Montana Wild: A Small Town Romance - Book 4 Read online

  “It worked, didn't it?”

  “Too bad I was out of town,” Veronica said as she joined us. The police had left and the store was now quiet. She winked at Mike.

  She'd been in on it, too? From where, her road trip across the country? “What would have happened if you'd been in town?” I asked her.

  Veronica fiddled with the free condoms in the basket on the counter. “Then I would have told Mike I was with Jack and couldn't fill in for him. I would have directed him to you.”

  “It just saved everyone lots of time with the coincidence of you answering the phone,” Goldie added.

  Mike looked like he was hit by a two-by-four. “How did you know I'd change our status to engaged?”

  Mrs. O shrugged. “I didn't. But it didn't matter. You were already together. And it was fun to watch you squirm.”

  “And the baby thing?” I asked.

  It was Goldie's turn to shrug. “It was time to up the ante.”

  “You weren't mad?” I asked Mrs. O.

  “Oh, no. It was great fun. But I expect a grandchild out of you eventually.”

  I felt my cheeks heat.

  The phone rang and Veronica peeled off to answer it. Her role in the whole ruse seemed to be minimal.

  “Are you telling me you two organized this whole thing just to get Violet and me together?” I swore I saw steam come out of Mike's ears.

  Mrs. O wasn't one to back down. “Yes. But you were the one who made it an engagement.”

  “You were the one who made up a baby! How dare you do that to Violet.” Wow, Mike was pissed. He was standing up for me.

  Goldie didn't back down either. “It was a DEFCON ONE situation. What did you expect me to do?”

  Mike looked at her blankly. “Were you in the military or something because I have no idea what that means. Do you know what you put her through?” He pointed at me.

  “What I went through?” It was my turn to pipe up, and redirect the conversation away from my uterus. “You're the one who started this whole thing. You could have told your mother the truth at any time.”

  Both Goldie and Mrs. O had their hands on their hips. “Mom, I was doing it to protect you. To keep from hurting your feelings. But obviously you were just messing with me instead.”

  Mrs. O put a hand on Mike's arm. “You don't have to protect everyone, Michael. What do you really want? Whatever it is, go for it. But do it for the right reasons, and love is definitely one of them.”

  Mike ran his hand through his hair.

  “What about the twins?” I asked, afraid Mike would bolt.

  “Oh, they wanted you. You were the one to confirm it since you speak French,” Goldie said.

  “We couldn't have asked for better helpers, unbeknownst to them. It's fun to watch a grown man be jealous of hot French twins. Even my son.” Mrs. O gave a sweet smile to Mike. “It got you to realize you love Violet.”

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  Mike loved me? Mrs. O could see it. I couldn't, and I assumed Mike couldn't either.

  “You had to blow it and go off to New York. But you're back,” Mrs. O commented.

  “Well?” Goldie just stood there and looked at Mike. Mrs. O just stood there and looked at Mike. I just stood there and looked at Mike.

  Mike looked at Goldie and Mrs. O. “You two might have started this whole thing, but I'm going to finish it.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the store.

  Chapter 25

  Mike didn't let go when we went out into the twilight. The street had a little traffic, pedestrians meandering the sidewalk on a beautiful summer night. But they all veered around us as Mike plowed through, not stopping. I had to practically run to keep up with his long legs. His truck was parallel parked on Main Street around the corner from the store. He opened the passenger door, helped me in.

  When he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, I asked, “Where are we going?

  He radiated anger and frustration. Not like Laurel who was definitely deranged, but like a man pushed to the edge by his mother. By himself. By life.

  His hair was unkempt; he had a lovely five o'clock shadow on his jaw. He wore jeans and a white button-up. The sleeves were rolled up toward the elbows and, I had to admit, he looked mouthwateringly good. Just seeing him again made my heart pitter patter. After days of trying to work him out of my life—like a painful sliver under the skin—it was hard to stay casual, at ease.

  I loved him. My heart was aching, my walls back up and guarded, and I was afraid. Afraid of what he wanted to say to me. I wasn't sure if I could handle any more words that could break my heart into even smaller pieces.

  “Your house. It's closer.”

  We didn't talk on the way. He might, to the outsider, look like he was intensely focused on his driving, but I knew he was thinking. Holding off on whatever was bothering him until we were in my living room.

  On the way to the door, Old Man Chalmers hollered out. I gave him a distracted wave, but I wasn't going to stop and chitchat now. Mr. Chalmers enjoyed scaring off men coming to my house with his shotgun so, to avoid that with Mike, I unlocked the front door quickly.

  Once inside, Mike turned to face me, pushed the door closed with a hand up high, then left it there, forcing me back against the hard wood. His body loomed, pressed into mine and I was all but cornered.

  I looked up into his eyes, so blue, so intense, for a mere moment before he lowered his mouth to mine. He kissed me, coaxing my mouth open without much effort, his tongue slipping in. The heat, the zing that came from the contact wasn't just from four days apart. It would always be like this. Hot, steamy, needy. My body would always crave his. Need him. I gave a soft little moan.

  But he was leaving. My body might crave him, but my mind was smarter. I had to protect myself from more hurt; regardless of the pleasure just his lips could bring me.

  I pushed at his hard chest. He didn't move. He didn't even stop kissing me.

  Turning my head away, his lips ran over my jaw to my ear, to that sweet spot right behind it. “Mike,” I gasped. My breath was ragged, my heartbeat like a hummingbird. “Stop. Please, stop,” I practically begged.

  He pulled back, must have seen the unshed tears in my eyes and stepped away. He ran his hand through his hair, paced through my small living room.

  “Jesus, Vi. Don't cry. I can't handle it.”

  How dare he! “You can't handle it? You? This isn't all about you. You can't just walk away for days, head off to start a new life and then come waltzing back in and kiss me. I won't be here waiting for you.”

  He turned back to me, his face bleak. “When I got your call and you told me that ridiculous thing about Veronica and a dress, I thought I was going to lose it. You were in trouble and I wasn't there for you. Do you know how many traffic laws I broke to get to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “When I saw you there, in one piece, looking so perfect, everything I ever thought was validated. I knew. I don't give a shit about New York. I turned them down. I was going to call, but I wanted to tell you in person.”

  What? He turned down New York? My heart did a little flip.

  “Why, Mike? Because you were scared I was in danger? Just like the bee sting?”

  “No.” He came over to me, took my hands in his big ones. They felt so warm, so comforting, but it was hard to hope. “You were right. I couldn't save my friend at camp. No one could. I have to let it go, stop feeling guilty about being alive. I haven't been able to do that. I just push myself more and more to make up for what he never would have. It's time I started living for me. I pushed you away once.” He lifted my chin to meet his gaze, but I wouldn't—couldn't—look at him. He waited patiently until I had no choice and met his gaze. “I won't do it again. I love you, babe.”

  Happiness flooded through me at his words. Tears returned to my eyes, but this time happy ones. “I love you, too, Ox.”

  “Oz. I like Oz much better.”

  When he lowered his head
this time, I didn't push him away. In fact, I grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him in. Like I never wanted to let go.

  Eventually, we came up for air and he tugged me to the couch. He sat down, tossed a throw pillow out of the way, and pulled me onto his lap so I straddled him.

  He was so big, so strong. So perfect. His thighs were warm and solid beneath me. His hands moved over my hips holding me just where he wanted me.

  I fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “So you're staying in Bozeman?”

  He nodded, brushed hair back from my face, his palm resting at my nape. “I'm settling in here. It feels good. You feel good. Someday you'll have my ring on your finger.”

  I glanced at him in surprise. Ring? “You mean...”

  “I'm a very possessive man, babe. You're mine.”

  I smiled, felt my cheeks heat. “When it's time, I want the ring from Alaska.”

  He tilted his head back as if to get a better angle to see me. “That hideous thing?”

  I nodded. “It's hideously perfect. I hated it, but now I love it. I love you.”

  He tugged on my waist and pulled me in for a kiss. That went on. And on.

  “But, babe, there's more to talk about than just me,” he murmured when I lifted my head. He ran his tongue over his lower lip as if tasting me still. “I read your book.”

  The kiss had softened me, all but weakened the walls around my heart. I closed my eyes to block him out, to block out his words. I just wanted to keep on kissing, to forget about everything else.

  “Vi,” he said gently.

  I ignored him, tried to ignore the feelings of shame and embarrassment that flared up like heartburn. I felt my cheeks heat.

  “Vi,” he repeated. “It was good. I finished reading it on the plane to New York. Hell, I had to put a newspaper in my lap until my hard on went down so I didn't scare the old lady in the seat next to me.”

  I heard the laughter in his tone and I opened my eyes. Saw nothing in his but truth, acceptance.

  “You aren't ashamed of me?” I asked, tentative.

  He cocked his head to the side. “Ashamed? Why would I be?”

  I shrugged, worried at a button on his shirt as I tried to dredge up the words I'd always feared to say. This was it. The moment I'd dreaded since college. The moment I'd avoided ever since. “You won't dump me because I write word porn?”

  Mike's mouth fell open. He closed it, his jaw hardening. Eyes glittering with anger.

  “I just told you I was giving you my ring someday and you think I'd dump you because of some romance you wrote? Babe, I'm keeping you because of it.”

  “What?” I didn't understand. He wanted me because I was a hussy?

  He continued. “I want a woman who's not afraid of who she is. What she wants. Needs. What I will give to her.”

  I was afraid to breathe. Had he really meant it?

  “Remember that gift bag from my party last winter?”

  I nodded.

  “There was a paddle in there I'm going to use on you if you keep talking like this. Tell me what happened.” He was playful at first, but turned serious.

  He hadn't tossed me off his lap and fled. He hadn't laughed at me. He hadn't shamed me like Todd had.

  His thumbs ran idly over my waist. Patient. Silent.

  So, I told him. Everything. About Mr. Winters, my college writing class, the story, Todd. How people had looked at me after. How I'd felt, reacted. Survived. I wiped away tears that slipped down my cheeks, feeling the wound that had been festering for years as it started to heal.

  “Mr. Winters should have his license revoked. And that guy, Todd, was an asshole. You deserve so much more than what he did to you. Those people who laughed, they weren't your friends. They were ignorant nobodies.” He wiped a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Don't be afraid to be who you are. Even if you do write word porn.”

  It was my turn for my mouth to fall open. I smacked him on the shoulder and he laughed. I did, too.

  I took a deep breath. “I...I want to be a writer. A romance writer.”

  There. I said it.

  Mike gave my waist a little squeeze. “Good, because you already are. In fact, with your recent success, you can probably quit your day job.”

  I bit my lip. It was tempting. “No, not this year. I committed to the kids and the school, but I'll definitely think about giving notice in the spring.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I wondered.

  “What, that you're my good girl?” He looked at me, eyes searching. “Because you are. You're sweet, thoughtful, generous, a little crazy...”

  I undid a button on his shirt, then another, halting his words. Swirled my finger through the soft red hair on his chest I'd exposed. “What if I don't want to be a good girl?”

  Mike hissed in a breath as I undid another button, ran my hands over his chest.

  “Remember that box Goldie shipped to me in Alaska?” I asked him.

  He groaned. “I've wondered what she sent.”

  He felt so good to touch. Warm, soft skin over steely muscles. And he was mine. All mine. “Me, too. I haven't opened it yet.”

  Mike arched a brow. “Really? Let's find out. There are some things I've been meaning to try with you.”

  By now his shirt was open from neck to waist, his washboard abs exposed. I started on his belt buckle next and felt something very big, very hard beneath me. I nodded. “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Oh, you like that idea? Babe, I love you. I love it when you're good, and I especially love it when you're bad. As long as you're mine, Cherry Bottoms.”

  At my gasp of surprise, he pulled me in for a kiss that was oh, so good.

  Note From Vanessa

  Don’t worry, there’s more Small Town Romance to come!

  But guess what? I’ve got some bonus content for you with Violet and Mike. So sign up for my mailing list. There will be special bonus content for each Small Town Romance book, just for my subscribers. Signing up will let you hear about my next release as soon as it is out, too (and you get a free book…wow!)

  As always…thanks for loving my books and the wild ride!

  About the Author

  Vanessa Vale is the USA Today Bestselling author of over 40 books, sexy romance novels, including her popular Bridgewater historical romance series and hot contemporary romances featuring unapologetic bad boys who don't just fall in love, they fall hard. When she's not writing, Vanessa savors the insanity of raising two boys, is figuring out how many meals she can make with a pressure cooker, and teaches a pretty mean karate class. While she's not as skilled at social media as her kids, she loves to interact with readers.

  * * *

  www.vanessavaleauthor.com

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