Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Not on Halloween.
Not on any day.
Not ever.
And God help anything that tries to take her joy again.
Chapter 7
Aspen
Live.
We’re live.
The red dot on my phone screen pulses like a threat as comments flood the bottom of the livestream.
@hauntqueen87: OMG ARE THEY TOGETHER??
@lumberjacked69: that dude is gonna eat her alive
@marrymeaspen: say the word and I’ll bury his body
I should be used to chaos—hell, I invite it—but something about this disaster is hitting different tonight.
Maybe it’s the fact that Thorne Maddox is standing beside me, all hard muscle and lethal boredom, glaring into the camera like it murdered his family.
Maybe it’s the fact that I showed up in black lace and thigh-high boots.
Or maybe it’s what he wrote across his bare chest in thick black marker:
EMOTIONALLY UNAVAILABLE.
He did it just to piss me off. And it worked spectacularly.
“I still can’t believe you refused to dress up,” I say sweetly to the four hundred people currently watching us argue from inside Devil’s Peak Lodge. “This is a costume contest, Thorne. The ‘contest’ part implies effort.”
He folds his tattooed arms across his chest—over those hateful words. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For the first time since indoor plumbing was invented,” I announce cheerfully, waving my arm with fake excitement. “Thorne Maddox has entered society!”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Just mutters, “Regretting it already.”
The comments go insane.
@spookyhoexoxo: SIR WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM
@aspensisfire: KILL HIM WITH EYELINER
@glitterdemon: why is this so hot wtf
I bite back a grin. “Okay, folks! Welcome to the Devil’s Peak Virtual Costume Contest! Since our roads are closed from the storm and our generator hates us, your favorite emotionally constipated lumberjack has reluctantly agreed to judge costumes alongside me.”
“I never agreed to that,” Thorne says.
“Oh? Sorry.” I fake sympathy. “He’ll be assisting me today as my co-host.”
He steps in close. Too close. The kind of close that makes my pulse misbehave.
“Say that again,” he murmurs, low enough only I can hear.
Danger flickers through me. “My co—”
He leans down, mouth near my ear, voice a dark scrape. “Finish that sentence and I’ll remind you what happened last time you got brave with me.”
Oh. Oh no. He did not just go there.
Heat slams through me like a match striking gasoline. I keep smiling at the camera. “—coerced volunteer,” I finish sweetly. “Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”
He stares at me like he’s undressing me with hate. Or hunger. With Thorne it’s hard to tell the difference.
“Alright! First contestant!” I clap and step slightly away from him, because I swear if I don’t put space between us I will crawl up his body in front of the entire internet like a feral cat.
We swipe to the first entry photo—a couple dressed as Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein.
“Aww!” I beam. “See? They understood the assignment. Effort. Creativity. Romance—”
“Minus points for matching costumes,” Thorne grunts. “Codependency.”
I whip toward him. “It’s literally ‘couples contest.’ That’s the point.”
He shrugs. “Still codependent.”
“Do you even believe in romance?”
He turns his head slowly and meets my eyes with quiet brutality. “No.”
Jesus.
For a split second, something raw moves inside me. Not pity. Not fear. Something fiercer. Something that wants to argue that out of him with my mouth.
Focus, Aspen. Do not climb him. He is not a tree.
Yet.
“Moving on!” I swipe. A pair dressed as pirate and siren pop up. Very sexy. Lots of abs.
Thorne makes a sound of disgust. “Basic.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t like sexy costumes?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what do you like?”
His gaze drops to my thighs. Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.
I feel it. Everywhere.
“Effort,” he rasps.
Oh, we’re not talking about costumes anymore. Not even a little.
I clear my throat, trying not to combust. We keep going. Contestants flash by. Banter flies like knives. And the longer we do this, the thicker the tension gets.
By entry fifteen, the livestream comments have shifted from amused to fully unhinged.
@feralforflannel: just kiss already
@witchywoman: HE WANTS TO BREAK HER SPINE (romantically)
@dyinginsatin: swallow him whole queen
I try to keep it light. I try to stay professional. But then he leans back against the wall with that bored, dangerous posture, arms over his chest, muscles flexed—and I lose the thread of what I was even saying.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, gesturing weakly at his marker-covered torso. “I just can’t believe you are seriously shirtless again.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Overheating.”
My jaw drops. “It’s forty-two degrees inside this lodge!”
He finally turns his head toward me.
“Maybe you should stop staring,” he says.
Oh, that’s it.
You want to start a war? I’ll show you war.
I step closer. Just enough to become a problem. “You know what your costume is missing?”
“A sense of shame?” he deadpans.
“A matching leash.”
His nostrils flare. “You think you could handle me on a leash?”
I smile sweetly. “Who said you’d be wearing it?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
And then—he does something that should be illegal. Something that steals the bones from my legs.