Page 12 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Ruby
Beckett edits the video like he lives. He’s efficient with no fuss. And at least before he met me, he probably had no fear of hitting upload. I watch as he stitches my snowmobile debut onto his usual intro, adds a quick voiceover (“Beginner throttle control”), and schedules it to post.
“If you’re brave enough to show the world my first attempt at steering a rocket-sled,” I say, “I’m brave enough to let them see it.”
He smirks. “Thinking of adding a scorecard at the end.”
“Dock me points for almost amputating your foot.”
“Already did.”
The video goes live mid-afternoon. Twenty minutes later his laptop starts chiming like a pinball machine. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen bar while the comments roll in. I’m keenly aware of his masculine scent.
“Cutest snowed-in couple on the internet!”“Ruby + Tinderwolf” “She looks like a natural. He looks like a goner.”
Someone comments:“Ruby should get a segment! ‘Ask A Lingerie Owner’!”Another:“Would watch a TinDerby crossover.”I don’t know what that means, but the heart emojis multiply until even the dog would blush if he understood the internet. Beckett’s fans are mostly…sweet? They roast him hard, but they love him.
I try to act casual, but my insides are a cross between a county fair and a small house fire. I keep waiting for the comments to veer mean, but they don’t. If anything, the channel regulars are delighted at my expense.
@jackthenorthwoods:“She’s got better throttle than my ex, Beckett. You’re in trouble.”
@lizzzzzardqueen:“I want this to be a Hallmark movie except with more drinking and less fake snow.”
@tinybears:“Is this how we get a Tinderwolf / Sugarplum Secrets collab? Asking for science.”
I nudge Beckett in the side and he gives a faint, embarrassed grunt, scrolling faster. After a minute he just closes the screen and stares at the fire like maybe it’ll burn away the idea of Ruby Garland, new internet sensation.
“You okay?” I ask, pretending not to stare at his profile, which is unfairly handsome in firelight. The silence grows just awkward enough for me to want to fill it.
“Hey, at least nobody said I looked like your daughter,” I say, trying for a joke. “That’s always my fear when I’m with someone tall and rugged. People assume with my short stature that I’m a lost Girl Scout.” He huffs a single laugh, low. “Youdon’t look like a Girl Scout. Nobody’s ever going to mistake you for anything but trouble.”
The room goes quiet. Ranger grumbles from the hearth, rearranging his limbs. It’s not complete awkwardness, more like a thick, honeyed vibe.
I wonder if Beckett has any idea how loud he is, for a man who barely speaks. His presence vibrates in the room, a tuning fork I can’t ignore. I wish the universe had given me a chiller kink than “man who uses power tools and refuses to acknowledge internet fame,” but here we are.
I’m debating whether to ask if he ever eats more than once a day when the lights flicker—once, twice—and die. Total blackout. For a second, neither of us moves, as if the electrical grid itself pressed pause.
Beckett gets up, grabs a flashlight.
“Well,” I say into the quiet. “I guess the universe wanted a commercial break.”
Beckett exhales through his nose, stands, and moves into competence like it’s a second skin. “I’ll dig out some candles.”
“No worries, I have one … in my ‘stuff’.”
I rummage in the dark through one of my boxes and come up with exactly one candle -- shrink-wrapped, pink-red label, my brand’s cursive logo doing the absolute most.
I hold it up. “Don’t judge me. It’s called Sin-namon Nights. Top notes are cinnamon, clove, and something undisclosed.”
He pauses with a log in his hands. “You’re filing that under business expenses?”
“Obviously.” I peel the plastic, and he strikes a match. “Product testing. Imagine the IRS audit.”
The look he gives me says he is, in fact, imagining the audit. “The stove is gas. I’ll make coffee,” he says, which I’m ninety percent sure is code for I need to walk that off.
Sin-namon Nights starts doing its spicy, slightly scandalized thing. The room goes golden. Ranger flops near the hearth with a dog’s heavy sigh, like he personally ordered the ambience.
The fire catches fast, throwing shadows across the kitchen. Beckett rummages through a cabinet and pulls out bread, eggs, and a small tin of cinnamon.
