Chapter 1
Hunter
“I’m not sure that stopping to fuck while running from–what was it again?” Ford, my brother, pauses to ask. I can hear him panting in the background. He’s working out, doing his endless crunches because the man doesn’t have an appreciation for carbs the way I do.
“Ninja assassins,” I answer as I wait for my aging coffee pot to brew. I stifle a yawn. It’s three in the morning.
When I realized how bad his insomnia was from the combat missions, I suddenly developed plot problems for my books in the wee hours. He doesn’t know that I set an alarm clock in the middle of the night so I can call. If it keeps the nightmares and flashbacks at bay for him, I’ll do it.
“Yeah, I just don’t see the hero stopping to fuck her if they’re on the run from ninja assassins,” he finishes completely serious. He knows I’m a best-selling author of dozens of romantic suspense books.
Most readers don’t know that Eva Nightshade, who writes scorching hot romance books, also happens to be a man.
“Not even if she’s super hot and looks kind of like that cute little assistant of yours? What’s her name again?” I shouldn’t needle the bastard.
He growls and lets loose with a string of profanities. “Joy is not your damn concern. You keep your eyes to your fuckin’ self.”
I chuckle, and he swears again. I’ve been after him for months now to talk to his assistant and tell her how he feels. But Mr. Stoic Military Man can’t admit he wants her.
“I thought you needed my help with a question about his Glock,” he grits out, and I hear him adjusting his landline. He won’t even get a cellphone because he hates people that much. “Otherwise, I have things to do.”
“Are you coming to help me board up Mom’s place?” I ask, taking the hint that he needs the subject changed.
“The snowstorm isn’t supposed to hit for a few more days,” he answers. He doesn’t follow the news, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t know about the changed forecast.
“It’s coming faster than they think. Maybe you should see if you can get Joy to visit today. Might do you good to spend Christmas with someone else,” I tell him because I know there’s no way he’s coming to celebrate Christmas with the rest of the family.
Ford isn’t the same guy who left for the military years ago. He was always quiet and withdrawn, but the things he saw changed him. I miss him, the person he used to be.
“I’m going to get Mom squared away,” I say. I sent her a text message last night to let her know I’d be there around midday to help her close her grocery store. I don’t need help from Ford, but I let the invitation hang, unspoken.
“Sounds good. Now about that Glock…” he says before launching into a long discussion about the hero’s weapon of choice. He doesn’t know I already know what he’s telling me. I have countless research and reference books related to military history, weapons, tactical gear, fight moves, and more.
Still, I listen for a solid hour like this is new information. Occasionally, I pause to ask a question but mainly, I listen. Because getting Ford to talk about anything is nearly impossible. By the time we end the call, I have a page of new notes and ideas for how to write the fight scene.
“They’re still going to have sex first,” I tell Ford.
He chuckles, a rusty noise that sounds unfamiliar. “You need to stop writing about other people getting laid and meet a woman of your own.”
“Can’t. Too many deadlines,” I answer rather than tell him I’ve tried online dating a couple of times. Turns out, I’m much better behind a screen than I am in person. No surprise there.
“I’ve got a call waiting. Gotta go,” Ford says. Besides me, there’s no one he talks to other than his assistant. Maybe one of these days, he’ll grab his balls and go for it with her. Fuck, I hope so. He deserves a little bit of happiness.
I end the call just as the first ribbons of daylight are starting to show outside. I finish my third cup of coffee and shuffle into the sunroom where my boys are. These mangy guys are my people. Unlike humans, they don’t judge me for being awkward as hell sometimes.
“Who needs a girl? I got y’all,” I mutter to myself as Leonardo, my German shepherd, nudges my hand with what I imagine to be affection.
I give him some cuddles before reaching for Donatello’s wheelchair. He’s a red Dachshund with a braying bark and endless enthusiasm for exploring.
I didn’t know they made mobility aids for dogs until I met Donny. His previous family didn’t want him when the disc disease caused his paralysis and incontinence. They surrendered him like he was disposable. Just thinking about it has me fuming again.
I get him strapped into the chair, pausing to change his diaper and make sure the harness isn’t chafing him. When I open the door, Raphael, my black Labrador retriever, is the first outside. He scampers after a squirrel with Michelangelo, my beagle, close on his heels.
I watch the four of them roughhouse together for a few minutes before I get them breakfast and check my blood sugar using the app on my phone. I have a continuous monitor on my stomach that’s constantly reading my blood sugar. It’s a lot easier than pricking my fingers multiple times a day.
When I see my sugar level in range, I grab breakfast and pack a bag of snacks. I’ll be on my feet, which can make it hard to guess how much insulin I’ll need. Type 1 diabetes is a bitch to manage on the best of days.
My phone dings with a text from Emma May as I’m heading out the door. It’s a reminder to bring snacks with me. She’s my mom. Well, the closest thing I’ve ever had to one. She took Ford in when he was a teenager then she started searching for me. Eventually, she found Nate, too. She jokes that she loved Ford so much that she wanted the complete set of triplet brothers.
