Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
But when a quirky, sunshine-spiked runaway crashes into the Hawthorne brothers’ search for their missing father, Colt’s forced to do the one thing he swore he wouldn’t:
Let someone in.
She’s trouble in cute boots—smart mouth, big heart, and a talent for walking straight into danger like it’s a hobby. Colt is supposed to keep her safe, ask zero questions, and hand her off once the threat is neutralized.
Easy.
Except the bad guys don’t care about boundaries. The brothers are closing in on the truth about their father… and someone is desperate to make sure they never find it. Now Colt’s racing a ticking clock, a growing body count, and the inconvenient fact that his “temporary houseguest” is starting to feel a whole lot like his.
One cabin. One bed. One mountain man who’s done pretending he doesn’t want forever.
Because if anyone comes for her… they’ll learn why the Hawthornes have a rule:
You don’t hunt one brother. You get all of them
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Colt
I grip the steering wheel of my battered truck like it owes me money, the engine rumbling beneath me as I navigate the winding road into Woodbridge Falls. Fog hangs thick in the air this morning, the kind that swallows everything and spits out secrets only when it damn well feels like it. Upstate New York in late fall is exactly my kind of place: remote, unforgiving, and zero people asking why a guy like me needs three burner phones and enough gear to survive a small apocalypse.
The trail on Dad has gone stone cold these past few months. Nash and Sin pulled some leads that nearly got them killed, Banks is buried in his cyber puzzles in Halo City, Jace is playing beach bum bodyguard down south, and Mack is off charming supermodels or whatever the hell he does. Me? I’m the one stuck chasing ghosts in the mountains because somebody has to. Vanguard Helix is the shadow behind all this. I can feel it in my bones. That corporation doesn’t just lose people. It erases them. And my father knew too much.
One lead. That’s all I’ve got. A blurry photo of a man matching Dad’s description spotted near an old ranger station two weeks back. No confirmation, but it’s better than staring at blank screens with my brothers. I park the truck at the edge of town, grab my pack, and head out on foot. The air bites cold, pine sharp and clean. My boots crunch over fallen leaves as I push deeper into the woods.
“Stay hidden, old man,” I mutter under my breath. “We’re coming for you.”
I crest a ridge, scanning the fog for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just trees and silence. Perfect. Until it’s not.
A flash of color cuts through the gray. Yellow. What the fuck is that? I freeze, hand instinctively going to the knife at my belt. Then I hear it: the snap of a branch, followed by a string of creative curses that would make a drill sergeant blush.
“Fucking fog, shitty boots, stupid—”
A woman bursts out of the underbrush like a startled deer, camera swinging from her neck, tripping straight into my chest. I catch her on reflex, my arms locking around a bundle of sunshine-yellow jacket, wild curls, and way too much energy for this early. She smells like vanilla and trouble.
“Whoa there, mountain man,” she says, tilting her head back to look up at me. Her eyes are big, green, and sparkling with zero fear. Sunshine spiked with mischief. “Didn’t see you there. Or the tree root. Or my own two feet, apparently.”
I set her back on solid ground faster than I should, scowling down at her. She barely reaches my shoulder, but she stands there like she owns the ridge. “What the hell are you doing out here? This isn’t a damn tourist trail.”
She brushes dirt off her ridiculous boots and lifts her camera like it explains everything. “Photography. Capturing the moody fog rolling in over the falls. It’s magical. You should try smiling. Might improve the scenery.” Her grin is pure sunshine, wide and unfiltered.
I don’t smile. Grumpy is my default, especially when some quirky woman is about to blow my only lead. “Magical. Right. Take your pictures somewhere else, sunshine. This area’s off-limits.”
“Off-limits according to who? The grumpy mountain man patrol?” She tilts her head, studying me like I’m the one intruding. “I have a permit. Sort of. And my name is not sunshine. It’s Oakley. And you look like you eat nails for breakfast and growl at puppies. Rough night chasing Bigfoot?”
I cross my arms, ignoring how her banter tugs at something I’ve got no business feeling. Witty. Great. Just what I need. “Colt Hawthorne. And if you’re smart, you’ll turn around and head back to whatever city you escaped from before you trip into real trouble.”