In the SUV, silence stretches. I glance at him in the rearview. "So, what's your story, Mack Hawthorne? Why bodyguard a diva like me?"
"Paycheck," he grunts.
"Bull. You scream ex-military. What, tired of swimming with sharks?"
He meets my eyes in the mirror. "Something like that. Short gig. Then I'm out."
"Out where? Hot date with danger?"
His grip tightens on the wheel. "Family business."
Mysterious. Intriguing. I lean forward. "Family? I’m guessing brothers.” I’ve always had this ability to read people. “Brothers, huh? Bet you're the middle child—always proving something."
"Third of seven." A pause. "Nash, Crewe, me, Sin, Banks, Jace, Colt."
"Seven? Wow. Testosterone overload." I pause. “Your poor mother.”
He chuckles softly and the sound has me clenching my thighs together. It’s low and rumbles. Sexy. "You could say that." He chuckles to himself. “She used to say raising us was like herding feral cats with ADHD and access to power tools. But there was this one summer—God, I must’ve been about ten—when she finally snapped and decided we needed ‘character-building discipline.’”
I prop my chin on my hand, already grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Mack drives with one hand on the wheel, a gorgeous smile spreading across his face. “So Mom signs us all up for this church youth group wilderness retreat. You know the kind—canoeing, campfire songs, ‘finding ourselves in nature’ bullshit. She figured fresh air and Bible verses would civilize us. Nash was thirteen and already six-foot, acting like he was too cool for everything. Crewe was twelve and obsessed with explosives—mostly theoretical at that point, thank Christ. Sin was nineand basically feral. Banks was eight and would eat anything that didn’t run away fast enough. Jace was seven and had this thing where he’d narrate his entire life like he was in a nature documentary. And Colt—little Colt was five and still believed he could fly if he flapped hard enough.”
I’m already laughing. “This sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Disaster doesn’t even cover it.” He shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Day two, we’re on this lake doing the mandatory canoe lesson. Counselors pair us up—big mistake. They put Nash and Crewe in one boat because they’re the oldest. Sin and me in another. Banks and Jace share another. Colt gets to ride with the counselor because he’s tiny and adorable and they think he’s harmless.”
Mack pauses for effect, smirking. “Spoiler: he isnotharmless.”
“Uh-oh.”
“So we’re paddling out, right? Nash and Banks immediately start racing each other like it’s the goddamn Olympics. They’re yelling trash talk, splashing water everywhere. Sin decides this is the perfect moment to test his ‘silent but deadly’ fart technique—he’s convinced he can weaponize it. I’m trying not to capsize while simultaneously begging him to stop. Meanwhile, little Colt is sitting in the front of the counselor’s canoe, wearing this bright orange life jacket three sizes too big, flapping his arms like he’s a baby bird. The counselor’s all, ‘That’s great, buddy, just keep your hands inside the boat.’”
I can picture it already—seven Hawthorne boys turning a peaceful lake into a war zone.
“Then Jace, in his best David Attenborough voice, starts narrating: ‘Here we observe the rare North American brothersin their natural habitat, competing for dominance through superior paddling and flatulence.’ Banks, who’s been quiet this whole time, suddenly stands up in the canoe—full stand-up, like he’s posing for a photo—and yells, ‘I FOUND A FROG!’ Except he’s holding it by one leg, and the frog is pissed. It leaps straight at Jace in their boat. He screams like he’s being murdered. Their canoe tips. Splash. Both of them in the water.”
I’m giggling now. “Oh my God.”
“But it gets better,” Mack says, grin widening. “The splash startles Nash and Crewe. They both turn at the same time. Their canoe tips. Crewe goes flying backward into the lake. Nash manages to stay in, but now he’s standing up screaming, ‘CREWE, YOU IDIOT!’ Sin, still in our canoe, sees his chance. He leans over, grabs the rope from the front of Nash’s boat, and starts towing it backward like he’s reeling in a marlin. We tip and go flying. Nash is losing his mind. I’m laughing so hard I can barely swim. And then—then—Colt decides this is his moment to shine.”
Mack leans forward, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “He stands up in the counselor’s canoe—orange life jacket flapping like wings—spreads his arms wide, and yells at the top of his lungs, ‘I CAN FLY!’ Before anyone can stop him, he jumps. Full Superman pose. Tiny five-year-old cannonball straight into the lake. The counselor panics, lunges after him, and tips their canoe too. Now we’ve got four canoes, seven boys, one counselor, and one very confused frog all in the water.”
I’m wheezing. Tears are streaming down my face. “What happened to the retreat?”
“Canceled. Immediately. They hauled us all back to shore dripping wet and covered in pond scum. Mom had to come pickus up early. She shows up in her minivan, takes one look at us—Nash with a bloody nose from the collision, Crewe missing one shoe, Me soaking wet, Sin still giggling like a maniac, Jace chewing on a cattail he found, Banks solemnly explaining to the counselors that ‘the dominant male was defeated by inferior buoyancy,’ Colt wrapped in a towel looking proud as hell—and she just… sighs. Deep, soul-weary sigh. Then she says, ‘I should’ve left you animals in the woods.’”
Mack laughs, low and warm, shaking his head. “She still brings it up every Thanksgiving. Calls it ‘The Day the Lake Fought Back.’”
I wipe my eyes, still giggling. “Your poor, poor mother. Seven sons. I’m surprised she didn’t ship you all to military school.”
He parks the SUV in the lot. He turns the ignition off and faces me. “She threatened to. Multiple times.” He reaches over, brushes a stray tear off my cheek with his thumb. The touch is casual, but it sends a shiver straight through me. “But she never did. Said we were too much trouble for anyone else to handle.”
I look at him—really look. The easy smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he talks about his brothers, the faint scar above his eyebrow that I’m dying to ask about but haven’t yet. He’s chaos wrapped in charm, just like the rest of them, probably.
And yet here he is telling me stories like we’ve got all the time in the world.
“Remind me never to go canoeing with any of you,” I say, voice still thick with laughter.
