Page 85 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

“What’ll we nibble on at those campfires then?”

“Mills makes one hell of a cornbread. And he always keeps a stash of his special, cured beef jerky in stock for the camp every summer, without exception,” I say. My mouth is watering at the thought of the cornbread and of a future without the Sokolovs in it. “It’ll put marshmallows to shame, I promise.”

“The sheriff mentioned something about honey-roasted hazelnuts?”

“Honey roasted and salted, yes.”

“Gosh, that sounds delish,” Anya muses. “Actually, anything that’s sweet and salty sounds delish right now.”

“What about salted caramel?”

“What about it?”

“It’s sweet and salty and an American staple. Don’t tell me you’ve never had any.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had salted caramel.”

“Whoa. How is that possible?”

“You know how my mom was about my figure. Sugar was the literal devil. I had to beg for a slice of bread at the table.”

My blood runs cold, then hot red with fury. “Anya, that’s awful.”

“Aleks used to argue with her. A lot. But I was under strict caloric control once I turned fourteen. And even before, Mom had to check everything I ate. Honestly, I don’t remember eating a lot of things most people would have,” Anya says and sighs deeply. “I do remember marshmallows, but I think… wait, hold on…”

She stops, and I stay close, recognizing the lost gaze.

“You’re remembering something,” I say.

“Yes. I think this whole talk about salted caramel triggered something.”

“We’re in no rush,” I reply and point to a nearby stump. “We can sit down, if you want.”

Anya shakes her head. “No, I’m good. The fresh air is amazing. The movement, the hike. No, just give me a second. Talk to me about the salted caramel.”

I recall one particular outing with my family when we were little boys. “Booker and I were maybe five or six. Nico was the big brother in charge as our parents led the flock across the carnival grounds. I can still smell the buttery popcorn in the machines… the burnt sugar.”

“Oh God, me, too!” Anya gasps. “You were so right about tastes and smells triggering memories.”

“Then tell me what you remember.”

“We’re in a park. I’m ten, I think. Still shorter than Mom, so definitely not an adolescent yet,” she says. “It’s how I keep track of how old I am in these things.”

I chuckle softly. “Smart girl.”

“It’s Mom and me and… Oh, Zoya’s with us. She doesn’t like my mother very much by the looks of it.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re arguing by a cotton candy stand. I wanted the blue one with the unicorn sprinkles, and Zoya gave me five bucks to buy it, but Mom snatched the money out of my hand before I could give it to the guy.”

My stomach churns. Based on how I remember Maria Asimova, I’m pretty sure I know where this story leads, and it breaks my heart every damn time to see the lasting impact a mother’s toxic love has had on her beautiful, perfect daughter.

“Why did she do that?” I ask.

“She said that blue sugar crap would go straight to my ass,” Anya scoffs and shakes her head in dismay. “Why is every memory I have of my mother such cause for misery and distress? It’s like she never loved me.”

“Maria loved you, Anya. She was just…”

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