Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The car rounds a bend and the trees finally break. A clearing opens up, shockingly green against the mud and the sky, and in the center of it is a house that looks like the love child of a lumber baron and an HGTV designer. Two stories, stone foundation, big windows trimmed in matte black, and a wraparound porch with Adirondack chairs like open arms. It’s not a “cabin” in any way the word means in my life; it’s a compound, a statement, the kind of place that wants you to know it could survive the end of the world and still offer espresso.
The car crunches to a halt on the gravel circle. The driver kills the engine and glances at me, his eyes bland. “We’ve arrived, Miss.”
“Thanks,” I say, voice fluttering. My hand trembles on the door handle. This is it. There’s no turning back, not unless I want to hike twenty miles by myself.
The air is sharper out here—cold and awake, like a slap to the face. My suitcase wheels rattle on the flagstone path as I drag it toward the front steps. Up close, the house is even bigger, more fortress than home. The door is painted a deep oxblood, the knocker shaped like a fox’s head. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the silence and trying to rehearse what I’ll say if someone answers. I ring the bell, once. Then twice. Then three times. But nobody comes. What in the world? I hope Sweet Lies told “Sam Smith” that I was coming because the hired car’s already left, and I’m alone here in front of this cabin.
That’s when I hear it: a steady, meaty thwack, coming from behind the house. It’s not a gunshot, not the wild shriek of an animal—just a hard, repetitive chunk of sound, deliberate and unhurried. I hesitate, then follow the flagstone path around the side, shoes slipping in the soft moss that creeps along the stones. The forest picks up again on this side, with huge maples and ancient-looking pines looming over the clearing. The smell of fresh-cut wood hits me, bright and raw.
I stop short.
There, at the edge of a stack of split logs, is a man wielding an axe. Not like a horror-movie psycho, but like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s huge—not just tall, but broad in a way that makes the flannel shirt strain over his shoulders. His hair is black and damp, a little too long, falling across his forehead with each swing. Sweat slicks the side of his neck and darkens the cotton at his shoulders. I watch his back flex, the way the jeans cling to his thighs. It’s obscene, the kind of body you see on gym posters and think, Yeah, right.
He doesn’t see me at first. The rhythm of his work is hypnotic: lift, swing, split, stack, repeat. The logs yield in perfect halves, bouncing on the block before tumbling to the ground. I catch myself staring, jaw slack, a voyeur in my own life. I remember what Camille said about the “client” being “particular,” but nothing about this man fits the picture in my mind. He looks like he could wring water from stone, or snap me in half, or just as easily cradle a kitten. I’m frozen, duffel still in hand, until the man finally straightens and turns.
His eyes are blue. Not polite, office-building blue, but cold and wild, glacier blue. They land on me and narrow, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or just another weird forest hallucination. He wipes his hand on his jeans, then picks up a water bottle and downs half of it in one go.
“You must be Kat,” he says. His voice is low, rough around the edges but not unkind. More like a warning bark from a dog that hasn’t yet decided to bite.
I manage a nod. “Um, yeah. Katherine. Or Kat. Whichever is fine.”
A dark eyebrow goes up, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he sets the axe aside, sticking it into a stump with an ease that suggests he’s done this every day of his life. He steps toward me, and I realize how much space he takes up—not just physically, but gravitationally. It’s like being caught in a tractor beam. I tell myself to chill, that this is just another gig, that I am not going to get all gooey over a guy who could toss me into the next county.
He stops a few feet away, and gives me a once-over that feels less like checking me out and more like cataloguing data for future use. I try not to blush. I fail.
“Welcome to Green Hollow,” he says. “I’m Talon McKnight.”
My brain short-circuits. Talon. As in, the thriller author who’s been on the bestseller list since the year I hit puberty? This man is Talon McKnight?