Chapter 1
If you call one wolf, you invite the pack.~Bulgarian Proverb
Gwen
A three-day weekend of team building? My eyes roll.Kill me now.
“Na na, na naaaa na na, naaa naa na na.” Humming the theme to Mission Impossible, I trot down the sticky stairs, sneak out the door, and inhale the salty night air.
As I make my escape, one of my high heels catches on the uneven boardwalk. I tug the borrowed stiletto from the plank and hop to the nearest bench. Lit by a faux gas lantern, I remove the shoe designed by a serial misogynist.
Barefoot, I zip my Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt and scowl at the second-story bar. I told my coworkers I’d only be gone for a moment, but I lied. Crashing waves and sea breezes versus trivial pursuit and karaoke? No contest.
In the other direction, under the star-filled sky, I grin at my best friend, Henry. The pear-shaped genius doesn’t detect me as he stares over the ocean. Needing five minutes of non-competitiveness, I trot over the slat-covered dunes to join him.
At the hill’s apex, I gasp. A guy in a dark suit heads straight for my friend. Everyone knows only gangsters and assassins wear ties to the beach. Oh yeah, I almost forgot about wedding parties and the Secret Service.
In case there’s trouble, I fumble inside my purse for pepper spray. Gripping the canister, I jump off the wood and into thedeep sand. A few yards away, I call out, but cannot be heard over the wind and surf. My blood freezes when Mr. GQ fires a familiar-looking weapon.
Henry drops to his ass, and when the shooter swivels toward me, I belly-flop to the ground.
While I spit out dirt and wait for Saint Peter to list my many sins, a beast-sized collie races past my face. “Woof, woof.”
Two seconds later, I lift my chin. With the dog and the perp gone, I push up further and come to my knees.
“Are you okay, Miss?”
Holy shit, I must’ve died and gone to heaven because my mouth gapes mere inches away from a well-endowed man’s bathing trunks.
Craning my neck, I gasp at the chiseled abdominal muscles, broad chest, and thick lips. When I reach the furrowed dark brows, I lower my gaze to the leash in his hands.
“Are you the dog’s owner?”
“Yeah.” He reaches out his hand, and as I grasp it, shivers run down my spine straight to my clit.
Chest to chest, I step back and point toward the lighthouse. “C-call him back. The guy had a g-gun.”
As the well-toned stranger whistles for his dog, I race to Henry’s side and place my ear to his blue lips. “He’s not breathing.”
The silver fox drops beside me. After he checks for a pulse, he thumps my friend’s heart. “Didn’t you say you saw a gun?”
Oh shit.There’s no blood anywhere. “I don’t know. I, I m-must’ve been mistaken.”
“Not important. Can you perform CPR?” His take-charge attitude restarts my brain cells.
Swallowing hard, I nod and pinch Henry’s nostrils. “It’s been years. However, if you pump, I’ll breathe.”
“Excellent.” The abs-o-licious shirtless stranger works up a sweat as he performs compressions, and I push oxygen into my coworker’s lungs.
Soon, Lassie comes home, and his owner says something in German. Once again, the collie bounds across the sand and herds a young couple toward us.
The woman already has her cell phone out, so I shout in her direction, “Heart attack. Call 911.”
When she recites our location to the operator, I pray. “C’mon, Henry. You can do this.”
Beside me, the Good Samaritan’s forearms and ab muscles strain as he continues to pump.
The interested half-moon darts from under a cloud and reveals the jogger’s chiseled features. His gray hair appears incongruent with the dark stubble and thirty-ish face. God help me, it’s been so long since I’ve had sex, my clit twitches.
