Nash or Buck or Brooks or Hunter or Ranger or any combination of the above putting on this impromptu concert. It’s Luke. Just Luke. Luke and Billy Ray.

Luke’s at the sink, his back to me, and he is shaking what his mama gave him. Talk about a fine behind. Looks like he’s living his best life when he thinks no one’s watching.

So…am I worried about making him miserable for nothing?

Alone, with his back to me, he’s lost in the lyrics and the motions of dancing and dishwashing. The sight of him—jeans hugging his tush, moving with an unexpected grace—catches me off guard. The chorus kicks in, and he swings his hips with a vigor that suggests he’s more at ease alone than he ever is in company.

Get down, Grumpy Luke! I mean…Luke.

And though he’s no Brooks, his singing voice is pleasant. Song choice could use some improvement, but his singing voice is definitely pleasant. If he was any of the others, I’d sneak up behind him and give those hot buns a squeeze before taking his hand and letting him twirl me around the…well. There’s no room in this place for twirling. But I’d definitely let him take me to the nearest horizontal surface and show me that vigorous hip work up close and personal. I fan myself, then step out into plain sight. I’m about to clear my throat to try to get his attention when, all of a sudden, he spins around and I swear on the graves of all my ancestors—he is using a wooden spoon as a microphone.

I cover my mouth with my hand, begging myself not to let out the delighted laugh bubbling up because this is Luke and he’ll take it the wrong way. One hundred percent. But seeing him like this…it makes me happy.

Luke stops singing mid-oooooh. He glares at me for a moment like I’ve snuck into the bathroom and am secretly watching him take a dump. And there goes the happy.

He says something, which I can’t hear over the music.

I shout, “I can’t hear you over the music!”

To which he replies, “I can’t hear you over the music!” But, you know, interspersed with a lot more four-letter-word sentence enhancers. He stomps over to the boom box on the table, several newly sprouted but impressively high stacks of CDs and cassette tapes toppling in his wake. How many of them are there? Hundreds?

And then…silence.

“Were you spying on me?” His eyes are narrowed into slits. There’s a weariness in his tone, like maybe he’s giving up the fight? No, he’s just resolved himself to me being here. He’s not softening toward me, not relenting.

“No! I was just—”

---