Auditing the Alpha (Full Moon Festivities #2)

Chapter 1

I’ve never understood how a car heater could possibly be labeled “MAX” and still pump out air that felt like a goddamn ghost’s breath.

Three hours into my drive to Pine Peak, my knuckles were white on the steering wheel—partly from the cold, partly from the rage I was nursing against Timothy Grey, my micromanaging boss who’d sent me on this bullshit assignment.

“Jordan, you’re our best auditor,” he’d said with that fake sympathy smile. “But you’ve been… difficult lately. Pine Peak will be good for you. Fresh air. Christmas spirit.”

Fresh air. Right. Because nothing says “fresh” like hypothermia.

I adjusted the useless heater vent and squinted through the windshield.

My GPS chirped that I was two miles from my destination—Wolff Family Tree Farm—the business I was being forced to audit for suspected tax irregularities.

Probably just another small-town operation trying to cut corners.

Three days of work, tops. Then back to Chicago where heat was a basic human right, not a luxury.

Pine Peak announced itself with a wooden sign straight out of a Hallmark movie. “Welcome to Pine Peak: Where Every Day is Christmas!” Complete with painted pine trees and snow flurries. I almost gagged.

The town itself was just as nauseating—twinkling lights on every surface, wreaths on every door, and honest-to-god carolers on the corner. In mid-December. Who had the energy?

I consulted my phone for directions to the Wolff property, turned onto a snow-covered road that my sedan had no business attempting, and crept along at fifteen miles per hour like the city slicker I proudly was.

The tree farm appeared around a bend—acres of perfectly spaced pines, a large red barn, and a surprisingly tasteful log cabin home that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest: Lumberjack Edition.

I parked beside a monster of a pickup truck and took a moment to prepare myself.

Suit jacket buttoned, briefcase in hand, professional smile plastered on.

That smile froze on my face when I stepped out of the car.

There, by a massive woodpile, was a man.

No—“man” was an insufficient word. This was a force of nature with legs.

Shirtless despite the thirty-degree weather, he was swinging an axe with the casual strength of someone opening a refrigerator door.

Each movement sent muscles rippling across his back, shoulders that looked capable of carrying a refrigerator, and arms thick as my thighs.

Holy fucking shit.

I must have made some embarrassing sound because he suddenly stopped, back stiffening, and turned toward me.

If his back view was impressive, the front was devastating.

Broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a trail disappearing into low-slung jeans.

A beard that belonged on a Viking warlord.

And eyes—Jesus Christ—amber-gold eyes that locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach drop.

The axe hit the chopping block with a solid thunk. He stalked toward me, and I had the absurd urge to either run or offer my throat.

“You’re late,” he rumbled, voice like gravel and honey.

I straightened my spine. I was a professional, dammit. “Mr. Wolff? I’m Jordan Chase from Bergman, Grey, and Associates. I called about—”

“The audit.” He nodded once, looking me up and down with such deliberate slowness that I felt like he was cataloging every detail. “You’re cold.”

It wasn’t a question, and before I could respond, he’d stepped into my personal space—way into my personal space—and placed one massive, furnace-hot hand on the back of my neck.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Um,” I said eloquently.

“Klaus,” he offered, hand still casually warming my neck like this was normal behavior. “Come inside before you freeze in those ridiculous shoes.”

And that was how I met the man who would completely derail my carefully ordered life—criticizing my footwear and manhandling my neck, while I stood there like an idiot, already half-hard in my expensive slacks.

Pine Peak was going to be trouble.