Chapter 9Goldie

Chapter 9

Goldie

I rummage through my toiletries bag, thrilled and delighted that Rusty's going to let me work my magic on him. I'm pretty sure I alienated all the others with my brilliant makeover idea, but I swear I didn't mean any harm. I see the potential in them, even if they don't. Even if they say they don't care.

Ha! Everybody cares. Everybody wants to look their best, they're just worried deep down that their best isn't good enough. That's what I believe, anyway, but I think anyone can be beautiful if they play up their strengths to minimize their flaws.

Maybe once I show them, via Rusty's makeover, the others will see the light. Societal standards suck, but they are what they are. We can't do anything about their size—and I sure as hell wouldn't want to! You deserve every inch of space you take up in this world, I'm a firm believer in that. But if tweezing their eyebrows and trimming their beards and hair will help keep anyone else from mistaking them for Sasquatches, I think they'll all agree it's worth it. Don't any of them want love? They must.

And maybe, after they're all made over, I can suggest they let me organize their cabin…

Settle down, Goldie , I tell myself. That feat would take a couple years, and you've got one night.

I'm definitely getting ahead of myself. But it's hard not to get carried away. The potential I see in them is like nothing I've seen before. I'm talking about the kind of potential that makes me genuinely sad I didn't meet them in a different circumstance. A different time, a different place.

But, I refuse to give up my principles, even if my libido is easily swayed by their beautiful eyes, and those bodies, sweet Lord, those cocks. I know a li'l makeover won't be enough to subdue the kind of mess these men would make of my life. Not just in their substandard grooming, the Junkstore Cottage Core and their, um, not exactly civilized mealtimes, but I can already see now that I would end up desiring every single one of them. How would that work when Grumpy Luke doesn't even like me?

I'm glad I've finally won over Rusty, though. Nine out of ten of these men thinking I'm worth smiling at—and checking out—isn't bad.

But it isn't perfect.

I know how I sound, but I'm not just a high-maintenance girlfriend-zilla, I swear. I just know what I want, I know what I deserve…and I know what my idea of perfection is. Ten gorgeous men fawning over me might sound perfect in theory, but in reality, all I can see is the chaos. Yeah, Win and the Hammer bros are making it work, but that's the exception not the rule.

Fantasy is one thing, but in reality, I'm a one-guy girl—and whoever that guy is, well, he's going to have to be one of a kind, not ten.

As I rummage through my toiletries for the travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner, memories of Mother flood my mind. She's a whirlwind of chaos. Her life is all messy relationships for her and broken promises for me. With each new husband came a whole new wave of instability, and I spent my entire childhood feeling adrift, like I was floating in a sea of domestic uncertainty, waiting to sink.

One particular memory stands out vividly in my mind.

I was just a kid, eagerly anticipating my eleventh birthday, which my mother had promised would be perfect. All I wanted was a trendy outfit from the coolest store in the mall, Blue Roses, the shop all the popular girls got their clothes from. Mother promised a trip to the hairdresser too, to finally get my golden hair, which was always kept in a long ratty braid down my spine, into a mane worthy of a princess.

But as the day approached, her latest husband ruined it, as usual, making the day all about himself and leaving my mother in tears, locked up in her room with a headache from crying. And I was left alone on my birthday after that awful stepfather of mine told me Blue Roses was too expensive, that I was too fat and ugly and didn't deserve to shop there anyway. I cannot imagine calling a child ugly.

That was the day I realized I couldn't control the actions of others, but I could control myself. And I could sure as hell prove everyone wrong. Not only was I not ugly, I was smart and determined. I worked tirelessly to achieve top grades in school, and when I received my final report card, adorned with straight A's, my mother barely glanced at it, too wrapped up in another bit of drama regarding another messy relationship.

I didn't even care—I had done the best I could do. I was valedictorian. And I was off to LA, ready to make my own way in the world, and looking pretty damn fabulous all on my own. Until I was grown, I'd never been able to afford anything as expensive as Blue Roses, but as I grew into my curves, I learned how to dress cute on the cheap and do my own hair almost as good as a salon could.

With each memory, I feel a pang of longing for the stability and happiness that always seems just out of reach, even now, but I push it aside and prepare for the task at hand. I grab the detangling spray and a wide-toothed comb. Thankfully I have a backup in case this first one snaps in one of Rusty's knots.

I can't control the situation I have literally fallen into, or the men around me, or whether or not Grumpy Luke hates me, for that matter. But I can find joy in making someone else feel beautiful. And that's my new official mission—make Rusty feel just as freaking gorgeous as I know he is under all that hair. I think he might have dimples, and those should be displayed for the world to see.

With any luck, the others will want to feel freaking gorgeous too.

Of course, it would help if I had access to a wider range of tools and products than what I brought with me, but I'll make it work. I always do.

I add some curl cream to my handful of toiletries. I'm thankful that Rusty and his brothers all have wavy hair, if not full-on curls like I do. My cream may not be optimized to their individual hair texture and thickness like I would like, but my haircare routine will work just fine for them.

Though he is a rough-hewn mountain of a mountain man with calloused hands and shoulders so broad I could probably stand on one of them, there's something boyishly sweet about Rusty that makes me forget we've just met today and causes a surge of affection to wash over me when I look at him. I want to give him an impulsive hug before we begin, but I resist.

He has the sweetest smile. He also looks like he could impregnate me by looking me in the eyes. Whew, the testosterone in this cabin! I fan myself.

"Are you warm? We have an oscillating fan somewhere…I could find it and fetch it…"

"I'm fine, but thank you. You don't have any shampoo preferences, do you?" I ask because, sure, mine will be better, but I don't want to make any assumptions. I mean, I know Hunter said they don't have any shampoo or conditioner, but I still find that hard to believe. This place is like the ark. They probably have two of everything without even realizing it. Or two dozen.

"No." He looks around like there might be a bottle or two of shampoo floating in the air. "We have some of the stuff for babies around somewhere. The kind that's not supposed to cause any tears. From back when we were kids. Mostly we just use washing-up liquid for everything now."

"And the bubble bath," I remind him with a smile.

"Yes."

He doesn't elaborate. Dammit. The ultrafeminine bubble bath is so incongruous in this cabin, and with these men. I want to understand why they have it in the first place. And I want to know what kind it is and where to get it.

"I really liked the bubble bath," I say casually, leaning over to arrange my bottles on the coffee table.

"It smells nice," he agrees with a nod.

Okay, clearly I'm not going to learn the story behind the bubble bath without straight-up asking, and I don't want to do anything to put Rusty off right now, when we're making progress.

"Well," I say. And then I tell him, hoping to hell that I don't sound condescending, what to do with each of the products I've laid out. "Then, after you've washed your hair, we'll talk about what kind of results you want from your makeover."

He hesitates.

"Did I talk too fast?" Sometimes I do.

With a shake of his head, Rusty says, "I can't wash out my hair, is the thing. I mean, I could do it in the sink, I guess, but first I'd have to clear out all the dishes. I guess I could put them on a tarp in the backyard to get 'em out the way. But I can't wash it in the tub because I'm not supposed to leave you alone."

"Ohhh, right. You're babysitting me. Because Grumpy Luke said so."

Yes, I overheard that.

The corner of his mouth tips up in a smile as he shrugs helplessly. "Luke just doesn't want you poking around."

I do hope he appreciates the finely arched brow I give him. "Why? Do you have bodies hidden in a secret basement?"

"Yes. Yes, we do."

His lips are twitching. I burst out laughing and he joins in. It's like an earthquake of joy. I love it.

"What if I promise I won't get off this couch?"

"How do I know you're a woman of your word?" he counters.

"Okay," I say, letting out a little sigh. What does Luke think I'm going to do? Rob them blind of all their knickknacks? It's not like I could get a U-Haul up here, and it would take one to even make a dent. I sigh again. It's their home, not mine. I need to stop being so damn judgmental.

Then it hits me. "What if I come into the bathroom with you? I'll close my eyes the whole time so I won't be able to see you, but you can keep an eye on me."

"How do I know you won't peek?"

I grin. "Would you care if I did?"

"Only if you weren't impressed," he says, and then the parts of his cheeks that aren't covered by his beard flush. It's adorable.

I solemnly swear I will be impressed, Rusty , I think. I saw that tent in his pants before he pulled the throw pillow onto his lap to cover it. And I'm betting he's every bit as well-endowed as his brothers.

He stands up and says, "Let's do it then."

I try not to think about that particular turn of phrase as he hoists me up and carries me into the bathroom despite my protests that it's not necessary. I think that poultice is already working wonders on the pain in my ankle. Maybe I should ask Lynx to put some on my forehead too. Rusty sets me atop the closed toilet lid while he puts the stopper in the tub and starts the faucet.

As promised, I keep my eyes closed while he bathes. Well, at least in the beginning. Eventually I get bored and turn so I'm facing away from him, my hair dangling down my back as I study the curious row of towels from this new angle.

I read the names of all ten brothers, wishing I could figure them out based on towel alone. Is the embroidery based on their favorite colors?

After about twenty minutes, Rusty starts to complain. "This is taking for-ev-er."

"What step are you on?"

"Getting all the knots out still," he grumbles, and I can finally hear the genetic similarities between him and Grumpy Luke. I smother a laugh.

"Yep, the knots are going to take a while. Do you want me to take over? Give your arms a rest?"

There's silence. Lots of silence. And then, "Uhhh…I don't know, Rose-Gold."

"Everything's covered by the bubbles, right?"

"How did you know that?" he asks suspiciously.

"Well, for starters, I can smell the raspberries and cream, so I know you're using the bubble bath. And it covered everything up on me when I was in the tub."

I'm not sure how logically sound that is, since there's a lot more of him than me, but he doesn't argue with the flaw in my statement.

"Okay," he says. "But you'll have to sit on the side of the tub. So you're not standing on your hurt foot."

I perch on the edge of the tub and take the comb from him. "Your hair is a very pretty color," I say.

"Thank you, ma'am. So is yours."

I begin gently working the comb through his hair. It's actually not that bad. Eventually, my fingers glide through Rusty's hair in a soothing rhythm that seems to put him at ease. He sighs happily.

"You know," I say suddenly, breaking the silence, "despite the rocky start—or bubbly start, I suppose—I'm glad I ended up here."

Rusty turns his head enough to give me a side-eye. "Yeah?"

I nod. "Yeah. I mean, where else would I get the chance to give a sexy, rugged mountain man a makeover?"

Rusty's smile goes from boyishly cute to stomach-flippingly hot as he regards me. "You really find me sexy? Or are you puttin' me on?"

I swallow hard and suddenly the horniness I'm feeling is too much. I want to strip off my flannel toga-dress thing and slide into those bubbles with him. Maybe accidentally landing vagina-first on his cock…

Stop it, Goldie! Your first time is going to be well planned and perfect , I remind myself.

"Okay, step one is complete!" I say brightly, hoping he won't notice my sudden breathiness and the flush I can't stop from taking over my face. "Let's get you going on step two!"

Eventually he finishes his bath and dresses from the waist down, and my face goes back to a relatively normal shade. Well, except for my forehead which is already turning a lovely purple. And as the makeover truly begins (though I have to use what would best be described as carpenters' tools, instead of anything of professional hairdresser quality), I try to work out a little more of his family's secret.

"So, what made you all choose this secluded mountain life?" I ask, with genuine curiosity. "It's quite a departure from the hustle and bustle of the city, don't you think?"

"A departure for you maybe," he says with a smile, "but we grew up here. We've always preferred the peace and quiet of nature."

I press further, trying not to sound too eager to uncover more. "What about your parents? Where are they?"

Rusty's hesitation is long before he finally says, "We don't really discuss our past."

Hmmm. That hints at a tragic backstory, or some deep, dark family scandal going back generations, maybe?

Internally, I sigh. "I get it, trust me. I understand the importance of privacy," I acknowledge, choosing my words carefully. "It must be liberating to live off-grid."

Despite Rusty's resistance to divulge personal information, I won't be deterred. He has brothers, after all, and when they see how hot Rusty looks with his mountain manscaping, they'll be begging for makeovers of their own.

Sooner or later, one of them will spill. Hopefully sooner, since I don't know how long I'll be able to stay.

What? What am I thinking?

Do I really want to stay longer than tonight? I realize that, inexplicably, the clutter is already bothering me less and less…

But no. I'll be able to stay one night. That's what we agreed upon.

Unless Ash is right and we do all get snowed in and I can't leave…