Chapter 30Goldie

Chapter 30

Goldie

I 'm elbow-deep in soapy water—soapy water that smells like raspberries and cream, because apparently that scrumptious bubble bath is washing-up liquid they make themselves and use for everything.

I'm scrubbing at a particularly stubborn casserole dish, still trying to calm my nervous heart and tamp down the foreboding nausea that's joined it. Both are impossible feats, knowing the cameras are filming us, even now.

Luke and I settle into an easy rhythm, scraping and scouring and rinsing, while the music from the boom box plays in the background—the volume at reasonable levels now. "Achy Breaky Heart" ended, segueing into "Faith" by George Michael, then "Islands in the Stream" by Kenny Loggins and Dolly Parton.

It's about then that I realize this is a proper eighties or nineties mixtape we're listening to. I wonder who made it, and who they made it for. What was the occasion? I press my lips together so I don't ask, since this is obviously a relic from the past, and I need to respect that they don't talk about that. Unless they bring it up, of course.

There are a lot of dishes. And I mean, a lot of dishes. Some of them are so caked in grime I wonder if they've ever been properly washed. We work quietly and efficiently, passing dishes back and forth like we've been doing this for years.

At some point, I catch myself singing along, softly, the lyrics to "Take My Breath Away" slipping out between breaths as I scrub. I stop, realizing that Luke is singing too. His deep, gravelly voice hums the chorus under his breath, and for a moment, it feels strangely intimate.

I risk a glance at him, and he's glancing at me. That's when I notice it—really notice it in a way I haven't before. In a way I feel as well as see. There's something ruggedly, magnetically attractive about him, even though he's still holding on to that wild, untamed look, his beard and hair a mess of silver and salt. Yet those strands almost glitter in the sunlight streaming through the windows, like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

Luke may just be the most handsome of them all, I think, and I have the zaniest urge to reach up, up, up and trace the fine lines around his mouth with my fingertips.

He must sense me watching him because he turns, catching me mid-stare. I freeze, the sponge slipping from my fingers into the water. In his steel-gray eyes, I notice flecks of blue I hadn't seen before. His brows furrow like he's about to ask me something—

But then, the door bursts open, and the cabin is flooded with noise, laughter, and chaos.

The brothers have returned. And the clit goes wild!

"Well, well, well! Look who's playing house!" Clay announces loudly, with a grin that spreads from ear to ear. "And while listening to love songs!"

Hunter beelines for me, settling behind me, his bear paws giving my shoulders a gentle knead. He bends down to nuzzle my neck and whispers, "You wearing him down, Goldie?"

"I heard that," Luke says.

"She wearing you down, Luther?" Hunter redirects with a chuckle.

Wait a hot minute. Luther?! "Luke is short for Luther?" I ask.

"Don't ever call me that," Luke says, but it's more deadpan than grumpy. Yay! Progress all around!

"I'm sure he'll let you call him whatever you want while y'all are horizontal, darlin'," Nash says.

I do not miss the dark look Luke levels Nash with, but Nash either misses it or ignores it.

Ash enters quietly behind the others. Unlike the rest, his gaze is sharp, analytical. His eyes flick between me and Luke, studying our posture, our proximity, trying to piece together what might've transpired between us in the time they were gone. He doesn't say a word, just observes, as if filing away this moment for later dissection. When our eyes meet, he raises a brow, then shakes his head and smiles. It's as if he was silently asking me if everything went okay, but then he saw something that helped him make up his own mind that it had gone just fine.

"Goldilocks and I are not going to be getting horizontal. Unless, that is, she barrels into me and knocks me flat onto my back in a mud puddle again," Luke announces. Wait…was that a joke? From Luke?

"We're going to try companionship. Not friendship even, and definitely no sex," I tell the others. It actually feels like my pussy is pouting, and I send down the message that we don't even know that Luke is well-endowed. He was wearing swim trunks in the swimming hole earlier, and is the only one I haven't seen naked. He could have a micropenis. Hell, at forty-two, he could be having premature erectile dysfunction.

What the heckity hell is wrong with me?

Hunter spins me around, taking my place at the sink, and grabs a dish towel. He starts drying a pot without even being asked.

Clay quirks a white-blond eyebrow, and I feel a tug of envy at that Rapunzelesque hair of his. It's undeniable—ever since I did my magic on it by ridding it of the snarls and tangles, this man has better hair than I do. It should be criminal. "Speaking of that," he says. "Y'know, the sex and the friendship. Rusty's decided he just wants friendship, so I can have his helping of the sex."

"We discussed no such thing, you greedy jackass. I definitely want the sex, Rose-Gold," Rusty says, then blushes that darling blush they all seem to share. "The friendship too, but definitely the sex."

"Later, gator," Clay says. "Right about now, I'm going to take Miss Goldie to the bedroom for a quick game of hide the sausage."

OH. Sweet Lord.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. He's actually crossing the room to come get me.

Luke sighs. "You don't tell her, bozo, you ask her."

Okay, a man who knows basic consent shouldn't be swoonworthy, but there is definitely something swooooooooooooon! about Luke putting Clay in his place when it looks like he's about to go all caveman.

Before I can respond, Brooks and Lynx come in. It's hard to ignore the rush of affection I feel when Brooks flashes me a smile. My first lover. Of course, I feel something very similar when Lynx's gold-green cat-eyes land on me. He's carrying a cooler.

"Sorry we were gone so long, but we thought it would be wise to give you two some time to work things out proper," Brooks says.

"But don't worry, Luke, We weren't just lollygagging. We went fishing. They were practically jumpin' out the river. Never got a haul this big. Should be a great supper tonight."

Guess I'm going to have to learn to love fish, as long as I'm here. Oh well, I can adapt.

"Yum," I say.

"Speaking of eatin'," Ash says. "Uh…it's almost noon. Are we skipping lunch again?"

"Oh, crap," Luke says. He seems a bit flustered as he glances at the clock. "I forgot about lunch."

And he doesn't even seem mad about it. Or grumpy.

He goes over and turns the music off. "Let me see what I can throw together quick."

It's as if the routine that always defined him suddenly doesn't hold the same weight. Huh.

Nash, not one to let an opportunity for flirtation slip by, nudges me with his elbow. "Can't blame him. It's hard to think straight when you're around, Goldie."

He flashes me that genuine grin of his and I smile back, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, okay, buddy."

"Well, I for one can think about eating when Goldie's around." The look in Clay's eyes is fairly scandalous. He winks at me, then waggles his eyebrows. "In fact, I know exactly what I'd like a taste of…"

"Well, please share, because I'm drawing a damn blank at what to whip up fast," Luke says. Then he glances at Clay and catches his brother making a very NSFW gesture with his tongue. Luke grumbles, "Forget I asked."

But then I say, "I could make lunch."

The room falls silent. It's like I've just suggested something truly outrageous—like flopping those fish on plates and eating them as is. All eyes are on me, and the tension is so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Which, thankfully, now there are clean ones on the premises.

I blink, glancing around. "What? What did I say?"

Ranger is the first to break the silence, his voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "Goldie…Luke's the only one who cooks. Always has been. And he's, uh, not exactly open to change when it comes to the kitchen."

I look at Luke, fully prepared to backtrack, but to my surprise, he doesn't look upset. His expression is…calm?

"It's fine," Luke says, and everyone looks surprised. "There are other chores to be done. I've got to get up on the roof with Ash anyway."

He glances at Ash, who simply nods, not questioning the sudden shift.

"So you can make lunch," Luke continues. "We've got everything you need."

I nod.

The brothers exchange looks, collectively stunned. Buck lets out a low whistle, as if this is some monumental occasion.

"Just, um, don't feel the need to get all gourmet chef. I don't want to eat lunch at three in the afternoon," Luke adds. "Sandwiches would be just fine."

"He doesn't trust you to use the stove without burning the cabin down," Ranger says.

Lynx adds, "He doesn't trust any of us not to burn the cabin down, either."

"Rusty, can you stay and show her where everything is?"

"I'm sure I can find it!" I nearly yelp, because this is another chance to get the cameras down and I'm not going to miss it.

Luke's bushy eyebrows go up. "You know where the pantry is?"

"You have a pantry?" I ask.

"I'll stay behind and show her," Rusty says.

"The pantry better be all you show her. Once again, I don't want to eat lunch at three," Luke says.

Everyone seems to know exactly what to do and they all stomp out, leaving me alone with Rusty.

To my immense surprise, he pulls on a shelf crammed full of knickknacks. There's one of my cameras hidden somewhere amongst them.

"What are you—"

But then I realize what's happening. The shelf moves, creaking slowly inward. A hidden door. I gasp. I always begged the Hammer brothers to put one of these in one of our renos but it never happened.

I'm grinning like a fool and Rusty grins back.

"It's well stocked. Go check it out." He gestures for me to go first.

I glimpse at him over my shoulder and tease, "Does this lead to the basement where you keep the bodies?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes, it does."

"Damn, and I was hoping it might be some kind of sex dungeon," I joke, just to see that adorable blush.

I step into the pantry, and my jaw drops. It's like I've stepped through the back of the wardrobe into fucking Narnia.

It's…immaculate. Impeccable. Like, shockingly pristine. The rest of the cabin might be a mess, but this space? It's like Martha Stewart herself came through and sprinkled her domestic goddess magic everywhere, with Marie Kondo in tow. Rows upon rows of vegetables preserved in Mason jars, canned goods, homemade jams, spices. Everything in neatly labeled containers. Everything in its place. I'm stunned.

"This has to be Martha's work," I whisper, running my fingers along a row of canisters of flour and sugar and…cornmeal?

"Who's Martha?" Rusty asks.

"Martha Stewart is like the high priestess of perfection. She can take a humble sheet of paper and turn it into a meticulously folded napkin that says, I spent way too much time making this look like a swan, but isn't it fabulous? " I'm gushing mindlessly as I marvel at this little slice of heaven right in the midst of the cabin I thought was my own personal hell when I walked into it. "Her magic lies in making everything, from soufflés to centerpieces, look effortless, like she waved a spatula-shaped wand and turned a regular Tuesday night dinner into a five-star dining experience. It's not just cooking, decorating, or organizing—it's Martha-fying. She's a celebrity."

"Oh. Do you know her?"

I laugh. "No, I don't but…what's that?" I point to what must be a five-gallon bucket that's filled with something that looks like peanut butter. Kind of?

"Sunflower seed butter," Rusty tells me. I glance at him. He's leaning in the doorframe and he takes up every inch of it. His hazel eyes gleam with pride, and the streaks in his copper-colored hair and beard seem even more like flickers of flames than usual. "Made it myself. Goes real good with the plum jam Ranger makes."

Just when I think these men can't get anymore fascinating, boom, they do. They make their own sunflower seed butter and plum jam. Who needs farmer's markets and Trader Joe's?

"Do you have any—" I begin, but then I spot what I think I'm looking for.

Not one, but nine—no, ten, of course—gigantic round loaves of bread, each wrapped carefully in linen cloths. They're stacked on a wooden board, carefully arranged.

I step closer, drawn by the sight—and the smell. That warm, earthy scent of freshly baked bread fills the air, and my stomach growls in response.

I lift the corner of one of the cloths, revealing a thick, crusty loaf underneath. I can already imagine the crunch when I tear into it. It's got that perfect texture, firm but with a soft give. Each loaf looks like it could feed an army—which, in this case, is exactly the point. I smile, shaking my head.

I reach for one of the loaves, surprised at how heavy it feels in my hands. "Think one or two will do for sandwiches?" I ask Rusty.

"Might better bring all of 'em, Rose-Gold. Want me to get the sunflower seed butter and jam?" he asks.

"Yes, and…hmmm." I press my lips together, thinking. We need to be quick, but I want to do more than a fancy PB&J. "Let me go check the fridge."

"There's an extra fridge on the side porch and we've got a couple big freezers out in one of the sheds," he says.

In the refrigerator in the kitchen, I find some crisp lettuce, gorgeous tomatoes, and best of all, bacon. We'll do BLTs too. Thankfully, there's a clean frying pan now. By the time I've got the stovetop on and found what I think is lard, Rusty's got everything else laid out on the now clean countertop.

I can feel Rusty watching me. And I can feel the cameras watching us, like prying eyes, recording everything we say, everything we do. And I have no one to blame for that but myself.

"You know, Rusty," I start, grabbing one of the loaves, "you don't have to stick around. I've got this."

Rusty leans casually against the refrigerator, crossing his arms, that playful smile tugging at his lips. "You really think you can handle making sandwiches for ten ravenous mountain men all by yourself, Rose-Gold? You've seen how much we eat, and we all skipped breakfast. And we've all worked up bigger appetites than usual today. Some of us more than others. Brooks and Hunter are some lucky bastards."

I glance at him. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment. And don't you worry, Rusty. I'll be happy to make you a lucky bastard too, soon."

"Why, Rose-Gold Locke, soon can't come soon enough. But…for now, will you let me help with lunch? And, uh, maybe I can give you a hug?"

I still.

When I was growing up, hugs were trotted out on one occasion and one occasion only—at the moment of each of Mom's marriages when it was over over. Rose-Gold, baby, Mother needs a hug. I don't think she ever asked if I needed one, or offered to hug me just because she wanted to.

"Rose-Gold?"

I start to remind him that only Mother calls me that, but I like the way it sounds in Rusty's voice. And I would love a hug. I love that he asked. I love that he wants to hug me.

"Of course you can hug me, Rusty." Damn, are my eyes wet? Am I crying? Holy shit, I'm crying.