Chapter 5Goldie

Chapter 5

Goldie

B ut it turns out that nope, I am absolutely not ready for what's next, because what's next turns out to be my idea of a personal nightmare.

It doesn't start out that way. As Hunter carries me over the threshold, my senses are overwhelmed by the most incredible aroma of home cooking that fills the air. It's a blend of spices and herbs so tantalizing my mouth actually begins to water.

But then my gaze snags on the sheer chaos overwhelming every inch of the small cabin, and my concussed and scrambled brain explodes.

This too-small cabin would be cramped even with just the nine giant residents and the necessary furniture in it. But nevertheless it's filled to the brim with belongings everywhere I look. Every single surface is covered with stacks of books and piles of clothes—none of them folded. Assorted knickknacks spill out from every shelf and corner, suffocating me. Hunter couldn't put me down even if he wanted to because the floor in the crowded entryway is too covered up by stuff to even see it.

I try not to let the distaste show on my face, but I definitely should've let Lynx take me back to my car, where I could drive myself to the nearest hospital, get checked out, and get my trip back on track.

There's a grunting sound to our left. "Stew's cold."

Grumpy Luke is sitting at the long, gleaming wooden table, wolfing down one of the biggest sandwiches I've ever seen outside of that competitive eating show I worked on when I first started out in the business, straight out of college.

He doesn't look at me, or any of us, just takes another bite. His one bite is about the size of an entire meal for me, and I don't exactly eat like a bird. He looks grumpier than ever.

"Bath's ready," Clay calls, his booming voice rattling the walls and everything on them as he comes out of a room that I hope is indeed a bathroom. "And I volunteer if you need someone to wash your back or, y'know, any other hard-to-reach parts."

Oh my Lord, is he flirting with me? My cheeks are warming up.

As Hunter carries me through the most cluttered, congested dwelling I have ever been inside, my bare toes brush against the plethora of objects littering the surfaces, kicking up dust. I recoil, tucking myself tighter against Hunter's rock-solid pecs.

The sheer mayhem makes me want to leap from Hunter's arms, spin around, and bolt—and I would, if it weren't for my ankle.

But how can I say, "Um, changed my mind, your mess is gross, can you please carry me back to my car after all?"

They're trying to be hospitable and I can't be rude.

It's entirely possible I'm being too harsh.

Homey. That's what Winnie would call it.

Yeah, homey like a hurricane.

It's a style I could only describe as Junkstore Chaos Core.

Winnie would say something like, "It's just in need of a good tidy, a coat of paint, some good ol' feng shui, and a well-planned curio wall!"

But she would be wrong. It's a magpie nest of a house. A labyrinth of crap. There is not enough feng shui or paint in the world. It's in need of an industrial-sized dumpster. Or two. How long did it take them to accumulate this much stuff? Decades, I would guess.

We reach the bathroom door. Cat-Eyed Lynx, Wiseass Rapunzel-Hair Clay, Hunter, and the one Luke told to shut up—Brooks, I think it was—are all saying things to me, but their voices are a distant rumble in my ears that I can't quite process because I've finally snapped. I've reached the limit of what I can handle. It's sensory overload. It's all too much. I'm actually ready to run the second Hunter puts me down.

I test my foot, straightening and flexing it. It makes me cringe, and I let out a little yelp. Okay. So maybe ready to run in theory only. Damn.

Hunter carries me into the bathroom and gently deposits me on the toilet seat top. I do not want to see what it looks like underneath the lid.

The bathroom is small, and just as overstuffed and chaotic as the rest of the house, with items falling out of the rustic wood cabinets and littering the edge of the oversized porcelain tub.

The only things I can see that make a lick of sense to me are the towels—ten of them, hand embroidered with color-coded names in a neat script, hanging in a tidy row on color-coded hooks. Those I can get behind, but they seem so out of place here. Curious.

Clay sees me eyeing the towels and offers me the use of his. "I'll never wash it again once it's dried you off," he swears jokingly with a playful wink. At least…I hope he's joking.

"Oh look, bubbles," Brooks says, his grumbly voice filled with amusement.

I look into the tub, where he's gazing at the piles of frothy white bubbles with a faint smile barely visible under all his beard. I desperately want to ask him how old he is, how long it's been since he shaved his beard or cut his hair. Has he ever entered civilization at all?

"All set then?" Lynx asks. "Need anything else?"

Oh God yes.

"How thoughtful of you to ask," I say sincerely.

I make a mental list. I need my charcoal loofah, the only type of shampoo that doesn't make my hair frizz, the pricey but worth it hypoallergenic body wash that smells delicious and doesn't make my skin break out, a microfiber hair towel, and some cute, clean, dry clothes to put on after I get out of the bath…

But of course there's no way these men actually have any of those things, and I don't want to put them out by telling them I need my bag from my campsite, so after a quick glance around the bathroom, I say, trying not to be too high-maintenance, "Just some shampoo and conditioner, please. Leave-in, if you have it. And maybe a spare towel, if you have extra?"

Lynx blinks at me from under long, thick lashes, the kind that most women would die for and most men never appreciate.

"Oh, uh, I don't think we have anything like that. But—" Hunter gives me a smile that makes the horror he just uttered almost worth it. How can they not have anything like shampoo and conditioner with all the hair between them? "My towel is fresh off the clothesline and you can use it."

His arms are long enough to stretch from one wall to the other, so all he has to do is stick out his hand to touch the towel that has HUNTER embroidered in blue.

"Thank you," I say.

They leave. Brooks (I think?) is last, and he shuts the door behind them, leaving me alone. I turn back to the bathtub. It really is the biggest thing in the house, so far as I've seen. Large enough to fit an entire one of the mountain men and still have room for me.

That image pops into my head so fast I don't have a second to brace myself, and my whole body flushes as the space between my legs tingles. With a groan, I get up and take a peek in the cabinets to see if there's anything I can use, but there's nothing that belongs in a bathroom other than a box of toothbrushes and a half-empty bag of toilet paper rolls.

The spare tubes spill out onto the floor. It's the straw that breaks this freaking camel's back.

"What the hoarding woodrat-infested hell is up with the people in this town?" I exclaim, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them.

But seriously, what the hell is up with all of their clutter? This place is even worse than the shelves of the overpacked general store. Is there something in the water in this freaking mountain town that brings out a need to surround your inner peace with outer pandemonium? Or are mountain dwellers more inclined to hoard any shiny thing, like dragons?

I realize I'm being bitchy and judgmental. But I can't imagine how or why anyone would choose to live like this, because I have lived like this.

I better make sure I never mention this place to my mother. She'll want to move right in. She has as many piles and bags of stuff spilling out everywhere in her house as she does ex-husbands. Moving out of that house was the escape I'd always dreamed of. I love Mother, but the thought of falling into a life like hers, full of messy relationships to match her messy piles of sentimental items she can't bear to part with, gives me actual chills of apprehension.

I sigh, settling back on my heels in defeat. The thought of washing my hair without shampoo or conditioner gives me chills of apprehension too. The cabin is small, so I can't imagine there's another bathroom, but how do these guys live with no toiletries? At least they have a bar of unscented soap. That's something.

But why, with all they don't have—notably razors or shaving cream—do these uber-manly men have bubble bath that smells so damn glorious?

I take a deep breath through my nose. Perfection.

I want to know what's in it. Hopefully it's safe for natural curls like mine.

I start to open the bathroom door, but I've only opened it a mere crack when the sounds coming from the kitchen and dining area make me take a step back and close it again.

It's like a bear foraging through a campsite, clattering and clanging, grunting and snuffling.

Someone lets out what might be considered a roar, and I flinch.

"Hunter? Lynx?" I call through the door crack.

There's a clatter and then Brooks appears.

"You called?" he asks, with a raise of one bushy brow.

I don't mean to be judgy, but his bushiness is out of control. No wonder I thought they were Sasquatches! His hair is wild, and his beard—the longest of the bunch—hangs down almost to his navel. Well, where I imagine his navel is. Such a hairy, hairy man. Long-Bearded Brooks.

His eyes are the most gorgeous, piercing green, and the corner of his mouth lifts in the cutest little smirk as he waits for my response. And freckles! I didn't notice it before, but there's a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose. I've always had a thing for freckles.

"You're not her damned butler!" a voice so grumpy it has to be Luke's shouts. Followed by a louder roar. "God, Ranger, could you use a damn spoon?"

My nose wrinkles up automatically, and I feel bad when Brooks notices my reaction.

"We're a little rowdy, Ma's always said," he says with an apologetic shrug.

A little. That's an understatement if I've ever heard of one! It sounds like a toddler's birthday party at the zoo during the lions' mating season out there.

"Ranger sops his stew up with a hunk of bread and then drinks the rest straight out of the bowl," Brooks explains. Then he lowers his voice, but it's still not quite what I'd call a whisper. He has a very nice voice. "That's how we all like to eat it, but it makes Luke cranky."

"Is cranky not, like, his default state?"

Brooks laughs.

What a sexy laugh.

It gives me actual goosebumps. Swoooooooooooon.

I am so confused by the whiplash-inducing speed at which my mind oscillates from "how unappealing are these men and their environment" to "oooh, mama likes."

Up goes his bushy brow again. "You wanted something?"

"Oh. Yes. Two things, actually. I forgot I'll need something to put on after the bath. You know, clothes."

"You can borrow one of my flannels," he offers without skipping a beat.

"That would be great."

"Be right back."

He returns a moment later with what I at first think is a flannel blanket. But then I realize, no, it is indeed a shirt. Have I mentioned they're giants? They are. But I'll make it work.

"The other thing?"

I'm really starting to like his bushy brows, I realize, as one rises again. They have character.

"The bubble bath—is it good to use in curly hair?"

"The raspberries and cream stuff, you mean?" He grins. "I don't see why it wouldn't be. Smells good, don't it?"

"It smells great. Thank you."

Relieved, I close the door after him and realize…there's no lock.

Well, frrr-ICK.

Rose-Gold! I can hear my mother's voice. Are you out of your mind? You cannot get naked and take a bath in the home of nine strange men who could barge right through that unlocked door and do God only knows what to you!

Yeah. It's not a smart decision, on the surface. But I've always trusted my gut, always, and I know deep down somehow, as rowdy as they may be and as slobby as they might be, none of these guys would hurt a fly.

I undress and fold up my disgusting mud-soaked clothes, setting them in a neat pile on the floor before I get into the tub. I hesitate, wondering when it was last scrubbed. If it's ever been scrubbed. I shake the thought off. That table was gleaming. I'm sure the tub has been scrubbed.

The bubbles rise as my body sinks into the hot, silky water that covers me all the way up to my chin. I can barely see over the bubbles.

Well! My day certainly took a turn I hadn't been expecting. But I'll get cleaned up, run to the closest ER if I must, then head back to my campsite and get back on track. I've got a documentary to make!

I close my eyes and feel the warmth envelop my body, melting the ache and exhaustion from my hike right out of my bones. The bubbles do smell amazing, and I let my hair soak them up. I'm sure it'll be fine.

I'm wondering if I should move to a different location once I'm back at my car and campsite. Grumpy Luke called this his mountain. What if I'm trespassing on his property? They could make me leave. That would be within their rights.

I bite my lip. If they force me to leave, I'll lose my chance to find the real Bigfoot.

But…if my Bigfoot really lives this close to their home…these guys would definitely have spotted him at some point. Right? They would know.

I need to do my producer thing and get some dirt. Well. Not dirt. I've had quite enough of that, I think. But some intel. I need to get some intel from them. And permission to stay on their property.

If I am on their property.

Crap. If I am, I'll need them to sign a release to let me film here.

Can someone really own a whole freaking mountain?

I admit to myself that maybe I should've done some more research. It was naive of me to think nature just sort of belonged to everyone. It was shortsighted, foolish, and so not me.

"Only through meticulous research can a project rise to the peak of excellence, where every detail comes together with true cohesion and understanding," I recite. "Evelyn Hartley, philosopher and poet."

Closing my eyes, I breathe in the delicious raspberries and cream scent. I have to get the brand name before I leave. But for now, I need to relax, clear my head for a minute. Then I'll come up with a plan.

I wince as pain shoots through my ankle when I shift positions. I definitely did some damage, but I don't think it's that bad. It'll be tender, maybe bruised, for sure. But it can't be broken. That would be such a setback. No way can I film a documentary on crutches!

I bend my knee and I'm reaching down to massage the banged-up ankle when the door opens.

It's my first instinct to scream GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT, but my experience on the sets of reality shows has taught me that sometimes it's better to stay silent, no matter what, and watch how things play out. Also, I don't feel threatened. I should. Mother's voice in my head tells me I should. But I don't.

This mountain man is whistling, and I realize he's one I haven't seen yet. Not even one who went back for my sunglasses or phone, I'm sure of it. None of the others had copper-colored hair like this one does. It's shot through with highlights like streaks of fire throughout, clearly made by the sun. You simply can't get that effect or shade out of a bottle. I love my golden curls now, but I went through a phase in high school where I hated being a blonde and tried every other color. So I know a dye job.

As I watch, speechless and mesmerized, he undresses. At first I think he's wearing a fur vest, but nope, he's just shirtless and has that much flame-colored chest hair. Right before he takes off his underwear, I manage to squeak out, high-pitched and panicked, "Stop!"

It's for his sake, not mine. I would not mind a glimpse of another enormous cock, but if I was disrobing in a room where someone could see me, I'd be absolutely horrified if they didn't let me know before I gave them the whole show.

He whips around to face me.

"Is someone there? Who the hell said that? Ash, is that you? Did Ranger knee you in the balls again while y'all were wrestlin'?"

I almost snicker at that.

"No, um…"

"Clay, you bastard. Is that you puttin' on a girlie voice? Where you hidin'?"

He can't see me over the bubbles.

I lift a hand and wave. "Hi. I'm in the tub. My name's Goldie. Are you one of the brothers?"

Oh my gosh. I count them all up in my head, and…no. No, stop. Are there ten of them? Just like the Hammers? Just like I've begged Winnie to find for me?

I would laugh, but I'm too embarrassed to do anything but blush as an image of a big ol' mountain man orgy with me at the center flits through my head. I push the image away. No orgies! My first time will be a one-on-one with my future one and only.

This mountain man repeats, incredulously, "Goldie?"

STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

He's standing over me, looking like a confused, annoyed bear who has just been woken early from hibernation.

"What the hell is a Goldie? What are you doing in my bath? What are you doing in our cabin? Who are you?"

Before I can answer, he bellows, "GUUUUUUUUUUYS!"

"It's okay, they know—"

"There's a lady in the bathtub! There is a LADY in the BATHTUB!"

He turns and storms out, and I can't help but notice, he has a really nice ass.

It's too bad he seems to be following in Luke's grumpy footsteps.

I sink into the bubbles until I'm fully submerged, and shake my head in disbelief that every single second of my carefully laid plan has been derailed. All because of these mountain men.

They may not be Sasquatches…but there's definitely a story here. I know it in my gut. And I'm suddenly smacked with the insatiable urge, like an itch that must be scratched, to know what that story is.