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.
I watch her face in the wash of headlights. All the color drains right out of it. Her fingers tighten on the door handle of her car, knuckles white, shoulders creeping up toward her ears.
Third tell.
Fear. Embarrassment. Maybe both.
“Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath watching their interaction carefully.
The engine on the sedan cuts off. For a heartbeat, the world holds still—just the quiet tick of my Harley, the rush of the creek somewhere in the dark, the soft sound of her breathing quick and shallow.
