Daddy’s Girl (REAL DADDIES: Boone Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

One

D elaney

This is how girls die in the movies.

The na?ve twenty-something city girl disappears in the woods, and they find her backpack three counties over, tangled in a tree root or chewed through by coyotes.

I'm halfway across a goddamn river in Michigan, clinging to a rope swing like a dumbass. If I wasn’t scared shitless, I’d laugh thinking I was competing on Fear Factor.

The current below me is angry —fast, foaming, loud enough to drown out my breath. The rope stopped swinging about twenty seconds ago and no matter how much I try to regain inertia, I’m dead stop hanging with no hope of reaching the bank. My legs are shaking. My pack's too heavy. My arms are slipping. I've got one foot twisted through the loop, dangling like Tarzan's sad, clumsy cousin.

Cherry on top is, I can’t swim. I have a love hate relationship with water.

Hot shower? Friend.

Hot tub? Very good friend.

Cold bottle of water after a workout? Acceptable.

Being immersed in raging river water where I may be pulled under? Lifelong enemy.

I'm going to die before I ever meet him.

Jack Boone.

The whole reason I’m hanging here like a lead weight on the end of some deep-sea fishing line. All the hand-painted signs nailed to ten different trees at the start of the trail didn’t seem to apply to me. Blood-red letters screaming ‘KEEP OUT’, ‘NO TRESPASSING’ and ‘MY LAND, MY RULES’.

My dad gave me Jack’s number before he died. The implausible best friend that lived somewhere on Wildfire Mountain, who I’d never once met or even seen a photo of. I hadn’t considered it much at that time—having my heart ripped out pretty much consumed me—but in the months that passed, I wondered why my father still considered him such a good friend. After all, he hadn’t once come to visit as dad’s condition worsened, or as far as I know even called. The man he’d made the center of so many of my bedtime stories. The bigger than life mountain man slash superhero he’d met in the service.

"If you ever need anything, kiddo, call Boone. I saved his life once, he said that was a debt he could never repay."

But the number got wiped when my now ex-boyfriend crushed my phone under the heel of his boot when I tried to leave.

And now I'm here with "Wildfire" scrawled on a map, following a trail that looked like maybe it led somewhere, and this river between me and... I don't even know.

My fingers still feel the cold press of Dad's dog tags clutched in my palm at the funeral. His last gift to me. Everything else was already gone—our apartment, our savings, his smile. Cancer took it all.

A memory flashes through my mind. Dad sitting in his recliner, a fraction of the man he was, blankets tucked around him, the hum of the machine that fed nutrients into the tube in his nose clicking away, taking the chain off his neck and putting it around mine. " Remember, kiddo. If you ever need anything, call Boone. He's the only one I trust. I’m sorry you never met—he’s not the easiest guy to get close to, but that’s just Boone. He’d do anything for you though. I know that as well as I know you’re the most precious thing in my life. "

I shift, shrugging my pack higher on my shoulders as it starts to slip, re-thinking the ten Petoskey Stones and three Yooperlites I grabbed as I packed.

The movement makes the swing jerk.

“Help me, please!” I scream to the break of blue and white at the tops of the swaying thick pines that seem to reach a mile into the sky.

My dad always taught me when you are in trouble, never yell for help.

Always yell ‘fire’ he said. Everyone ignores ‘help’…

“ Fire!” I scream . “I’m on fire over here!”

The words scrape on my raw throat as the absurdity of those words crashes around me. Literally. Like, no way I could be on fire with the world’s angriest river taking ice-cold pot shots at me while I’m dangling helplessly above the rapids.

Of course no one hears me. This isn't some tourist trail. This is fucking nowhere.

Okay. Okay. Think, girl. You got yourself into this, you can get yourself out. Then, it’s like a lightbulb flashes above my head…

Flare gun.

I fumble for the side pocket on my pack. Dad gave me the little car emergency kit along with a rusty lemon-yellow Buick when I turned sixteenIt seemed like a smart thing to grab when the car began to overheat fifty miles into my desperate escape into the wilderness from my dickhead ex, David . I ditched the car, took what I could, and caught the next bus heading toward Wildfire.

At the time, I’d thought if the situation called for it, I could shoot it at someone instead of as a beacon into the sky. You know, like they do in the movies. That feels like a joke right now though, because I can barely hold on, let alone fire something without envisioning a future shopping for eye patches that come in something other than basic black.

The rope swings to the left as I fumble, a streak of noontime sunlight cutting through the trees, forcing me to squint as I feel around for the smooth plastic grip. Whitewater rushes under me as my calves start to cramp, but I finally secure the thick handle of the gun in my hand, breathing hard, biting down on the inside of my lip as I tug it free.

An angry voice rises over the deafening flow of the river threatening to swallow me into my doom.

"Stop! You’ll shoot your damn face off."

I jerk and twist making the rope swing wildly, my foot half-way out of the loop, my drenched Hello Kitty Converse lacking the proper rugged sole for this particular survival outing.

The handle of the flare gun wobbles as the spray soaks through my clothes, dripping down my forehead into my eyes.

Je sus . I blink blink blink at the droplets of water, unsure if my eyesight is trustworthy right now, because what I think I see on the riverbank can’t be real.

Big. Broad. Massive . A mountain of a man with shoulders that could block out the sun. Beard dark and full, jaw like it was carved from granite. And his eyes—piercing blue that cuts through me like I'm made of nothing but fog. The kind of eyes that see everything.

Oh my God, it’s Bigfoot. Riding a four-wheeler.

The voice comes again. “Don’t you fucking fall! Hold on, God damn it.” The sound is low, thunderous, as angry as the stupid water below, like I've already disappointed him... Yet, it vibrates straight down to places I shouldn't be thinking about.

The man who is clearly the size of Bigfoot but far less fuzzy, parks the four-wheeler with a violent skid and stomps through the current like it’s air. Water rises to his thick thighs, soaking his jeans, his green and blue flannel stretching tight across his chest. The river practically parts before him as he forces himself my way—a force of nature encountering a greater one.

Fire and ice wage a tiny war over my skin and down into my center as he comes to a dead stop under me.

"Let go," he barks, opening his arms wide, flicking his long fingers in a ‘come here’ sort of motion. "I've got you, little one."

Little one . For some reason, that sends something surging through me and my thighs clench together involuntarily as my own rushing torrent starts between my legs.

"I—I can't—"

" You’re not dying in my river. No trespassing signs are up for a fucking reason. Now, do what you’re told, I get the feeling that’s something new for you, but do it anyway. "

Wow, really? Right now?

Jerk.

Sexy jerk who smells so fucking good even with the water dampening the air and muscle spasms starting to twist down my back.

I can barely feel my fingers. I’m not sure if I let go because he told me to, or just lose my grip, but gravity takes charge and I have no other choice but to close my eyes and pray.

The world heaves sideways and like a flightless baby bird kicked from the nest too soon, I’m flapping, screeching, calling for Jesus to take the wheel.

Then, boom.

I fall to earth. It has to be earth because when I land, it’s with a solid thump, not a soft catch.

I swallow down the scream wrapped in a moan as I realize I’m not on terra firma .

I’m in his arms.

The flightless baby bird saved by the grumpy, scowling, but infuriatingly attractive hero with the four-wheeler.

Biceps the size of Easter hams cradle me against an expanse of man chest that already feels like home. Heat radiates from him through my wet clothes. I feel small and protected and so fucking thankful.

The world is spinning but even in the chaos of adrenaline and confusion, I know this can’t be Jack. I mean, okay, he could be the same age as my dad, I guess, but he’s hot. So, so hot.

With an embarrassed squeak, warmth pools between my thighs as I catch a hint of his scent—pine and spice and even a little exhaust from that thing he was driving. It makes me lightheaded as I inhale hard through my nose, my eyes fluttering closed for a second, losing myself in the craziness of the moment.

His t-shirt is damp as I twist the cotton in my grip, pulling it down his chest, my knuckles brushing against skin hot enough to steam in the cold air. The way he holds me—one arm under my thighs, the other supporting my back—makes me feel more secure than I have since my dad died.

My breath catches as his eyes lock on mine, searching, assessing. That ice-blue gaze makes my heart stutter. His face is rugged—weathered in a way that speaks of sun and wind and years lived hard, but not unkind. Up close, I can see that his thick, dark beard is peppered with just a little salt, and there’s a faint scar near his temple, half-hidden by the mess of damp hair. He’s older, in that not quite silver fox sort of way but not far and it’s hotter than it should be.

He stomps through the torrent of the river, water getting out of his way like it’s afraid.

“Gonna come down here one day and find a goddamn dead body. Why can’t nobody read the damn signs?” His voice rumbles down inside me as my feet meet the ground on the river bank, water squishing between my toes.

“Look at me.” He orders as I let my eyes track upward, taking in the drenched flannel, the dusting of dark hair on the plains and valleys of skin, before settling not on his eyes, but on his lips.

God made those lips. But there’s nothing holy about them. They were made for sin.

His hands are everywhere, rough thumbs run down my cheeks, then he’s covering my neck on both sides like a brace—checking for injuries, brushing wet hair from my face, with an intoxicating mixture of annoyance and concern knitting together the right angles of his features.

Hanging above the river was cold, but even with the heat he’s circulating around me, my muscles start to twist and spasm, teeth involuntarily chattering.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his voice perfectly matching his rugged features. "You're fucking freezing."

He wraps me against him, my ear pressing to his chest.

Thump, thump, thump . The beat is solid but accelerating, and I can feel every hard line of his body. My pulse ticks up as I quiver, my backpack tugging at my shoulders while I squeeze my thighs together and finally let the obvious dawn on me.

This is Jack Boone.

I found what I was looking for.

Who I was looking for, I mean.

Or do I? Maybe it’s both.

"What were you thinking?" he growls. "Taking a goddamn rope swing alone? Over spring runoff? Do you have a fucking death wish?"

I stare upward, trying to decipher the twist in his features.

Anger? Meh, maybe. Curiosity? Could be.

Veiled horror? Also plausible, knowing this is not my finest hour when it comes to pageant readiness. Drenched hair, smudged mascara, blue lips… and then—like that damn light bulb pops on again, I remember why I came and blurt out an answer through chattering teeth.

"M-mm-my dad... He s-s-ssaid you... You'd helpppp me."

"Your dad?"

"I’m Delaney," I whisper, my lips numb, teeth clicking slowly. "Delaney Hart."

His face lowers, hovering over the top of my head as fingers come to roost under my jaw, holding, squeezing enough for me to breathe but have to think about it. He inhales, long, slow and deep, like a hunter on a scent trail.

The base of his thumb pushes against my pulse point as his lips rest on the part of my hair for a split second—so briefly I might have imagined it—before he growls, "Delaney Hart, you don’t come near this river again unless I’m with you. You hear me?"

He shifts upward, looming, breaking the sun’s rays, but something shifts in his expression—recognition, shock, and something darker, more possessive. His entire body tenses, the hand at my throat a signal of some kind of control as everything in the forest stills, even the river.

For a second, it’s like the whole world is waiting for permission from Jack Boone to breathe.

Then, the air between us changes, charging with a buzzing energy. Butterflies flap their wings in my belly, my organs doing little somersaults, rearranging themselves knowing everything is changing right now.

The way his gaze travels over me—no longer just assessing for injuries, but seeing me. All of me.

The hand on my throat loosens, inching upward to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my lower lip in a touch so intimate it steals my breath.

"You’re on my land now. You’ll do as I say," he tells me, voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

I blink, but I don't argue.

I can't.

Because something inside me wants to do what he says.

Whatever this sexy Bigfoot-sized man is selling, I’m buying.

On credit.

And I don’t even bother asking about the interest rate.