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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  COPYRIGHT

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  Also by Teagan Kade:

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Note From Teagan:

  About Teagan Kade:

  Also by Teagan Kade:

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2018 by Teagan Kade

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Also by Teagan Kade:

  VICE

  RECKLESS

  PUCK BUDDIES

  FERAL

  WINTER MIRACLE

  ADAGIO

  BRUTE

  BLAZE

  HUSTLE

  LAWLESS

  LONG GAME

  DIRTY DEBT

  LOADED

  AMPED

  DRILLED

  DIRTY BRAWLER

  WRECKED

  SLAMMED

  STROKER

  STRIKER

  THROTTLE

  ROYALLY WRONG

  HITCHED

  CHASING STORM

  DEDICATION

  To Lucy. Never take me rafting again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LEXI

  The Mountain Cottage Café.

  Hello… again.

  The first time I came here three long years ago I wasn’t sure if I was pulling up to a café or a serial killer’s cabin. Country chic, it is not.

  I park up out front and step into the brisk mountain air, filling my lungs. You don’t get that in New York. Open your mouth in NYC and it’ll be filled by either exhaust fumes, a horrendously overpriced mocha, or some prick’s, well… prick. At least that’s been my experience.

  But here in Tamanass, Oregon, population three-thousand, it’s something else entirely.

  There’s a pulsing in my head that set up shop a few days and refuses to go away. I try to block it out with my usual morning mantra.

  You are Lexi Shane, I tell myself. Sweet ol’ Lexi.

  I hear the accent in my head, always trying to refine and get that mountain-high twang just right lest someone expose me for the fraud I am. I’ve toned it down of late, cut out the contractions, more Taylor Swift than Dolly Parton. So far, so good.

  Apart from the scenery and fresh air, I’m not really sure why you’d actively want to live here. Even the name of this town, Tamanass, sounds like something you scrape off the bottom of your shoe.

  The café’s cheery enough inside, the sort of place your grandmother would settle in at with a piled-high plate of flapjacks. I take a seat at the counter. Geena arrives to take my order, her bra a couple of sizes too small and eyes diamond bright as always. “The usual, honey-bun?”

  “Please,” I tell her, smiling and mentally double-checking my accent, “thank you. You taking Marie’s shift?”

  Geena rolls her eyes, leaning over the counter and her ample cleavage coming with her, doubly so now she’s pregnant—an affliction that almost seems contagious in this town. “Something about her dog being sick, plus I’ve got a double shift at Gracie’s tonight. It’s going to be busy,” she says, emphasis on the ‘b’. “Anyhow, one caffeine hit, coming up.” She winks, drifting away.

  “How’s it going?”

  A guy in a trucker cap two stools down is looking at me. He’s not a local I recognize, most likely a trucker on his way interstate.

  “Great, thanks,” I reply, tweaking the twang.

  “Passing through?”

  I bring my hands together in front of myself. “Ah, no. I work at the Ranger’s station—admin stuff, nothing special.”

  Mr. Trucker Cap picks up his coffee, blowing across the top of it. “Well, I’m sure they need all the help they can get down there, what with all these tourists and city folk looking for a patch of green for their big, yahoo developments in this fine state. Keep it au naturel, I say.”

  An older gentleman past Trucker Cap pipes in, addressing the stranger. I recognize him from Riley’s Thriftway. Gerry, I think. “They lost two Rangers down there last year, you know—one was embroiled up in this illegal poaching ring, the other retiring a year ago. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

  Bill, a local historian of sorts, nods from the far end of the bar. “Was a sordid business that, probably the biggest scandal to rock the town in quite a while. It’s hard to drum up qualified candidates given the shoestring budget the boys are dealing with, wouldn’t you say, Lexi?”

  “For sure,” I smile.

  “Not to mention the fact Tamanass is bang smack in the middle of nowhere, one of the last truly wild places around,” adds Gerry. “You’ll need a good set of boots if you’re looking for action around here.”

  My mocha arrives steaming, Geena giving me a knowing wink.

  “Is it dangerous around here?” asks Mr. Trucker Cap. “The trails? Been meaning to get out and do some hiking, you know.”

  Given that gut of his, I don’t think the poor guy’s seen a nature trail in his life.

  Bill shifts upright, nodding. “Can be. We’ve got cougars, bears out here, a whole menagerie of things that will happily tear you two if you don’t know what you’re doing. We’ve got a couple of local boys who know their way around, though. I’d be happy to hook you up, locals discount and all.”

  “Who knows,” laughs Trucker Cap. “Maybe I’ll settle down here and,” glancing to me, “find a sweet young thing to keep me warm at night, get involved in the community. I’m all about making a difference.”

  Gag.

  Bill and the equally flannel-attired Gerry nod fiercely in agreement. “Good on you. We need more of that kind of spirit around here. I’m sorry to say those classic values are lost of the youth of today.”

  It’s true. There’s a shortage of youngsters in Tamanass, most lured away by the bright lights of the city and the many sinful delights they offer—a Rumspringa of sorts.

  Fifteen minutes later half the town’s gathered around poor Truck
er Cap keen to fill him in on where to go and what to do. I recall the same treatment when I showed up. I assured them of my noble intentions here, let the honey-sweet persona I’d created start to seep in and take hold. I knew if I was to have any success here I needed the locals on board. In my line of work, you’ve got to insert yourself into the daily life of a place without drawing suspicion. To anyone else it would be a hard ask, but I’ve been doing this job so long it’s second nature.

  Morning routine complete, I say my goodbyes and head off. That is what people appreciate around here—everything nice and ordered and neat, dependable. I give it to them and in return they invite me into their circle. It’s win-win.

  Driving, I have to admit there is a certain, woodsy charm to the place. Giant pine trees line the road, the morning sun cutting through them in bright shafts and columns.

  As much as I want the scenery to take my mind off the task at hand, I can’t help the tangle of butterflies beating away in my stomach in anticipation of my next stop.

  I pull into a scenic lookout, the mighty Mt. Halbbitter looming in the distance.

  I take a handful of quarters from my pocket and deposit one into the high-powered telescope near the railing, settling myself against the cold, dewy metal and adjusting the view until the Den comes into view.

  I check my watch. It’s about the time the target, Dex Franklin, typically rolls in.

  He’s the reason I’m here, has no idea a brother he doesn’t even know exists is paying a princely sum to have me spy on him—not that it’s a difficult ask given those thick thighs and wide shoulders marking him as all man. And his package… I thought all the redwoods were cut down years ago.

  The Den’s a former hunting shack Dex and his buddies discovered while riding their bikes as kids, five miles into the forest at the base of the mountain. Town lore says it soon became the social meeting place of choice. Kids would play spin the bottle or Seven Minutes in Heaven, many a V-card cashed in there, including all three of Tamanass’s so-called ‘Devils’—best friends Dex, Dean, and Deric. Later, the three started a business leading tours in the area, Tourin’ with the Devils, leasing the property from the local council.

  I check the telescope again, but Dex is nowhere to be seen.

  I take out my cell and dial Ian.

  “What’s the latest?” he asks briskly, always so eager to get straight down to business, which suits me just fine. He’s either at the office or out on one of his extreme sport excursions, flirting with death.

  I keep my tone factual and dry, relaying Dex’s schedule and movements, both in his business affairs and personal life. Ian wants to know it all, “every detail,” he said, so I provide it with perfect recall, mentally listing it off as I go.

  Sensing my pause, Ian asks, “Is there something else?”

  I debate whether to tell him or not.

  Every detail, I remind myself.

  I draw in a breath before continuing. “Last Sunday Dex rescued a four-year-old boy who’d wandered away from a family picnic, He’d been swept away by a particularly heavy set of rapids owing to the spring thaw. It’s been all over the local paper. Everyone’s talking about it around town. He’s being called a—”

  “A what?” spits Ian.

  “Hero,” I finish.

  A moment of silence passes, only the sound of the breeze shuffling through the surrounding forest to be heard.

  “Am I supposed to be impressed, feel some kind of sympathy here? Tell me. I’m eager to know.”

  Crap. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry, but you said—”

  “I know what I damn well said,” he barks, “but it’s not relevant to our case, is it?”

  Apart from the fact I’m Ian’s employee, there’s nothing ‘our’ about this. Ian is the one trying to stop Dex finding out about his rightful inheritance before the deadline for pursuing a claim passes, and Ian is the one with the chip on his shoulder. I am simply following orders.

  “No,” I reply. I should have known Ian would be annoyed by the story. His animosity towards Dex runs deep.

  “Do you realize you’re using that fake accent of yours with me, right now?” Ian says.

  “I, I didn’t, no. I suppose it’s become second nature.”

  “You’re losing your bias.”

  I deny it, but deep down I recognize he might be right. I’ve become closer to Dex than I should have ever since I set eyes on him, no matter how hard I’ve fought to stay impartial.

  “Fix it,” he says, cutting the call short.

  I sigh, returning to the telescope.

  The longer this draws out, the worse these calls get, but hey, Ian’s paying the bills, bills that are getting seriously long. As head of his father’s company, West Group, he can sure as hell afford it, but I don’t know how long his patience will last. With both parents dead, it seems like all his resentment and rage is focused on his brother, and Dex is completely clueless.

  I breathe in.

  I hated this place when I first arrived, from the crap coffee to the general up-and-at-’em attitude of all present. To say it’s grown on me would be a stretch, but there are elements to it I’ve come to enjoy. In a way I’ll be sad to say goodbye when this all comes to an end, sad, perhaps, to say goodbye to one resident in particular.

  But the resident who emerges from the Den is not Dex Franklin. It’s a woman I don’t recognize. She’s most likely a tourist and, given the smile on her face, has no doubt been seeing all the sights Tamanass has to offer.

  Dex comes out behind her. Even though it’s brisk outside, he’s shirtless, his chiseled abs and corded, inky arms carved out by the light. His dirty blonde hair is wonderfully disheveled, his light brown and blonde beard trimmed short. I won’t lie. The whole mountain-man-meets-rebel aesthetic he’s got going on never fails to get those butterflies flapping inside me, but it’s the details that make him—the gauged ear, the tattooed sleeve, and below those well-worn 501s… You don’t need a telescope to see that.

  He looks entirely pleased with himself here, but his real home is the water. The Tamanass River that flows through the Halbbitter Wilderness Rec Area is a fickle mistress, but Dex has tamed her, regularly leading white-water rafting and kayaking tours. I’ve seen him in action and it is a thing of beauty, those big arms digging the oar in and shifting the raft around like it’s a toy. Come landing time, every woman on the tour wants one-on-one time, and why not? You don’t get guys like this in the city. Wild ones like Dex Franklin are a rare breed.

  It’s hard to keep the green-eyed monster at bay as I watch this woman—no, girl—dancing about below. She’s playing with her hair now doing her best to flirt up a storm, but I can tell Dex isn’t buying it. He’s trying to move her on. He hates clinginess. He’s had his fill, not that Betty Boop down there has the slightest idea. She’s still floating around with that post-coital glow they all seem to have, which does suggest to me he could be something special in the sack.

  ‘Could.’ Listen to yourself.

  He turns the poor girl around and slaps her on the ass, sending her off towards her vehicle, a shiny Honda Civic that’s as native to these parts as a plastic bag. She’s still pleading, begging almost, as he closes the door and taps the roof, shaking his head when she continues and looking to the sky for divine intervention. He smiles the whole time, gently easing her down and leaving just the smallest shard of hope. But she’s a tourist. She’ll be gone tomorrow morning with another dim-witted boob job ready to take her place.

  That same pang of jealousy surfaces as a physical pain somewhere around my second rib, digging in there and hunting about. I should be disgusted with myself for such thoughts. This kind of personal attachment to a target is the Worst Idea Known to Man. It’s a perilous path that only leads to one place.

  Ruin.

  Perhaps Ian is right. Maybe I am losing my edge. I’ve been at this so long I can’t maintain the appropriate professional distance. Does Ian sense it, my attraction? I doubt it.
His hatred of Dex blots out all else, fixates him completely.

  The assignment’s almost over, I tell myself, the claim deadline approaching. Three-and-a-half years of swatting away insects and around-the-clock surveillance has taken its toll… and racked me up a pretty fortune, thank you, Ian.

  I watch as the Civic drives off. My heart catches when I see Dex turn his attention to the spot I’m standing, almost as if he knows I’m watching, but there’s no way given the distance. I’m less than a speck up here, completely insignificant.

  And after this? I’ve got no idea. I could retire. I’ve saved enough, but then what? Sitting around idle all day isn’t what I do. Without purpose I’m just another idiot being swept along the current of life, no rhyme, no reason—lost. I can’t stand feeling vulnerable, in need… I’m stronger than that.

  Dex stands there with his hands on his hips and his chest out. I expect him to look satisfied with himself, smug maybe, but the expression that fills his face is anything but. Three-and-a-half years and, while I know his habits, his likes and dislikes, as to his thoughts? They remain as mysterious to me now as when I first arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEX

  I’m at the desk flicking through the morning email when Dean arrives.

  He stops at the door, sniffing at the air, a pointed finger rising. “Okay. Who have you been fucking in here, ass-face?”

  I lean back in the chair, my fingers locked behind my head. “Who said I’ve been fucking anyone?”

  Dean knows me too well. “You’re wearing the same clothes you were wearing yesterday, dipshit, not to mention the overwhelming stench of sexual intercourse in here.” He pops open the nearest window. “Anyone would think we’re a pack of mountain gigolos.”

  “Maybe we should be,” I offer, “switch it up a little. You see how these girls look at us. We’re gods, brother.”

  “You?” Dean laughs. “God of Bullshit, maybe.” He approaches the desk, picking up the mail and shuffling through it. “Besides, I don’t think Ava would be too pleased about my new shift in profession.”