Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
The air between feels thick. A heat washes through me simply drinking in the masterpiece of man in front of me.
He is unfazed by me and my gaze.
But I sure as hell am surprised to see him.
Because I know that face. Not him personally—not up close like this—but I know his type. And something about him sends a bolt of warning down my spine.
Not from fear.
From the sense that this man takes up space just by breathing. There is power with a man like him. This stealth stature that screams protector. A vibe that says he commands the world around him and everyone simply falls into submission willingly to the sheer masculine energy that exhales out with every breath he takes.
Needing to say or do something to cover up the way I’m gawking at the man, I force myself to swallow and call out, voice too high-pitched: “H-hi! You must be Mr. Brocato!” God, I’m an idiot.
He nods once, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to make sense of the sight in front of him: me clutching a massive sleeping bag like a toddler dragging a stuffed animal. “Tony,” he clarifies. “Mr. Brocato is a great name for a man in a suit or a mob boss. I’m just Tony.”
“Hope you enjoy your stay.” I manage a stiff, awkward half-wave, then spin and all but sprint for my car. I fling the sleeping bag into the passenger seat so fast it ricochets off the dashboard.
He’s still watching me—of course he is—as I circle around to shut the door.
I turn back toward the cabin just to be polite, to give him some kind of host-like farewell—And that’s when I see headlights crossing my driveway.
My heartbeat stops dead.
I know that car.
That dent in the bumper. That cheap aftermarket grill he installed because he thought it made him look “edgy.” The same license plate I hated from the moment he put it on the damn car.
My ex-husband’s car.
“What the—” I whisper to the universe.
Rage slams through me so strong I nearly sway.
No. No. No.
He cannot be here. Not now. Not today. Not ever—but especially not now, when I have a paying guest in the driveway who absolutely does not need to witness the circus that is my life.
I stand frozen beside my car as the headlights come closer. My pulse quickens and becomes a loud thumping that thunders in my ears.
Behind me, I can feel my guest’s attention shift. I can feel his stare slide from me to the approaching car, some protective instinct sharpening just from the tension vibrating off me. I sense him moving closer even without looking to the man.
My ex pulls into my driveway like he owns the place.
My stomach twists violently.
This is not the experience I want for my guests. Not the vibe I want to create. Not the chaos I want to spill into a stranger’s peaceful mountain retreat. I squeeze the handle of my car door, nails digging into my palm.
Anger shakes through me—hot, humiliating, furious.
How dare he show up here. At my home. While I’m working. While I’ve been killing myself to fix everything he broke.
How dare he think he can just appear. My vision blurs as my rage climbs.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, barely above a whisper.
But the words don’t matter.
Because my ex is already climbing out of his car.
And Mr. Brocato—my guest, the man with the serious face and the unreadable stare—is watching every second of it.
What the hell do I do now?
Seven
Stud
Call it a gift, call it a curse, whatever the label, I’ve always been able to read a room. Back when I was young and stupid, it kept me out of fights I couldn’t win and got me into the kind I could. In the Marines, it kept my ass alive—one look at a street, a doorway, a crowd, and I could feel it in my bones when something was about to go sideways. As a Hellion, it keeps me and my brothers alive.
That same bone-deep instinct is humming now.
The second I laid eyes on a set of headlights hit her driveway, I feel the air change. Everything about the woman in front of me changes in that instant.
Little cabin, quiet drive, pretty woman clutching a sleeping bag like a lifeline, me just off my bike, engine still ticking as it cools—and then here comes this busted up, seen better days sedan throwing light everywhere.
Her whole body goes rigid.
That’s my first tell.
The car doesn’t roll in like a normal human being with brakes and manners. It comes up the drive hot, then slams to a stop at a bad angle that blocks her little car in completely. Gravel spits out under the tires, pinging off my boot.
Second tell.
Anyone who parks like that either can’t drive or doesn’t give a shit who they inconvenience.