Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Lincoln and Isabel in Taking What’s Mine
Asher and Charlotte in Defending What’s Mine
Keep reading for a sneak peek of Melanie’s story >>>
Bonus Epilogue
Melanie
It’s supposed to be an easy drive.
Supposed to be being the operative phrase.
Charlotte and Asher invited me up to their new cabin in the mountains to help with the dog rescue this weekend—snap some photos for social, get these pups some exposure, and maybe escape the nonstop DM storm that’s been my life lately. Honestly, I need this break. Fresh air. Fuzzy faces. My best friend. It sounded perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Until my tire decided it had other plans.
I’d been jamming out to a feel-good playlist, the pine trees blurring past my window, when the unmistakable whump, whump, whump hit like a hammer. The car wobbled. My heart stopped. I managed to pull over onto a skinny patch of gravel shoulder, the mountain road dipping sharply on one side, winding into green oblivion on the other.
I turn off the engine, sigh dramatically, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. “Seriously? You had one job.”
My phone shows one lonely bar of service. Just enough to text Charlotte and hope for the best.
Me: Hey, got a flat. Of course. I’ll be late.
Charlotte: Oh no! You okay? Want me and Asher to come get you?
Me: I’m okay. Trying to figure out the tire situation. Will update.
Right. The tire situation.
I open the trunk and stare blankly at the sad excuse for an emergency kit, realizing two critical things:
I’ve never changed a tire in my life.
I don’t have a spare.
Cue another dramatic sigh. I lean against the side of the car, arms folded, debating whether to post a tragic “stranded” selfie when the rumble of a big engine draws my attention.
A truck—a gorgeous black pickup with a slight lift—slows as it approaches, window rolling down. A man leans out, framed by golden afternoon light. He’s tall, broad shoulders filling the cab, aviators perched on a ruggedly handsome face, dark stubble tracing his jawline.
“Well, you look like you could use a hand,” he says, voice deep and smooth as honey over gravel.
I blink. Why does this stuff never happen when I’m dressed to impress? I’m in yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and a messy top knot that would make even a rescue pup cringe.
“Uh—yeah. Flat tire. No spare. Rookie mistake,” I say with a sheepish grin.
He pulls the truck fully onto the shoulder behind me and steps out. And wow, wow—he’s even taller in person. Six-three, maybe six-four. Fitted jeans, worn boots, and a plain gray tee that hugs every inch of a broad chest and lean waist.
I catch myself staring and snap into influencer mode. Friendly smile. Polite banter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a miracle in that truck, would you?”
He chuckles, the sound rich and easy. “I’ve got tools, but no spare’s gonna be tricky.” His gaze flicks to my car, then back to me. “You headed up the mountain?”
“Yeah. My best friend and her husband’s place. They run a dog rescue.”
His brow lifts. “Don’t suppose your friend’s husband is Asher Hawke?”
I blink again, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah. Why?”
The man grins, crossing his arms. “Because Asher’s my boss.”
My jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Name’s Lucas.” He extends a hand, big and calloused but warm as I shake it. “I run with Dean’s security team. Just transferred to the Denver branch.”
Of course he’s in security. That explains the whole I can probably lift this car if I wanted to vibe he’s giving off.
“Well, Lucas, it’s very nice to meet you,” I say, giving my best friendly smile. “I’m Melanie. The friend who was not prepared for mountain driving, clearly.”
He laughs again. “We’ve all been there. Tell you what—no point in sitting here waiting on the roadside. Hop in. I’ll take you the rest of the way. I know where the cabin is.”
I hesitate for half a second—then remind myself Dean’s team, Asher’s his boss, this man is vetted ten ways to Sunday. And honestly? The thought of sitting in my cold car for an hour waiting on a tow is way less appealing than being driven through the mountains by a handsome security specialist.
“You’re sure? I don’t want to mess up your afternoon.”
He tips his head toward the passenger door. “Wouldn’t offer if I minded.”
Okay, then. “Let me grab my stuff.”
A few minutes later I’m settled into the passenger seat of his truck, duffel and camera bag at my feet, seatbelt clicking into place.
“Nice rig,” I say, eyeing the pristine dashboard and faint smell of leather and pine.
He throws me a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell anyone—I spent more time picking out this truck than I did my last apartment.”
I laugh, tension sliding away. The engine hums to life, and we ease back onto the road, the windows cracked to let in crisp mountain air.
“So you do security,” I say, curiosity getting the better of me.