Rogue Enforcer Daddy (Steel Mountain Daddies #2)

1. Ava

Ava

I’ve read thousands of books in my life, but nowhere in all those neatly organized shelves did I ever expect my own story to turn into a full-blown romantic suspense thriller with me as the accidental heroine.

Yet here I am, clutching a steaming cup of chamomile tea in the back room of the Timber Creek Public Library, heart racing like I’ve just finished the most intense page-turner of my life.

Except this is real. And the bad guys are actually trying to kill me.

I take a shaky sip, the warm liquid doing absolutely nothing to calm the butterflies throwing a full rave in my stomach.

My testimony last week sent Vance Salazar, the ruthless leader of the Iron Vipers Cartel, straight to federal prison.

I only saw what I saw because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, returning a stack of overdue books to the county courthouse drop box.

One minute I’m minding my own business, the next I’m witnessing a brutal exchange in the parking garage.

Now I’m public enemy number one to an entire cartel.

Romantic, right? Said no one ever.

I adjust my oversized cardigan, the soft wool sleeves slipping over my hands as I glance nervously at the clock.

The library is quiet today, just the way I like it, with the comforting scent of old paper, lemon polish, and the faint vanilla from the candle I keep at my desk.

I should be cataloging the new mystery arrivals, not hiding in the break room wondering if today is the day someone kicks down the door.

The bell above the front door jingles, and I nearly jump out of my sensible flats.

I peek around the corner, clutching my tea mug like a shield.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket stands at the circulation desk, his back to me.

Even from here I can tell he’s all sharp edges and controlled power.

His dark hair is cut short, his posture straight like he’s ready for anything.

When he turns slightly, I catch a glimpse of a strong jaw and intense eyes scanning the room.

Oh my goodness. He looks like he walked straight off the pages of one of those protector romance novels I secretly devour on my lunch breaks. The grumpy, dangerous, will-ruin-you-for-all-other-men type.

“Miss Simpson?” His voice is deep, rough around the edges, the kind of voice that could read the dictionary and still make it sound like a threat and a promise at the same time.

I step out from the back room, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands. “That’s me. Ava Simpson. Can I help you find something?”

He meets my eyes, and for a second the world tilts. His gaze is intense, assessing, like he’s sizing up every possible exit and threat in the room. Including me.

“US Marshal Jax Hartman,” he says, flashing a badge with practiced efficiency. “I’ve been assigned to your protection detail. We need to move. Now.”

My mouth goes dry. “Right now? Like… right this second?”

He doesn’t smile. “Carlos’s men put a hit out on you. Two attempts already this morning. We’re not waiting around for a third.”

My knees wobble. I set my tea down before I drop it, the mug clinking against the counter.

This is really happening. I’m being whisked away by a ridiculously attractive marshal who looks like he could bench press a minivan and probably has.

My inner narrator is having a field day even as pure terror tries to take the wheel.

“Okay,” I squeak, grabbing my purse from under the desk. “Let me just… lock up. And maybe leave a note for Mrs. Hargrove about the new returns. She gets very particular about the mystery section.”

Jax’s eyebrow lifts slightly, the tiniest hint of amusement flickering across his otherwise stony face. “We don’t have time for notes, sweetheart. Grab what you need and let’s go.”

Sweetheart. The word sends an unexpected flutter through me that has no business being there when my life’s in danger. I’m clearly losing my mind. Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline. Or the way his voice wraps around that word like velvet over steel.

I follow him out the back door, my sensible flats slapping against the pavement as we hurry toward a black SUV parked in the alley.

The mountain air is crisp and cool. Jax keeps his body angled slightly in front of mine, one hand hovering near the gun at his hip.

The protective move makes my heart do a silly little somersault even as fear claws at my throat.

He opens the passenger door for me, his hand brushing my lower back as I climb in. The brief contact sends warmth spreading through me despite everything.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he slides into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life with a deep rumble.

“Steel Mountain,” he says, pulling out of the alley with controlled speed. “My cabin. It’s remote. Secure. Off the grid. We’ll stay there until the trial or until the threat is eliminated.”

One cabin. Just the two of us. Probably with very limited space.

My romcom brain immediately starts spinning scenarios while my sensible librarian brain tries to file them under “Do Not Open Until Further Notice.”

I glance over at Jax, at the hard line of his jaw and the way his hands grip the steering wheel. He looks like trouble. The very best kind of trouble.

This is going to be interesting.

And possibly the death of me, in more ways than one.