Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
In Pine Valley, Colorado, the mountains don’t whisper—they challenge.
Crewe Hawthorne lives for danger. Night jumps. Rescue missions. Rules that keep his heart locked down tight.
Then Riley Willow walks onto Ridgeway Air Force Base—brilliant, stubborn, and way too tempting for a man trained to never lose focus.
When Riley’s next-gen drone tech is sabotaged and turned into a weapon, Crewe is assigned to protect her.
Up close.
Cabin-in-a-blizzard close.
The kind of close where his hand never leaves her back… and every breath against her skin feels like a promise.
By day, they hunt the traitor inside Ridgeway. By night, the heat between them burns through every line Crewe swore he’d never cross.
Because the enemy doesn’t just want Riley’s work.
They want her.
And if they come for what’s his?
Crewe will go to war.
*Welcome to Ridgeway Base, where duty meets desire in a heartbeat. Hearts on Base is a series of swoon-worthy instalove military romances featuring rugged servicemen, fierce heroines, and the kind of heat that doesn’t quit! Each book delivers a complete, feel-good love story with high stakes, instant sparks, and a guaranteed happy ending. Who says love can’t be a tactical advantage?
Join 12 of your favorite (or soon to be favorite) contemporary romance authors for an exciting and steamy military series!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
CREWE
I stand at the edge of the ramp, wind whipping around me, nothing below but swirling snow and empty sky.
The cargo plane vibrates behind me, loud and restless, like it’s eager to shake me loose. A gloved tap hits my shoulder—two quick knocks. Go time. I glance into the whiteout, spotting the blinking rescue beacon far below in the foothills. Just a faint red pulse through the storm.
My oxygen mask hisses as I breathe. I taste metal. I taste the storm.
“Green in five!” the loadmaster yells, voice nearly lost in the roar of the engines. My team’s voices crackle over comms, calm and clipped. This isn’t their first storm. It’s not mine either.
“Winds are gusting,” Major Lexi Chen calls from the command center back at Ridgeway. “We’ve got a thermal hit. One survivor.”
“Copy,” I say. “Hawthorne stepping.”
The ramp light turns green, and the world narrows into a single choice.
I jump.
The cold hits like a punch to the lungs. I fall fast, arms tucked in tight, body slicing through the wind. The storm tries to flip me, but I stay steady, letting my training take over. Altimeter beeps. My hand finds the cord. I pull.
The chute snaps open hard, jerking me upright. Everything goes quiet except for the hiss of snow as I glide down into the dark.
Below me, the Rockies stretch out like a shadow, broken by flashes of light and the red pulse of the crash beacon. Somewhere down there, a pilot is waiting for me. I won’t let him down.
I drop through a layer of clouds and finally see the slope. Trees sag under heavy snow. The crash site is a mess—twisted metal barely visible in the storm. I aim for a narrow opening between two trees, adjusting as the wind tries to shove me off course.
I hit the ground hard, knees bending deep in snow. I roll, release my chute, and pack it down before the wind can drag it away. Then I move low, night-vision goggles helping me pick out the shapes of trees, rocks, and what’s left of the trainer aircraft.
“Ridgeway, Hawthorne on the ground,” I murmur. “Two minutes out.”
“Copy that. Rescue bird inbound. ETA six minutes,” Lexi says in my ear.
“Make it four,” I say, already moving.
The crash looks worse up close. The nose of the plane is smashed in, glass shattered, metal crumpled like paper. The snow is stained in places I don’t like.
I trudge through waist-deep powder, heart pounding, and finally reach the cockpit. One pilot. Slumped forward. Mask hanging loose. Helmet cracked.
I press two fingers to his neck.
Pulse.
Weak, but there.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” I say gently. “Pararescue. Name’s Crewe. We’re getting you home.”
He lets out a sound—could be a laugh or a groan. Either works. He’s alive.
I cut through his seat harness, careful with his neck and limbs. Something’s wrong with the way his collarbone sits, so I brace it. I work quickly—compression pads, thermal blanket, gear check. Every move has a purpose. The cold gnaws at my hands, but I keep going.
Far off, the helicopter’s rotors hum through the snow. That’s our ride out. I flash my infrared beacon, guiding them in.
“Pedro Two is on station,” the pilot confirms.
“LZ’s just below me. Watch the trees—tight clearance. We’re running hot on fuel, so let’s make this clean. Ready on hoist.”
“Copy that.”
But something moves in the snow. My instincts snap tight.
Then I hear it—a sharp, high whine cutting through the wind.
I turn, spotting a strange little drone drifting toward the helicopter. No green or red lights. No markings. Just four rotors and bad intentions.
What the hell is a drone doing out here?
“Ridgeway, we’ve got an unmarked drone in the area,” I call in. “It’s not friendly. Looks autonomous.”
“Say again?” Lexi says sharply.
“Unknown drone. Acting hostile.”
The thing zips through the air, circling the chopper’s hoist cable like it’s hunting it. I don’t need a manual to know this isn’t some civilian toy.
Its movements are too familiar. Too precise. I’ve seen this behavior before—on base, during a test demo. Riley Willow’s drones move just like this.
Except this one’s not wearing her name.
“Pedro Two, what’s your status?” I ask.
“Hover is steady. Visual on the drone.”
“Hold hover. I’ll handle it.”
I dig a jammer from my harness, jam it into the snow, and flip it on. A pulse of interference rolls out, enough to throw off most cheap drone systems. The quadcopter stutters in midair—then adjusts and pushes forward.
Okay. Not cheap.
I pull out the collapsible net launcher from my pack. The guys laughed when I picked this up. I didn’t.
The drone zips low, aiming for the chopper’s cable. That’s when I make the call.
“Pedro Two, trust me. Six seconds.”
“Trusting you, Hawthorne. Make it count.”
I hold my breath. Wait.
Now.
I fire. The net spreads midair, tangling in the rotors. The drone spirals down like a kicked wasp and crashes in the snow at my boots. It whines once. I stomp. It doesn’t whine again.