Daddy’s Naughty Influencer (Naughty Girls Book Club #8)

Chapter 1

The GPS says I've arrived.

Which is absolutely wild, because what I've arrived at is a locked metal gate, a security camera aimed directly at my windshield, and exactly zero signs of the scenic mountain overlook I was promised by three different travel blogs.

This can’t be right.

I look down at my phone for the billionth time.

I’ve promised my followers a romantic overlook where they can stop for the most amazing winter selfies together.

This? Far from it. Who wants to take a selfie in front of a locked metal gate with witnesses?

At least, I assume there is a human watching the security camera.

Have I stumbled upon a celeb’s house? It wouldn’t be the first time a Hollywood millionaire bought a cozy mountain retreat to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. Peering out the windshield, I dismiss the thought. The location appears to be more sinister and less cinematic.

I kill the engine. Snow falls in fat, lazy flakes that stick to my windshield in patterns that would be gorgeous if I weren't currently having a mild existential crisis about whether I'm about to become a true crime statistic. And, if there is one thing I know? It’s true crime.

My followers tune in once a week for a live recap of all the latest true crime news.

The trees press in on both sides of the narrow road.

The dense dark pines are dusted white. A winter wonderland that feels more like a scene from Silent Night than from the latest Hallmark Christmas romance.

The silence is eerie. There are no animals rustling through the trees, not even a slight breeze.

It’s just me, and my cell phone which is currently balanced on the dashboard.

It’s still recording, and I have a creeping certainty that I have made a series of poor life choices.

I mutter to myself, because talking out loud makes this feel slightly less like the opening scene of a horror movie. This is exactly how people end up on Dateline. With Keith Morrison saying my name in that voice.

My phone buzzes: NO SERVICE.

Perfect. Naturally.

I grab my oversized puffer coat from the passenger seat and step out into the cold.

My boots crunch on gravel that's half-frozen, half-slush. The air bites at my cheeks immediately, sharp and clean in that way that only happens at seven thousand feet. Colorado is my favorite state, and I’ve been to all fifty of them.

The mountain air is something I am used to, but even so, stepping out of the warm vehicle to below zero temperatures takes my breath away.

The gate hums.

I freeze mid-step.

The sound is quiet. Mechanical. Deliberate. Like something just powered on. Like something or someone is watching. A vampire? It’s gray outside. There’s no sun… have I woken a vampire?

There’s no such thing as vampires, I reassure myself.

My overactive imagination is at it again.

I wish I’d grabbed Floppy from the car. He always makes me feel better.

Gives me courage. But, nope. He sits out of view of my cellphone.

There are some things about my personal life that my viewers don’t need to have access to. Like, my little side.

As I stand there, debating whether to go back to the car and get him or not, a voice cuts through the silence.

“You're lost.”

Deep. Calm. Male. And way too close for someone I didn't hear approach.

I spin around so fast I nearly slip on the gravel.

He's standing maybe ten feet away, half-hidden in the tree line like he materialized out of the forest itself. Tall, he’s easily six-two, with broad shoulders that fill out a dark tactical jacket in a way that suggests this is not a man who spends his days behind a desk.

His hair is dark, slightly too long, like he's overdue for a haircut and doesn't particularly care. It’s not exactly unkempt, but it’s not neat, either.

His eyes are sharp, assessing, the kind of dark brown that looks black in shadow.

More Jacob less Edward. Perhaps he’s a werewolf.

Seriously, Madi?

What the heck is wrong with you? The sexy man standing there is not a werewolf. But, based on the look on his face? He might be as dangerous as one.

He's looking at me like I'm a problem and he's ready to solve it.

My heart does this stupid, fluttery thing that's equal parts adrenaline and something I absolutely do not have time to unpack right now. It couldn’t possibly be… attraction.

“Google Maps said this was a scenic route,” I manage, hating how breathless I sound.

He doesn't move. Doesn't smile. Just looks past me to my car, then back to my face with an expression that somehow conveys both mild irritation and complete control.

“That app gets people killed. They end up lost in the woods and freeze to death. You need to leave.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach flip, not with fear exactly, but awareness. The kind that prickles at the base of your spine when you realize you've wandered somewhere you absolutely should not be.

“Is this private property?” I ask.

“Yes.” His answer is curt and tells me absolutely nothing.

Once again, I wonder if this is a celeb’s house.

Wouldn’t my viewers love that? I found Justin Bieber's top secret getaway.

Is the man in front of me his private security?

He looks like he could be security. Although, I always thought security would be in a black suit and have an earpiece in.

You know, like the bodyguards you see accompanying celebs places.

“Like celebrity private? Or billionaire recluse private? Or—"

“Government.” He interrupts me with one word.

That word lands like a physical blow.

Oh. Oh no.

He steps closer, and I catch the scent of him—clean, faintly woodsy, with an undertone of something that smells expensive. His voice drops lower, taking on a quality that makes every nerve ending in my body stand at attention.

“And you shouldn't be filming anything out here.”

My stomach drops straight through the frozen ground. I follow his gaze to my phone on the dashboard. Still recording.

“Well, this is awkward,” I say weakly, heat flooding my face despite the cold.

His jaw tightens—just barely, but I catch it. A muscle ticking beneath stubble that's a day or two past deliberate. He needs a haircut and a shave. He’s had time to shower but not to groom? Interesting.

“Turn it off,” he says. Not asks. Orders.

And here's the thing I cannot explain and probably shouldn't examine too closely: something in me sparks at the command.

Not rebellion. Not fear. Heat. My clit throbs, my nipples tighten.

My body betrays me with a pure, undiluted, inconvenient heat that pools low in my belly and makes my breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the altitude.

Because for the first time since I started building my entire life around cameras and content and carefully curated chaos, someone is looking at me like I'm not performing. Like he sees exactly who I am beneath the filters and the persona.

And he is decidedly not impressed.

He's in control. Completely, utterly in control.

And something tells me I'm already in trouble.

The kind I might not want to get out of.

And God help me, instead of reciting the phrase I’ve practiced a thousand times…

how I have the right to record, I instead, obey.

I open the door, reach into the car and tap the screen, ending the recording.

When I turn back, he's closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“What's your name?” he asks, voice quiet but firm.

“Madison.”

“Madison what?”

Something defiant flickers in my chest. I don’t have to tell him. He’s a strange man, who could just as easily overpower me and force me into the vehicle and take me away. I look at him and I know, I just know, he’s safe. He’s not going to hurt me. “Summers. Madison Grace Summers.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's cataloging that information somewhere in a mental file, I probably don't want to know exists.

“Ty Garcia,” he says. “And you're going to delete that footage.”

“It's nothing,” I protest. “Just trees and snow—"

“No,” he interrupts, still calm, still controlled. “It's a restricted area, classified infrastructure, and a serious security violation. So, you're going to delete it. It shouldn’t be a problem if it’s nothing. Delete it, now.”

The way he says it—not threatening, not angry, just absolutely certain—makes my knees weak. I unlock my phone with shaking fingers and pull up the video.

He watches over my shoulder, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. My thumb hovers over the delete button.

“I spent three hours driving up here,” I say quietly.

“Then you wasted three hours,” he replies. “Delete it, Madison.”

The sound of my name in his mouth does something to me. Something I'm definitely not ready to examine.

I delete the video.

He exhales—not quite a sigh, but close. “Good girl.”

My entire body flushes hot. Those two words hit me like a physical touch, settling somewhere deep and primal. I chance a glance up at him and find him watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

Recognition, maybe. Or interest.

He steps back, putting deliberate distance between us. “There's a road half a mile back that'll take you to the main highway. Follow it. Don't stop. Don't come back here.”

“What is this place?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“Somewhere you don't belong,” he says simply. Then, after a pause: “Drive safe, Madison. Don’t text and drive.”

He turns and walks back toward the tree line, moving with the kind of silent efficiency that suggests military training or something close to it.

“Wait,” I call out before I can stop myself.

He pauses but doesn't turn around.

“Will I see you again?”

The question hangs in the cold air between us. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then, without looking back: “That depends on how well you follow instructions.”

And then he's gone, swallowed by the pines and the snow, like he was never there at all.

I stand there for another moment, heart pounding, skin tingling, completely unsure what just happened but absolutely certain of one thing: I want to see him again.

Even if it means not following instructions.