Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Moments later, three strangers come crashing into my life.
They’re big. Bearded. Furious I almost burned the place down.
One of them hauls me outside like I weigh nothing.
Another wraps me in his coat, all heat and muscle.
And the third looks at me like I’m already his responsibility.
That’s how I end up in their mountain lodge—
and how I met Boone, Chance, and Dillon.
A former UFC champion.
A lethal ex-Marine.
A brilliant hacker with a sinful smile.
They gave me a job.
A place to hide.
And a kind of attention that makes my knees weak.
They don’t love like normal men.
They share.
And when they decide to claim me, there’s no turning back.
But the danger I ran from didn’t stop hunting me.
And when it comes to the mountain…
These men will do whatever it takes to protect what’s theirs.
Even if it costs them everything.
This is a standalone contemporary reverse harem romance with a curvy heroine, three fiercely protective men, high-stakes danger, and a guaranteed HEA. Expect possessive heroes, why-choose romance, and plenty of steamy scenes featuring MFMM dynamics
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ROXIE
In the two years I’ve been slinging drinks at one of Manhattan’s top clubs, I’ve learned that bad men don’t always look it. Some wear thousand-dollar suits and smile like saints, while committing some of the worst sins imaginable.
But college doesn’t pay for itself, and the tips make the forced smiles worth it.
Vincent Caruso is at one of my tables again tonight, all pearly white teeth and smooth, sophisticated menace. Silver-white streaks shoot through his black hair and deep lines are etched into formerly handsome features. His tailored cream-colored suit alone probably costs as much as my rent for an entire year.
Rumor has it he is the kind of guy who can order a hit and a martini in the same breath. He leans across the table, speaking intently to some other older guy opposite him.
Music from the main dance floor filters up to the balcony where they are seated, with strobe lights flashing overhead and washing their features in pulses of red, purple, and green. I’m supposed to be listening as I approach, but it’s hard not to when the music isn’t deafening up here and someone drops the words “take out Reed” between a toast and a refill.
I freeze mid-step, the champagne bottle suddenly like a flashing beacon of oh-fuck between my fingers. My hand is still steady, but my brain isn’t.
My thoughts start racing, my fingers going numb when it dawns on me what I’ve walked into. Bob Reed is the district attorney. The guy has been on every news channel this week talking about cleaning up the Caruso syndicate.
I don’t breathe or blink. I just try to fade into the velvet wallpaper and pretend I hadn’t heard a damn thing, but then the ice bucket gets in my way.
There’s a neat little clink when I smack the bottle into it as I back away, then comes the long, dramatic crash of my paycheck and my hopes of getting away unnoticed hitting the floor.
Melted ice sloshes out, the silver bucket lying in the middle of the darkening carpet like a victim at a crime scene. Glass shatters, flying in every direction when the replacement bottle bursts on impact.
Caruso’s head turns at the commotion, the boss’s dark eyes immediately finding mine. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara.
Shit.
I don’t see him give any signal, but the bodyguards flanking the table move fast, like shadows bound in muscle as they start toward me. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, I’m already running, ducking behind the VIP curtain and abandoning my tray while my heart does its best impression of a pounding drumline.
I know the layout of this club as well as my own apartment. I tear down the hall, race past the kitchen, and burst through the door that sticks unless you hit it with your hip.
The shouts I leave in my wake grow louder as I sprint past the back bar and into the service corridor. Someone yells my name, but I recognize the voice and it doesn’t belong to anyone dangerous.
Trinity, my coworker, is probably wondering why I’m racing through the club like I have hellhounds on my tail.
I tuck my chin and keep running. Tomorrow, I will explain. Maybe. Right now, all I need is to get out of here. Out of sight, out of mind. Isn’t that how it works?
There’s no way they’ll remember the waitress’s face, I tell myself. No way they care enough to come after me if I can just get out.
Finally, I burst out into the alley, the city noise swallowing me whole. The cool night air hits like a slap after the heat in the club, the scent of diesel, rain, and freedom in every ragged breath I drag in.
My pulse is still hammering when I hit the street. My whole body shakes, but I keep running.
I’ll have to get a new job just to be on the safe side. Maybe even a new name. But I’m alive.
Unless they come after me.
Don’t be dramatic. They’re not going to come—
A gunshot cracks through the night, and my heart drops straight past my stomach all the way to Middle earth. Concrete crumbles. Glass rains down from somewhere.
My brain doesn’t even fully register the sounds for what they are until instinct does. Holy fuck. They’re chasing me.
One of my heels disappears when I bolt around the corner, sacrificed to the gods of bad timing and uneven pavement. I kick the other away instead of hobbling. Survival will be enough. I don’t need to accessorize on the other side.
“Stop!” one of them shouts, the word freezing my spine worse than the wind.
God, he’s closer than I thought. Too close.
Bullets hiss past, a hot swipe of air and panic. A car alarm starts screaming somewhere as I duck into an alley that smells like piss, fried oil, and regret, my heart still trying to break out of my ribs.