Sex in the Sticks Page 2

  "So your article defended the typical man you tend to date--a New Yorker--but you really want something different?" he surmises accurately.

  With a sigh I admit, "I just feel like there's something more I'm missing."

  "And this doesn't have to do with love?" he asks for clarification.

  I wrinkle my nose. "You know I don't do love. But, Jeremy...I think the metrosexual did kill my orgasm."

  "Explain." His brows are furrowed and he watches me with genuine interest, because Jeremy knows me well. I'm a man-eater. I love men. I love to date, I love to be treated well, and I love good sex. I love everything about being a single woman in New York City, and nothing evidences that more than the fact that I write an extremely popular blog on dating and sex, focusing mostly on how a man can please a woman based on my experiences. It's so popular, in fact, I'm a bit of a local celebrity here, and I love it. I clearly don't do it for the money, because I have gobs of that, but I do it because I love writing and I love what I write about.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. "I'm tired of going out with men whose nails are better manicured than mine and who spend more on hair-care products than they do on dinner with me. I'm tired of discussing fashion trends and the best exfoliation products. It pisses me off when my dates admire themselves in a mirror anytime we pass one or they have to check their stock portfolio at least once an hour on their smartphone. I'd like their tans not to be so orange and their teeth not to be so blindingly white. It's the same, date after date, and I'm just...tired of it."

  "You do realize you just described me to a T," Jeremy says dryly. "Well, except the orange fake tan."

  "Yes, well, you're my cousin and I don't care if you're a metrosexual or not. I'm not dating you."

  "Then what do you really want?" Jeremy prods.

  I give a painful sigh. "I don't know. Just something different. A real man, you know?"

  "Again...I may enjoy all those things you pointed out above, but I do believe I'm a real man. I drink beer, belch, and even fart sometimes. I watch football and leave my underwear lying on the floor, which drives Aubrey batshit crazy, but I give her amazing orgasms, so I can say this metrosexual has it going on between the sheets."

  "Ugh," I say in frustration as I lean my head back against the couch and stare at the chandelier again. "I'm not making myself clear."

  "I'm not getting it, Valentine," Jeremy tells me bluntly. "Now quit beating around the bush. What the hell do you think is missing from your dating life?"

  A million lies run through my head, but this is Jeremy, and he'll call me on every one of them. And if I screw around, someone might buy that Proenza Schouler I want.

  My head turns to the left and I look at Jeremy. "I want to feel really wanted. I want to drive a man crazy. I want him to look at me like I'm an oasis in the desert. I want a man who would battle an army just for the chance to be with me, and once he was with me, he'd battle a million armies just to keep me. Men here aren't like that. It's too easy for them. Pickings are abundant and no one has to fight for real companionship because we're all so self-absorbed we've learned to do without it. I want a man who can and would take on the world for the right woman. And most important, I want that feeling that would come from having a man like that. Oh, and I'm betting a man like that would be amazing in the sack."

  "Be careful, Valley," Jeremy chides. "You find a man like that, you'll probably fall in love."

  "Yeah, that's not going to happen," I say dryly, dismissing such an idea. I'm not anywhere near ready to settle down. "I know one thing: I'm done with the men around here for a while. Maybe I'll just take a break or something."

  "Why don't you try a change of scenery?" Jeremy suggests as he stands from the couch. He pulls a Donegal sweater out of a box that had been placed there earlier by a sales associate and inspects the collar stitching.

  "Change of scenery? You mean like a new bar or something?"

  "No, like a new location. Not New York City."

  "You mean travel somewhere and sample the men there?" I ask with a laugh. "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it?" he asks, and his tone is so serious I sit up straight on the couch to listen further. "Why not? You're independently wealthy and you can write your blog from anywhere. You say you're bored with everything around here, so pack up your trunks, grab your yappy little rodent of a dog--"

  I lean over quick as lightning, grab a petit four, and launch it at Jeremy's head.

  Score.

  A direct hit.

  Jeremy turns to glare at me but doesn't miss a beat. "--grab your cute and lovely dog, and go explore the world a bit. Maybe you can find your real man out there."

  Hmmm.

  That idea actually has some merit. It would reinvigorate my blog as well, because if I was getting bored with the city men around here, I'm sure my readers were getting bored of hearing about it.

  "But where would I go?" I muse out loud, thinking of perhaps Paris or Barcelona. I think Spanish men are really sexy.

  "Alaska," Jeremy says, then pulls the sweater over his head. When it pops through, he looks at me through the mirror. "Remember Jordie Cambridge? I went on that fishing trip for his bachelor party there a few years ago."

  I vaguely remember Jeremy going on that trip. But they were fishing, and that really didn't interest me much, so I can't recall much about it.

  "Why Alaska?" I ask.

  "Because the male population is like fifteen times that of the female population. Someone like you would be a hot commodity and there'd be herds of men from which you could cull," he says matter-of-factly. "Is this sweater any good?"

  Fifteen men to every woman?

  And I'm thinking big, rugged manly men who don't give a rat's ass about fashion or manicures, and I bet their tans are natural.

  "Alaska," I murmur to myself.

  This idea definitely has merit.

  Chapter 2

  Logan

  I pull into the Ketchikan Terminal of the Alaska Marine Highway and park my truck. The ferry from Gravina Island has already docked and the passengers are unloading. Hopping out and locking my door, I make my way to the boat, my eyes searching for Buddy amid the people flocking down the ramp, eager to start their vacation in the great Alaskan wilderness.

  Some of them will be here for the amazing salmon fishing, and others just to explore the scenic beauty of crystal blue lakes and snowcapped mountains that surround you 360 degrees. Others will make this just a short stop before they continue on to visit Anchorage or Denali. It's the beginning of the summer tourist season, so Ketchikan's numbers will swell. Even though its population hovers around fourteen thousand, that's still too many people for me and why I chose to make my life in East Merritt, which is about a forty-minute trip north on the only highway that runs along the western edge of Revillagigedo Island.

  I walk against the flow of people disembarking, much like a salmon swims upstream here to spawn, my eyes sweeping back and forth along the concrete dock to locate Buddy, the ferry captain. He's been operating that boat ever since I moved to this area from Seattle seven years ago and one of the very first people I met.

  Finally, the crowd thins a little and I locate him standing at the bottom of the ramp talking to a woman.

  No...arguing with a woman.

  And not just any woman at first glance. She looks like a fucking movie star and completely out of place.

  Oh, she's trying to look the part of an earnest tourist, wearing a bushman's-type jacket cinched at her small waist and flaring over curved hips, but the large dark frames on her eyes and expensive-looking scarf around her neck, paired with high-heeled leather boots over tight-as-sin cream pants screams complete city girl without a clue as to where she is.

  But the true kicker--the thing that tells me she's not your ordinary tourist--is the large camel-colored bag hitched over her shoulder from the top of which pokes a tiny white, curly haired dog that's yapping vigorously at Buddy. I can't hear their conversation, but I can hear
that damn dog.

  By the way the woman's gesticulating, I can tell she's angry even though I can't see her eyes behind those sunglasses. Buddy's hands are held out, palms up in supplication as the woman waves to a mountain of luggage piled beside her and then makes a sweeping motion in the general direction of the island's interior. The dog still yaps, but then the woman puts a hand on its little head and scratches its ears, thankfully making it go silent.

  I head toward them and their conversation becomes clearer.

  "Look lady...I don't know what you expect me to do. I have to get on that ferry and head back to Gravina Island. I can't help you get your luggage to where you need to go."

  "Then call a car service for me," she says dramatically. "I can't believe this town doesn't have a damn cab in it. This truly is the wilderness."

  I lower my face to hide the smirk that overtakes my mouth, and when I have it under control, I look back up just as I reach Buddy's side. He sees movement, whips to face me, and his expression dissolves into pure gratefulness.

  The little white dog starts yapping at me.

  "What's going on?" I ask pleasantly, my eyes sliding to the woman but ignoring the dog. Still can't see her eyes, but the rest of her is completely stunning. She's tall and I'm guessing five-nine or so without those heels on, which still puts her several inches below my six-foot-six frame. Her long hair is a deep fiery red and hangs all around her shoulders and pours down her back in big waves that flutter every now and again in the breeze. High cheekbones, porcelain skin, and lips that are full and colored dark red.

  "Hush, Sassy," the woman croons to the little dog, and it stops barking but continues to emit a tiny growl from its throat.

  "This nice lady," Buddy says to me, but I can hear by his voice he doesn't think she's nice at all, "seems to be under the impression there would be transportation awaiting her here at the dock to take her to her hotel. I've told her there's not, and she's also under the impression that I can do something about it."

  Chuckling, I look back to the woman and stick my hand out to her, praying that tiny ball of fluff doesn't latch on to it. "I'm Logan Burke."

  The woman's jaw relaxes and the dog remains watchful as the growl dies down. She takes my hand, gives me a brief but firm shake, and smiles. "Valentine French. And I'm clearly in a bind."

  "Seems so," I say with good nature.

  With a pout of those pretty lips, she grumbles, "I've never traveled anywhere there wasn't cab service before. I just assumed I'd be able to hail one here."

  My gaze slides down to her luggage. Five suitcases in all made of expensive-looking brown leather with a tan pattern of some sort. When I look back to her, I say, "Going to be staying awhile?"

  Her smile gets bigger. "I hope so."

  "Well, if you give me a moment to load up the cargo Buddy brought me, I'll be glad to give you a lift to where you need to go," I tell her affably. "Or even to a car-rental place, although chances are they won't have anything. It's high tourist season and they're probably out of their small stock."

  "I'd really appreciate that," she says gratefully, and then turns to Buddy. "And I'm really sorry I wigged out on you. It's just...I've not run into this before and my cousin made all the trip plans for me and I'm going to positively kill him when I see him."

  Buddy holds his hands up to stop her and then tips his hat. "No problem. Chief Burke will take good care of you."

  "Chief?" she asks curiously, her head turning back to me.

  "I'm the East Merritt chief of police," I tell her with a wink as I tap my badge clipped to my belt. "It's in my job description that I can't turn my back on a person in need."

  "But this is Ketchikan," she points out with a sweet, teasing tone in her voice, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think she was flirting. "This isn't your jurisdiction, so that says you're going out of your way to help me."

  "I'm sworn to protect and serve all those that come to the great state of Alaska," I assure her, although that's not exactly true. My duties only extend to the nine hundred residents of East Merritt, and I honestly wouldn't have offered if she wasn't as pretty as she is.

  "Well, it's my lucky day then," she says, and I swear that's a purr coming from the base of her throat. "I'm actually headed to East Merritt."

  I blink in surprise, because not many that get off that boat stay in East Merritt. For one, there aren't a lot of accommodations, and two, there's not much going on in our little town. It's out of the way and quite peaceful, but mostly attracts serious hikers or fishermen who want to navigate the surrounding waters for salmon. Most of the residents work either in logging or in the commercial fishery business, which are both male-dominated professions. As such, not much culture is required in a town like East Merritt, as the fishermen and loggers pretty much just like to drink beer and shoot the shit with each other when they're not working.

  On the other hand, Ketchikan is a town filled with much more to do for a woman like her. It has art galleries, shopping, nice restaurants, and even a small theater that puts on pretty good productions, or so I hear.

  "You're going to be staying in East Merritt?" I ask to make sure I heard her right.

  "Yes," she says brightly. "Staying at Billiott's Bed and Breakfast. My cousin Jeremy recommended it, as he stayed there a few years ago."

  Billiott's Bed and Breakfast? Is that what Sarah's calling her boardinghouse now?

  In fairness, it is the nicest place that East Merritt affords, but it's not exactly posh. Still, I don't say anything because it's not my place, so I turn to Buddy. "If you can get my stuff, I'll get her suitcases loaded while you do that."

  "Sure thing," Buddy says, and practically races up the ferry ramp.

  I watch him just a moment before turning back to Valentine. "You wait here and I'll pull the truck up."

  "Okay," she says sweetly, and even her little dog looks like it's smiling at me. "And...thank you, Chief."

  "It's just Logan," I tell her, not because she's special and I'm making an exception, but because everyone around here calls me by my first name. We're not a pretentious lot.

  It takes about twenty minutes to get my cargo from Buddy--which consisted of a new radio and emergency lights for my truck--and to get Valentine's luggage loaded into the back. For the past seven years I've been chief, and I've been driving an old Ford Bronco I'd inherited from the former chief and that had finally bit the dust a few weeks ago. It was just shy of twenty-eight years old and it led a damn good life. I had patched it up a few times over the years, but I just needed to let it rest in peace. And because there wasn't any money in the budget for a new police vehicle, I figured my Dodge Ram would do just fine with a set of blue emergency lights on top as long as I had a good two-way radio installed. Buddy brought it over from a private drop ship at the airport for me.

  It didn't go unnoticed that Valentine actually winced when I loaded her luggage in the back of my truck, and then looked worriedly at the eastern sky starting to darken with rain, but she didn't utter a word of complaint. I didn't offer condolences, because I could tell that storm wasn't going to reach us since we were headed northwest of Ketchikan.

  When she settled in the front cab of my truck with that ridiculous little dog perched on her lap, we headed out for the forty-minute drive.

  "So why did you come to East Merritt?" I ask conversationally, but it's more than that. I've got my police senses firing on all cylinders because she is not your typical tourist. I don't think she's here for nefarious reason, but she's not here for the usual ones either.

  "Like I said...recommendation from a family member," she says, and while her tone is open and outgoing, it's sort of a vague answer too.

  "Beg my pardon for saying so," I say carefully. "But you don't seem the type that came here to go hiking and fishing."

  Valentine gives a soft laugh filled with rich hints of feminine wiles, her hand stroking down the dog's back as she says, "Um...no. I most definitely didn't come for that. I just needed to get aw
ay and I have the means to do so. Thought I'd enjoy the quiet for a while, although I'm going to have to give Jeremy hell for not telling me there was no cab service."

  Sounds plausible, but not probable to my way of thinking, but I let it go. If she's going to be here for any length of time, I'll eventually figure her out. My town is way too small for her to go unnoticed, particularly by the scores of young bucks that will be sniffing around her. East Merritt is a working town, and it draws single men from all over the world for solid work. There aren't a lot of women in these parts for them to choose from, so Miss French will be a hot commodity here.

  Chapter 3

  Valentine

  Holy shit.

  If only half the men in Alaska are only half as gorgeous as Chief Burke--or Logan, as he told me to call him--then I'm in for a damn good trip. He wears his dark, almost black, hair a lot longer than most men I know. It curls over the tops of his ears and hangs halfway down his neck in a shaggy mess. It doesn't look like he's shaved in days and could possibly be growing in a beard, but the one thing I do know, those dark, slashing eyebrows make his blue eyes positively explode with brightness in the afternoon light.

  I'll admit, I was silently cursing Jeremy for recommending this place when the ferry docked and there was no transportation to take me to East Merritt. I'm not sure if it was courageous or stupid, but I let him set up this trip for me. I'm not sure if his smile was taunting or genuine when he said he had the perfect place for me to go to experience the last frontier of real men. And I'm completely uncertain about whether or not this is a good idea, but Jeremy planted the seed and I'm running with it, for better or worse. Whether I ultimately kill him or hug him still remains to be seen.

  Worst-case scenario, I can always hop the ferry to the airport and leave if this ends up sucking. Of course, the extreme lack of local transportation means I'll probably have to leave behind my five Louis Vuitton suitcases, because I'll probably be walking back to Ketchikan, but I'll deal with that possibility later.

  We enter East Merritt, and I know this because the speed limit on the two-lane road that had water on our left and trees on our right went down to twenty-five miles an hour and the road cut in eastward a tad. There are wooden buildings on either side bordered by sidewalks, and on the left, I see a small harbor area with docks just beyond.