Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Mack pauses for effect, smirking. “Spoiler: he is not harmless.”
“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 brothers in 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 pick us 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.
He leans in closer, voice dropping to that low rumble again. “Too late, sweetheart. You’re already in the boat.”
My heart does a stupid little flip.
I don’t push him away.
We head into the venue, a glittering hall decked in lace and lights. Security's amped; Mack scans every corner as we enter. Rehearsal's a blur—strutting in lingerie samples, poses, lights. But my mind's on the threat. Every shadow feels like eyes. I falter once, heel catching, but catch myself.
While I’m backstage changing, I overhear whispers: "Heard about the flower bomb? Indigo's got a stalker."
My stomach drops. Word's out. This will definitely hurt my brand. I slump my shoulders, letting the fear get to me. Why can’t they leave me alone?