Chapter 1
Jake Tanner
Life in Red Lodge is boring as hell.
Like, soul-sucking, ball-shriveling boring.
You’ve got Ms. Dottie and Ms. Beatrice throwing down in the bakery over who used too much fucking nutmeg. You’ve got the mayor hosting a “Muffin & Mindfulness” event at town hall like that’s gonna fix the potholes on Main Street. And then there’s the ridge—gorgeous, yeah, if you’re into staring at rocks and snow long enough to question your own existence.
Sometimes I swear this town’s greatest thrill is guessing which old man’s gonna fart the loudest during poker night.
The only real entertainment?
The occasional hot tourist chick wandering into town with a snow bunny smile, yoga pants, and zero fucking idea how cold Montana gets in December. God bless ’em. They show up thinking this is a Hallmark movie, and I’ve got the flannel, the badge, and the smirk to make it feel like one—for a night, anyway.
Yeah, I know who I am.
I flirt. I wink. I buy the latte. I maybe don’t call back.
Not because I’m a dick (well—maybe a little), but because no one ever stays. Tourists leave. Summer flings melt. And the girls who do stick around? They already know me too well to fall for the act.
Jake Tanner: charming as fuck, emotionally unavailable, and goddamn proud of it.
Because let’s be honest—commitment? Feelings? Texting someone just to say hi?
Not my thing.
I patrol the town. I flash the badge. I talk fast, grin faster, and make sure nobody’s stupid enough to cause real trouble.
And lately?
It’s been crickets.
Even the drunks at Rudy’s are polite now. One guy even apologized for throwing up in the alley last Friday. Apologized. Like, sincerely. What the actual fuck?
So yeah.
Life in Red Lodge?
Dead.
Like, six-feet-under, no-pulse, nothing-but-soft-jazz-and-senior-discounts dead.
I push open the door to the diner, bell jingling like it’s got something to be cheerful about, and step into the same fucking scene I’ve walked into every morning since the Pleistocene era.
Same booth. Same coffee. Same locals pretending not to be listening to our conversations even though Dottie already knows what size boxers I wear and which brand of lube Dean accidentally knocked off a shelf at the gas station once.
Dean’s already there—shoveling eggs into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten since the Bush administration, powdered sugar on his sleeve and exactly zero shame in his soul.
Noah’s next to him, hunched over his phone, typing what I know is a goddamn text to his wife.
His wife.
Who he lives with.
Who, I shit you not, left his bed probably fifteen minutes ago and is now what—at home, brushing her hair or baking muffins or whatever the hell peach-scented angels do at eight in the morning—and this man is texting her.
I slide into the booth with a dramatic groan, grab Dean’s toast off his plate like it’s mine (because it is now), and say, “You two fuckers are depressing.”
Noah doesn’t even blink. Just keeps texting, thumbs flying like it’s urgent.
“What,” I ask, “did you forget to tell her the weather today? Did you leave the house without kissing her feet? Did you forget to tell her you miss her after she peeled herself off your dick literally an hour ago?”
Dean snorts so hard his coffee nearly shoots out his nose.
Noah? Doesn’t even flinch. Just taps send and finally looks up, calm as a goddamn monk.
“She asked if I wanted yogurt.”
I blink. “Yogurt. That’s what your soul bond is built on now? Fermented fucking milk?”
“She’s grocery shopping,” he says, sipping his coffee like I didn’t just accuse him of being a whipped house husband. “She wanted to know if I liked peach or strawberry better.”
Dean coughs. “Peach. Obviously.”
“Strawberry,” Noah says without missing a beat. “But thanks for weighing in, ya freak.”
Dean shrugs. “Your wife smells like peaches. Seemed thematic.”
I throw my hands up. “Jesus Christ, I’m in hell. Actual hell. This is what my life has become. My best friend is out here picking yogurt flavors with his wife like that’s foreplay and you’re over here assigning symbolic fruit meanings to their fucking marriage.”
Dean wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks dead serious. “It’s called literary parallelism. Try reading a book sometime, Tinder God.”
Noah smirks. “Or talking to a woman for more than fifteen minutes without taking your shirt off.”
“Hey,” I snap, pointing a finger at both of them. “I do have deep conversations. Just last week, I had a whole heart-to-heart with that brunette from the ski rental place.”
Dean raises a brow. “The one who left during halftime?”
“Okay, yeah, she left,” I admit. “But I opened up emotionally.”
“You asked if she liked your abs better flexed or relaxed.”
“That is emotional vulnerability,” I mutter, grabbing the syrup and drowning my toast. “Just the physical kind.”
Dean deadpans, “You are the reason I drink.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Exactly.”
Noah’s phone buzzes again. He glances at it, smiles like a man who just got a topless selfie, and types a reply like it’s nothing.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I warn him. “Don’t smile like that.”
Dean leans in, eyeing him suspiciously. “What’d she say?”
Noah looks up, innocent as fuck. “She got both.”
“Both what?”
“Yogurt flavors.”
I drop my fork. “I hope you choke on domestic bliss.”
Noah shrugs. “Jealousy’s not a good color on you, Tanner.”
Dean grins. “Looks more like desperation.”
“I will taser both of you in your fucking sleep.”
Nancy swings by with the pot of coffee. “You boys need anything?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, glaring at the happy married man across from me. “A time machine. And possibly a girlfriend. Preferably one who isn’t fucking glowing because she’s been doing crafts with a hot cop all night.”
Nancy smirks. “Better stock up on yogurt, then.”
Dean loses it. Actually wheezes.
I just groan and bang my forehead against the table.
“Kill me now,” I mumble. “Or send me a woman who doesn’t talk about granola and Pinterest boards. Just one. Just one hot, angry, emotionally unavailable woman with a fat ass and a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe who doesn’t believe in relationships.”
And that’s when the diner door slams open.
Hard.
Bell jangling, cold air rushing in.
Boots. A scowl. A very sharp voice.
“Do any of you morons know where I can find the guy who parked his cruiser like a fucking idiot and blocked half the alley?”
Dean lifts his eyebrows.
Noah sips his coffee.
I slowly look up.
And there she is.
Wearing cargo pants, murder in her eyes, and enough goddamn attitude to make my cock sit up and pay attention.
Well.
Ask and you shall fucking receive.
Jesus, she’s hot.
So fucking hot I forget how my legs work for a second.
And a redhead too—no, auburn, maybe. Dark and rich and shiny as hell, pulled back in one of those no-nonsense buns that says I own tools, and I’ll fucking use them. That’s gotta be her natural color. No way it’s out of a box. Which only makes me want to peel those cargo pants off her tighter-than-sin hips and check if that fire runs all the way down.
Tiny fucking waist. Thick, juicy hips. Thighs that could crush a watermelon and make me say thank you. And that ass? Jesus Christ. Round, high, fuckable. Like I could bounce a quarter off it and lose my goddamn soul. Not much on top, sure, but with an ass like that? I’d take a fucking vow of chest celibacy. Priorities.
She’s tall, too. Not giant, not six-foot volleyball-girl tall, but no fragile dainty little thing either. Long limbs. Broad shoulders. Built like she lifts boxes and punches drywall. Built like she’d hate everything about me and I’d still want to ruin her on every surface in this diner.
“Oh shit,” I mutter, eyes still locked on her like she might disappear if I blink. “Who’s that?”
Noah doesn’t even look up from his coffee. “That’s Avery.”
“Avery,” I repeat, mouth dry.
“Opened the snow gear shop. Juliet’s been hanging out with her. Gave her gloves last week.”
“She gave Juliet gloves,” I echo, like that’s relevant to what’s happening in my pants right now.
Dean glances at me over the rim of his mug. “Jesus Christ, you’re already sweating.”
“I’m not sweating,” I snap. “I’m just… appreciating her vibe.”
“She’s literally screaming at someone.”
“It’s a hot vibe.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You get hard if a woman has boots and a bad attitude.”
“Don’t kink shame me, Morrison.”
She stomps up to Nancy at the counter, slaps a set of keys down with the force of someone who has absolutely no patience for male bullshit. I lean forward, shameless, eyes dragging down her back again.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper. “That ass should be illegal. Like concealed carry but for men with commitment issues.”
Dean deadpans, “Please tell me you’re not about to hit on her.”
“Oh, I’m about to respectfully hit on her,” I say, standing like my dick has its own agenda. “I’m gonna offer to apologize for every cruiser ever parked sideways in the history of mankind.”
Noah doesn’t look up. “You’re gonna get punched in the dick.”
“That’s fine. Small price to pay.”
Dean snorts. “For what, a restraining order and a pair of blue balls?”
I ignore him.
Because she turns.
And she sees me.
Eyebrows up. Eyes sharp. Grey. Stormy. The kind of stare that could cut glass—and my dignity.
And I swear to God my fucking heart flinches.
But I smile anyway.
Because Jake Tanner doesn’t get scared.
He gets laid.
So I lean back in the booth, throw on my best panty-dropper grin, and give her the ol’ once-over. Slow. Appreciative. Not even pretending to be subtle. Let her see it. Let her feel it.
She cocks her head. Doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t blink.
And suddenly I’m not sure if she wants to fuck me or fold me in half and throw me into traffic.
Spoiler: I’m good with either.
“Well hey there, Trouble,” I say, voice low and lazy, all charm and sin. “You new in town, or just new to yelling at my car like it insulted your dog?”
Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to decide if I’m a real person or just a walking venereal disease in boots.
“Are you the asshole who parked halfway into the alley behind Gear Up?”
I blink, caught. “Define asshole.”
Dean groans behind his mug. “God help us.”
Avery folds her arms. Stance wide. Chin up. Eyes locked on me like I’m a wild animal she’s debating putting down.
I fucking love her.
She jerks a thumb toward the door. “You blocked my delivery van. I had to unload thirty boxes of winter boots by hand because your cruiser was parked like you got your license in a fever dream.”
I grin wider. “You lift all those by yourself? Damn. You always this strong, or just when you’re pissed off and looking hot?”
Her nostrils flare. Flare.
That’s when I know I’m in deep.
She takes a step closer. “You think that’s a compliment?”
I nod. “If it helps, I’m turned on and terrified right now.”
“Good,” she says. “You should be.”
Dean chokes.
Noah murmurs, “Yup. He’s in love.”
Avery glances down at my badge, then back up at my face. She looks unimpressed.
Like painfully unimpressed.
“You Red Lodge cops always park like drunk toddlers?”
“Only the charming ones,” I say. “And hey—if I’d known that was your alley, I’d have parked worse just to get you in here yelling at me in those pants.”
Her eyes narrow to slits.
“You’re a walking HR violation, aren’t you?”
I tap the badge. “Don’t worry. I am HR.”
She exhales sharply, shakes her head like I’m the world’s worst headache, and turns back toward the counter. But not before muttering under her breath:
“Fucking hell. This town.”
And God help me, I watch her walk away like I just got saved and condemned at the same damn time.
Dean kicks my shin under the table.
“What?” I ask, trying to look innocent while adjusting my jeans.
“Did you just sexually harass your future wife?”
Noah smirks. “He’s going to marry her or die trying.”
I grin.
“Boys,” I say, leaning back like a king. “I think I just met my final boss.”
I watch her walk out like she just strutted off the cover of Fuck Me Weekly.
Boots. Hips. That ass.
Goddamn.
She disappears into the cold with a muttered curse and zero regard for the fact that she just permanently altered my blood pressure.
The diner goes quiet for a second. Even Nancy pauses like she felt the shift in the space-time continuum. Dean’s watching me like I just got hit by a truck. Noah’s got this smug little I-love-my-wife smile like he’s above the chaos now.
Fuck him.
I slump back into the booth and let out a low whistle. “So… that’s Avery, huh?”
Noah just nods, calm as a monk in a thunderstorm. “Mm-hmm.”
“She always like that?”
Dean says, “You mean ‘no-nonsense, intimidating, and visibly repulsed by you’? Yeah. Consistently.”
I grin. “I’m into it.”
“You’re into tetanus,” Dean mutters. “You’d flirt with a cactus if it had tits.”
I ignore him. “She’s got that mean-girl energy. Like she’d roll her eyes while sitting on my face.”
Noah closes his eyes like he’s trying to mentally scrub that image from existence. “Jesus.”
“I’m just saying,” I go on, “she’s clearly angry, overworked, emotionally unavailable, possibly armed… That’s the sweet spot, boys. That’s home.”
Dean looks at me, deadpan. “You are going to crash and burn so hard.”
“I crash sexy.”
“You crash loud,” Noah says. “And public.”
“And usually without a condom,” Dean adds.
“Hey,” I snap, “I have standards.”
“You once made out with a bartender in a porta potty.”
“She was flexible!”
Dean drops his head into his hands. “You’re disgusting.”
I take another bite of stolen toast and smirk. “And yet… she looked at me.”
Noah sips his coffee. “Yeah. Like a man she was planning to murder in the woods.”
“Still a look,” I say.
Because here’s the thing—I’ve been with a lot of women. Some wild, some sweet, some clingy, some fun.
But none of them made me feel like I was about to either get handcuffed or kissed so hard I’d forget my name.
That woman?
That woman is dangerous.
And God help me—I want her to ruin my fucking life.
I get up from the table already planning my move.
My very “hey, sorry about the car, wanna fuck in the back?” kind of move.
No illusions. No strategy. Just instinct, cocky swagger, and the full force of my very punchable charm.
Dean gives me a look like he’s watching a dog chase a lawnmower. “You’re not seriously going after her.”
“I absolutely am,” I say, cracking my neck like I’m prepping for the Olympics of Bad Ideas. “Did you see her? Cargo pants, boots, that ass? She’s walking porn with a murder complex. My type.”
“You don’t have a type,” Noah mutters. “You have a countdown.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And she just lit the fuse.”
Dean snorts. “She’s gonna chew you up and leave your dick in a snowbank.”
I shrug. “I’ll die happy.”
Because here’s the thing: I’m not looking for forever. I’m looking for a good time. Some hot, angry, possibly dangerous sex with a woman who clearly hates my entire existence.
That’s not a red flag.
That’s a green light.
I finish Dean’s toast, toss a few crumpled bills on the table, and check the mirror by the door. Hair’s messy in that deliberate way. Beard’s at the perfect rough length. Eyes: cocky. Smile: lethal.
“Boys,” I say, already halfway to the door. “If I’m not back in an hour, it means she fucked me so hard I can’t walk.”
Dean raises a brow. “Or you got pepper sprayed.”
“Still worth it.”
Noah just sips his coffee. “We’re not bailing you out.”
“Don’t need bail if I never get caught.”
I step into the cold like a man on a mission.
This isn’t love. This isn’t fate.
This is basic, primal, high-level horny.
And if she lets me through that door?
Game on.
I’m standing outside her shop like a goddamn idiot.
Cold wind in my face. Hands in my jacket pockets. Heart thumping—not with nerves, but with straight-up, grade-A delusion.
Because I know I shouldn’t be here.
I know I should just get back in the cruiser, patrol Main Street, maybe flirt with the barista at Brewed Awakening and call it a day.
But no.
Here I am.
Standing outside Gear Up like some horned-up loser in a rom-com. Except I’m not holding flowers. I’m holding a parking ticket I may or may not pretend to write as an excuse to walk in and “explain jurisdictional boundaries” like that’s a real thing.
God, I’m full of shit.
And still?
Still gonna do it.
Because behind that frosted window is the hottest, angriest woman I’ve seen in years—and she looked at me. Not nicely. Not warmly. But with enough tension to light my fucking pants on fire.
And I live for that shit.
Angry girls with strong opinions and zero interest in my bullshit?
Yes. Please. More.
I’m not trying to date her.
I’m not trying to fix her.
I’m not trying to be her emotional safe space or some sad reformed bad boy who journals now.
I’m just trying to get her out of those cargo pants and into a situation that requires a sturdy countertop and a safe word.
That’s it.
That’s the mission.
And if I play this right—be just annoying enough, just hot enough, and just useful enough to justify her keeping me around?
Boom.
Game. Set. Smashed.
I exhale, flex my fingers, and roll my shoulders back.
Time to shine, Tanner.
You’re not here to fall.
You’re here to fuck.
The bell over the door jingles like it’s got manners, but nothing about me right now is polite.
I step into Gear Up and the warmth hits me first—dry heat, rubber mats, shelves stacked with snow gear, gloves, boots, racks of expensive jackets—and then her.
Avery Dalton.
Behind the counter.
Hair tied back. Sleeves pushed up. Face unreadable but clearly not thrilled to see me.
Perfect.
She doesn’t even say hi. Just gives me a look like she’s already picturing the chalk outline of my corpse.
I flash my best grin. The one that’s gotten me out of parking tickets, into beds, and occasionally both in the same night.
“Morning, Trouble.”
She stares.
I lean on the counter like I own it. “Came to apologize.”
Her eyebrow twitches. “Apologize.”
I nod solemnly. “For my parking. And also for being devastatingly hot under stress. It’s a burden.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Are you seriously flirting with me right now?”
“Not seriously,” I say. “Lightly. Teasingly. Like a warm-up. Stretching before cardio.”
She blinks. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Most people say that in bed,” I say. “But I’ll take it here too.”
She folds her arms and leans in just slightly—just enough for me to smell the faint hit of citrus and eucalyptus, which shouldn’t be a turn-on but is—and says, “If you think you’re charming your way out of that idiotic parking job, you’re delusional.”
“Oh, I am,” I agree cheerfully. “Deeply. Profoundly. But it’s worked so far.”
“I should file a report.”
“Do it. Just know I look fantastic in court.”
She actually—almost—smiles. Barely. Like she’s trying to fight it but her face is slipping.
So I push just a little more.
“Come on,” I say, dropping my voice half an octave, leaning a bit closer, “let me make it up to you. Dinner. Drinks. Angry sex. You pick the order.”
She scoffs. “You think I’m that easy?”
I grin. “No. I think you’re mad. And bored. And maybe just curious enough to see how far I’ll go.”
She tilts her head. “What if I said I’d rather slam this register drawer on your fingers?”
I glance at her hands. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re hot when you’re mean.”
She exhales through her nose and steps back. “If I let you near me, I’ll end up in a scandal. Or jail.”
I wink. “So… when are you free?”
She stares at me for a long second, like she’s mentally flipping through a Rolodex of insults.
Then—she smirks.
Not big. Not sweet.
Just this tiny, crooked thing. Dangerous. Knowing. The kind of smirk that says you have no fucking idea who you’re dealing with.
And my dick? Immediately invested.
“I think you’re used to girls falling for your bullshit,” she says, casual as hell, like she’s commenting on the weather.
I blink. “Only the hot ones.”
She rolls her eyes. “And the dumb ones, apparently.”
“Ouch,” I say, hand to my chest. “Wounded. Spiritually. Physically. Sexually.”
She shrugs. “You’ll survive.”
“You sure? Because I’m feeling kind of… emotionally vulnerable right now. You could help me process. Maybe over drinks?”
She raises a brow. “You always try this hard?”
“Only when it’s working.”
She leans forward, just slightly. Close enough for me to catch another wave of that clean citrus scent and the hint of something sharper underneath—like she showered and then went out to chop firewood for fun.
She’s insanely hot.
And then she says, low and lethal: “Tell you what, Officer Charming. You show up in my shop again—don’t block the alley. And maybe I’ll think about letting you carry something heavy.”
She straightens up and turns away like I’m not even worth a second glance.
Dismissed.
Like a bad boy in detention who just got handed extra credit by the hottest teacher on Earth.
I blink. “Wait—was that a yes?”
She doesn’t look back. “That was a ‘don’t get your hopes up.’”
“Too late.”
And I swear to God—she smirks again.
Just before she vanishes through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and leaves me standing there half-hard, half-delusional, and one hundred percent planning my next visit.
I walk out of that shop grinning like a lunatic.
She thinks she’s in control.
And maybe she is.
But I don’t need much.
A spark. A glance. A smirk and a challenge.
That’s all it takes.
Because now?
I’m in.
And I never walk away from a game I know how to win.
Even if this one might fucking kill me.
