Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
He stomps through the torrent of the river, water getting out of his way like it’s afraid.
“Gonna come down here one day and find a goddamn dead body. Why can’t nobody read the damn signs?” His voice rumbles down inside me as my feet meet the ground on the river bank, water squishing between my toes.
“Look at me.” He orders as I let my eyes track upward, taking in the drenched flannel, the dusting of dark hair on the plains and valleys of skin, before settling not on his eyes, but on his lips.
God made those lips. But there’s nothing holy about them. They were made for sin.
His hands are everywhere, rough thumbs run down my cheeks, then he’s covering my neck on both sides like a brace—checking for injuries, brushing wet hair from my face, with an intoxicating mixture of annoyance and concern knitting together the right angles of his features.
Hanging above the river was cold, but even with the heat he’s circulating around me, my muscles start to twist and spasm, teeth involuntarily chattering.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his voice perfectly matching his rugged features. "You're fucking freezing."
He wraps me against him, my ear pressing to his chest.
Thump, thump, thump. The beat is solid but accelerating, and I can feel every hard line of his body. My pulse ticks up as I quiver, my backpack tugging at my shoulders while I squeeze my thighs together and finally let the obvious dawn on me.
This is Jack Boone.
I found what I was looking for.
Who I was looking for, I mean.
Or do I? Maybe it’s both.
"What were you thinking?" he growls. "Taking a goddamn rope swing alone? Over spring runoff? Do you have a fucking death wish?"
I stare upward, trying to decipher the twist in his features.
Anger? Meh, maybe. Curiosity? Could be.
Veiled horror? Also plausible, knowing this is not my finest hour when it comes to pageant readiness. Drenched hair, smudged mascara, blue lips… and then—like that damn light bulb pops on again, I remember why I came and blurt out an answer through chattering teeth.
"M-mm-my dad... He s-s-ssaid you... You'd helpppp me."
"Your dad?"
"I’m Delaney," I whisper, my lips numb, teeth clicking slowly. "Delaney Hart."
His face lowers, hovering over the top of my head as fingers come to roost under my jaw, holding, squeezing enough for me to breathe but have to think about it. He inhales, long, slow and deep, like a hunter on a scent trail.
The base of his thumb pushes against my pulse point as his lips rest on the part of my hair for a split second—so briefly I might have imagined it—before he growls, "Delaney Hart, you don’t come near this river again unless I’m with you. You hear me?"
He shifts upward, looming, breaking the sun’s rays, but something shifts in his expression—recognition, shock, and something darker, more possessive. His entire body tenses, the hand at my throat a signal of some kind of control as everything in the forest stills, even the river.
For a second, it’s like the whole world is waiting for permission from Jack Boone to breathe.
Then, the air between us changes, charging with a buzzing energy. Butterflies flap their wings in my belly, my organs doing little somersaults, rearranging themselves knowing everything is changing right now.
The way his gaze travels over me—no longer just assessing for injuries, but seeing me. All of me.
The hand on my throat loosens, inching upward to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my lower lip in a touch so intimate it steals my breath.
"You’re on my land now. You’ll do as I say," he tells me, voice dropped to a dangerous growl.
I blink, but I don't argue.
I can't.
Because something inside me wants to do what he says.
Whatever this sexy Bigfoot-sized man is selling, I’m buying.
On credit.
And I don’t even bother asking about the interest rate.
Two
Jack
This fucking mountain is my safe place. The morning started quiet after a night filled with jerking flashbacks and waking up fighting with my sheets in a cold sweat.
After the second dream, I stayed awake, so by 6 am, when my brothers pile into their trucks after our weekly Monday breakfast at my cabin my mood was less than stellar.
I host, because I have very specific breakfast needs and none of them can cook worth a shit. And none of the diners in town carry elk steak and my famous flap Jacks made with buttermilk and protein enriched oat flour.
It was the usual Monday, catching up, breaking each other’s balls. Brother stuff. Cade with his wilderness bullshit, Beau with grease under his fingernails, and Colt, quiet as always, his Sheriff uniform perfectly pressed.
"You're gonna rot up here," Beau had growled, slamming his coffee mug down. At forty-four, he thinks being the oldest means he can parent the rest of us. "Man wasn't meant to live without pussy, Jack."