Jameson: The Men of Whiskey Mountain Book 2 Read online

  I don't know what those breadcrumbs would amount to, though. No one's coming to find me. Nobody cares enough to. I'm all alone. I was hoping that finding Wavy would fix that, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe coming here was just another way of breaking my own heart: seeing what she has and being fully aware of what I don't.

  “She's not here,” Jameson tells me. “Wavy and Walker, they’re gone. They might not be back for a few months.”

  “Where'd they go? I ask, but I snooped around the house. I have a few ideas. I saw the nursery, the baby cribs, the perfect place for a family.

  “How did you even find this place? How'd you get here?” Jameson asks me.

  “I came on a seaplane. Someone dropped me off; his name was Gaivier. I think.”

  Jameson nods. “Yeah, I know that guy. I didn't even hear you land.”

  “The rain was starting to fall pretty hard. Gaivier was unhappy about that, but there was no way we could turn around. He got me here and left. I hiked up from the dock and let myself in.”

  “How did you know to come here? Have you been talking to Wavy and Walker?”

  I shake my head. “No. I heard my sister was living with a guy named Walker from an old friend of mine, Julia. She lives up here. She's a part of some family now?”

  The way I say family causes Jameson's eyes to lift. “That commune? Father John's place?”

  I nod. “That’s the one. She says it’s Paradise.”

  Now it's Jameson’s turn to smirk. “Yeah, whatever you want to call it, the place is fucking nuts. Wavy tried to talk her friend Julia into leaving, but she wouldn't have it. The cops were there for a bit trying to close things down, and apparently, Father John got arrested, but he's out now on bail. They're up to the same old shit. Your friend should really leave.”

  “It's not my business to tell her what she should do,” I snap. “It's her life. She can live it how she pleases. She's had a rough enough go. I figure she's capable of making up her own decisions now.”

  Jameson's hands fly to the air, and he pushes back from the table. “Damn, girl. I didn't mean to fight with you. I was just saying— “

  I cut him off. “You were just saying you know Julia better than she knows herself. Maybe she wants to be there. Maybe that's where she belongs.”

  “And what about you, Jemma? Where do you belong?”

  My throat goes dry. I blink back tears that I don't expect to shed. “It's a great question, Jameson. It's a really fucking good question. If I knew where I belonged, maybe I wouldn't be sneaking around my sister's house talking to you. If I knew where I belong, maybe I'd already be there."

  “Why'd you come here?” he asks me.

  “I came here to see my sister. She's my only family.” A tear rolls down my cheek.

  “I get it,” he says, my tears seeming to soften him. “You're alone in the world and having a connection isn't the worst thing, but Wavy and Walker are in Anchorage. They're going to be there for a few months. They left just hours before you got here. Wavy went into labor this morning. They're having twins.”

  I nod. “I can't believe she's a mom.”

  “I bet she can't believe you're alive. How'd that happen, anyway?”

  I take another sip of the spiked coffee, the warmth of the whiskey calming me down. “When I got released from the hospital, a guy came. I had never seen him before. He gave me five grand, told me to get the hell out of here. I was scared. I didn't want to be found by the cartel, so I ran. It sounds like my sister ran too, but I guess we ran in different directions. She headed north, and I headed east. I stayed in Arizona, waitressing, keeping my head down with a fake ID. I had no intention of ever leaving or ever finding my sister again. But then I got ahold of Julia. I got her number from a friend of a friend, and she told me what had happened up here. I came as quickly as I could.”

  “Why didn't you go to Julia?”

  “I'll see her eventually, but now I want to see my sister. I need to apologize. I got her mixed up in some complicated shit. I never intended for her to see any of it. I wasn't in a great place when I told her to get hired where I was working, and I want her to know I never meant to hurt her.”

  Jameson nods. “You came to make amends.”

  “So here I am in Alaska. I dunno what she'll think when she sees me. I hurt her, dragging her into my mess.”

  “You know your mess is what sent her north, and it’s what sent her to Walker, her husband. That mess is what gave her a happy ending. I don't think she's angry at you for that. Hell, it brought her to her destiny.”

  “You believe in that? Destiny? Fate?” I ask him, trying to get a read on this man who seems so big and capable — a man who is equal parts compassionate and brave.

  “Yeah, I believe in fate and destiny. You don’t?”

  I shake my head. “Why would I?” I ask him. “Why would I want to believe my destiny is this? Me being broke and alone with nowhere to call home? Why would I believe in fate if this is my fortune?”

  Jameson sets down his coffee and nods solemnly as if he's genuinely contemplating my words as if he believes they have power. “Damn,” he says finally. “You're right. Why would you?”

  We sit there in silence for a moment, but then he speaks again. “The thing is, Jemma, you're only, what? Twenty-two years old? What if fate hasn't found you yet? What if that's the only thing holding you back from your destiny?”

  I blink. Exhaling. ‘Then I guess I'd say: here I am, fate. Come find me.”

  Jameson stands from his seat and steps toward me, taking my hand in his. He lifts me to stand. “Honey, what if tonight you're destined for me?”

  Chapter Three

  Jameson

  She stands in front of me in that fluffy white robe that isn't even hers, and her face hits my chest. She's petite, but then again, I'm pretty huge, towering above her. I want more than anything to wrap my arms around her and wipe those tears away. I want to tell her, Jemma, it's going to be all right. It's going to be okay. Don't let the haters get you down. Tomorrow is another day. But I don't want to say anything that might push this girl away. She’s seen too much shit and been dealt a rough hand. What she needs now more than anything is someone to listen, to be patient, to understand.

  I wonder if she's ever known a human being like that in her whole damn life.

  When I told her that maybe tonight, I'm her destiny, I wasn’t sure how she’d take it. But I have a feeling she isn’t going to pull away too damn fast.

  “Well, that escalated quickly,” she says with a nervous laugh, but I shake my head.

  “No, I didn't mean we’d, you know, hook up. I meant like maybe I can be a safe place — a safe person for you. I know you've been through the wringer, but honestly, I haven't. I'm not going to commiserate with you, but I am here to let you vent.”

  “Yeah?”

  I grin. “I’m going to take you to my cabin. I'm going to put wool socks on your feet and make you a fire like you've never seen. You can drink hot chocolate with marshmallows all night long if you want, or you can go to sleep as soon as your head rests against a pillow. I don't rightly care. So long as you're getting what you need.”

  “Why are you so nice to me?” she asks, her blue eyes sharp and deep, like the sea. Salty as if they could sting.

  “It’s how my mother raised me,” I tell her, then I chuckle. “Also, I liked the way you keep me on my toes.”

  “Is that what we're calling this?” she asks, pushing her lips forward. “To be honest,” she says with her pointer finger pressed against my chest. “I think you might be a little scared of me.”

  I laugh. “Maybe me being scared shitless isn't the worst thing to be.”

  “Maybe not,” she says. “They say when you're scared, you should face the thing that scares you.”

  “I've heard that,” I tell her, “but the thing is, I'm not scared.”

  “What are you then?” she asks.

  “I'm smitten. What do you think of that?” I ask as I run a
hand over my neck. “Damn. I'm not so good at this.”

  “Not so good at what?” she asks with a laugh that sends warmth through my soul. “Because honestly, I'm enjoying this quite thoroughly.”

  I chuckle. “Enjoying me putting my foot in my mouth?”

  She shakes her head. “Telling a girl that you're smitten with her is not putting your foot in your mouth. I think it's kind of cute. In fact, I don't think anyone's ever said that to me.”

  “I find that hard to believe. What do guys usually say?”

  Heat rises to her cheeks, and her eyes fall to the floor. “I don't think you want to know what men usually say to me. Usually, when I meet men, I'm not in an oversized bathrobe covering all my assets.”

  I shake my head. “Honey, you are not covering all your assets.”

  She furrows her brow, a question in her eyes.

  “The parts that are covered are gorgeous,” I tell her, stepping closer, closing the space between us. “But your eyes, Jemma, they're insane. And your nose? You look like a pixie.” I run my finger down its slope. “I love the way it's upturned. It's so damn cute.” I cup her cheek, running my thumb over her cheekbone. “And your cheeks are red and rosy; your lips are perfectly pink. You're not covering your best assets, honey, even if that's what you want me to think. When I look at you, I see what matters most.” She blinks, a blush filling her cheeks. Her eyes cast down.

  “What matters most, huh?” she manages.

  “Yeah.” She opens her eyes. “When I look at you, it's like I can see straight to your soul.”

  I want to kiss her then, but I don't want to scare her away. She seems as timid as a bird, but when she licks her lips, when she stands on her tiptoes and tilts her chin up just so, I know what she's saying; what she's offering.

  I lean down and kiss her and goddamn it; I could sink into those lips. So, I do. I kiss her softly the way this girl needs. She whimpers against me, and there’s a longing in her voice — a desperate call. A plea for more. It's asking me to make her feel like this forever. That's her soul talking.

  And hell, my cock is talking too. It's hard, and it's thick, and it wants more than a kiss. I step away, needing to slow this down and yet, hating the fact I am breaking the spell. Jemma presses her hand to her lips.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I just…” I adjust myself. “Jemma, a few things. I don't know if you want to go where this is headed.”

  She swallows, looking up into my eyes. “I do. I want to go there with you.”

  I look around the cabin that isn’t my own. “Well, I don't exactly want that to happen at Walker's place. You read me?”

  She runs a hand over her neck. “I read you, Jameson. So, how about we get you home?” She twists her lips, a smile forming, which causes my cock to start twitching. Today is becoming so much better than anything I imagined happening.

  I gather up Jemma’s wet clothes and shove them in a tote bag I found. She slips on her boots, and I find an umbrella.

  “It's about a half a mile walk, but I'll keep you close. We can go fast.” We clean up our meal. I laugh as she shoves crackers in her mouth. Then the slices of cheese. I wasn't wrong: this girl is hungry. I rinse out our cups and wash the plates. Then I turn off the lights before we leave, lock the door and pull it tightly closed, securing the cabin. There is a giddiness in the air, both of us knowing where this day is going. Both of us so damn ready to get there.

  “Dammit,” I say, laughing. “I came here to make sure the windows were all closed, and then I got distracted.”

  Jemma laughs. “Hope you forgive me for being a distraction.”

  “This doesn’t require an apology. It requires a goddamn hallelujah.” I chuckle. “Give me a sec, okay? I’m going back in to make sure windows are closed.”

  I lock the few that were unlatched, and then I meet her at the doorway. She’s looking out at the rainstorm.

  “Here, you hold this.” I hand her the umbrella and throw the tote bag over my shoulder. Then I lift her into my arms.

  “You're really carrying me through the woods for half of a mile?” she asks.

  “Honey, you're half-naked in a bathrobe. Yes, I'm keeping you close.” The truth is, I love the way she feels against me. I breathe in her lavender scent as I carry her through the woods, over fallen branches and pine needles.

  The rain pours down on the umbrella, but we miss most of it. As we walk under the covering of the tree branches, we don't speak. I focus on making sure I don’t trip and fall, knowing I have precious cargo in my arms. Soon enough, we've made it to my cabin.

  “This is your place?” she asks, eyes widening.

  Look, I'm not one to brag. Walker and Wavy, they got a nice place, but my home, hell, it's a luxury cabin.

  “This is seriously your house?” she repeats.

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “I think I forgot the part where you said your parents owned half of Anchorage.”

  I don't clarify to her that I built this place. Most of it, at least. How I designed the layout, how I felled the logs, how I was on the crew, putting it together piece by piece. Sure, I had money from an inheritance to build it, but I don't live off my family's wealth. Even if they think I'm a fool not to. Even if some days I think I'm a fool not to.

  But I fucked things up with my dad. He's not too fond of me right now. I don't get into all of that with Jemma. Hell, I've never even explained it explicitly to Walker. He knows I had a falling out with my family. He doesn't know the details, and I'm not going to start a conversation with Jemma with them.

  Now that we’re at my cabin, I push open the door, and I can imagine what she's thinking: That she doesn't fit here. This place is built for a man, all leather and wood, plaid cushions, and river rock. There's not a feminine touch to be seen.

  Jemma walks around, running her fingers over the fabric and leather, taking in the details of the great room of a big living room set spread in front of the fireplace. Beyond that, there is an open kitchen with a massive island and high-end appliances.

  It's a cabin meant for a family. Not exactly sure why I built it like this, considering I've been flying solo since I came out here to Whiskey Mountain.

  “What do you think?” I ask. “Should I start the fire?”

  She nods, and I set to it, adding some logs and kindling to get the fire blazing. “You have very nice taste,” she says. “Your place reminds me of these resorts in Arizona. I mean, I never went to them. I just saw them in magazines and brochures, but they were these resorts where you could go for spa treatments and yoga classes.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “This looks like a yoga retreat?”

  “No,” she says with a laugh. “It feels glamorous. Decadent. Luxurious. “

  “You have a problem with that?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “It’s just that when I think of a man who lives out alone in the wilderness of Alaska, I don't think of this.”

  “Look, I'm not what you think. I’m not a cookie-cutter version of any guy you've heard about or read about or seen. I'm my own man. I carve my way without the help of anyone else, and I don't need— “

  She lifts a hand, cutting me off. “Okay. Okay. I understand. You're your own person. A pioneer. I like that.”

  “Do you?” I ask, the fire now blazing. I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans. She nods, watching me, stepping closer. “And are you a pioneer too?”

  She laughs. “I don't know about that. Though I suppose I am hellbent on doing things my way.”

  “I think that's a pioneer characteristic,” I say with a smile. “What else you got? Who is the real Jemma?”

  She shakes her head, pressing her hands to my chest. “Where’d you come from, Jameson? No one talks to me like this.”

  I shrug. “I think you've been talking to the wrong people.”

  We stare at one another for a moment, and my desire to make her happy, to take care of her is so primal, so deep that I can hardly speak, afraid that
I’ll scare her off with my emotions.

  She steps away before I get a chance to freak her out. She kicks off her boots, setting them by the back door, and I do the same.

  “You know, I like the idea of being a pioneer of being someone who strikes out on their own, who carves their own path, but I don’t know if I'm quite so independent.”

  “But pioneers didn't go out it alone. They were in covered wagons like on the Oregon Trail. They traveled together.”

  “I see,” Jemma says. “I think we might be getting our analogies mixed up, but the point here is, I think— and correct me if I'm wrong,” she says, raising that finger again. “you’re an independent man who likes company, like a solo artist with a backup band.”

  “Sure,” I say, stepping toward her. “I like the sound of that.”

  “So, do I,” she says.

  “So, in this metaphor, are you the solo artist or the backup band?” I ask her.

  “What do you want me to be, Jameson?” she asks.

  “That's the thing, Jemma,” I say, running my hand around her waist. “I don't want to tell you who to be or how to be it. I want you to be you completely.”

  She closes her eyes. “It might sound lame, but I'm not sure I’m ready to take center stage just yet in my life. I'm not opposed to being a backup singer, someone in the background.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with needing time to figure yourself out, Jemma.”

  “I’ve… I’ve never had the space to do that,” she says, sighing, looking around my home. “I’ve never been anywhere long enough or felt safe enough, where I could relax. Just be.”

  “I’m not rushing you out of here,” I tell her, running my hand over her cheek.

  “My sister…” She exhales, eyes filled with worry.

  “Isn’t even here on Whiskey Mountain. Just relax, Jemma. No one is chasing you away.”

  Her shoulders fall, and she looks up at me. “You are being so nice to me.”

  “I think you need a little nice in your life, Jemma.” I reach for her hand. “Maybe take some time and just look for your own tune, you know, if we’re still working off that backup singer analogy.” I smile, and she does too. My heart steadies then, and the pounding seems to slow. I have a feeling this girl is gonna stay a while. With me.