I’m on the pill. What’s the worst that could happen?

  Eli slid free, causing that amazing shiver to go through me. His lips dragged across my collarbone as he stood. “Be…” he started before he stopped. His eyes locked between my thighs, and his softening dick began to harden again.

  He’s insatiable.

  And I don’t mind a single bit.

  I closed my legs, cutting off his view.

  “You’re mean,” he grumbled like I’d taken away his favorite toy. “Be back.”

  When he headed for the bathroom, I grabbed my phone and typed a text to the one root I had in Winter Falls.

  Me: On a scale of one to ten, how crazy is it that I’m in love with Eli already?

  Demi: Does he make you happy?

  Me: Extremely.

  Demi: Then not crazy.

  Me: Okay. On a scale of one to certifiable, how crazy would it be for me to move to Boston?

  I expected an instant phone call. A freak out. Some pizazz. Instead, another text came through.

  Demi: Not as crazy as you’d think. We need to talk. Soon.

  Me: Uh oh.

  Me: Or yay?

  Me: It’s really hard to read tone via text.

  Demi: It’s a yay. Definitely a yay.

  Tossing my phone aside when Eli came out, I reached for the damp cloth he held. He just shot me a look before kneeling between my legs to clean me up. He tossed the cloth back into the bathroom before climbing onto the couch and pulling me into his arms.

  “Are there blizzards like this in Boston?”

  His body tightened under me, but he just kept stroking his fingers up and down my spine. “Yeah.”

  “And are there cabins in Boston?”

  “Around there, yeah.”

  “So, hypothetically, we could rent a cabin and get snowed in?”

  “Pretty Posey, I will buy you any fuckin’ cabin you want and pretend to be snowed in even if it’s ninety degrees.”

  His promise warmed me as thoroughly as that ninety-degree weather.

  Holding me tight, he didn’t bother to mask his hopeful expression. “This mean you’re moving in with me?”

  I spent so much time in my recording studio, narrating fictional lives.

  It was well past time I lived my own love story.

  And, lightning fast as it was, there was no one I wanted to live it with more than Eli Becker.

  “Yeah,” I said with no hint of doubt or uncertainty.

  Eli kissed me until we were both hot and panting before tearing his mouth away. “When I was in the bathroom, I saw the storm is letting up. Bet they’ll be able to plow by the morning.” He moved down my body. “Know what that means?”

  In that moment, the only thing I knew was how desperately I needed him to touch me, so I shook my head.

  A sexy as hell smirk curved his lips. “We better make the most of our last night snowed in.”

  The End

  Layla Frost Books and Bio

  Layla Frost has always been a rebel. A true badass.

  Growing up, Layla used to hide under her blanket with a flashlight to read the Sweet Valley High books she pilfered from her older sister. It wasn't long before she was reading hidden Harlequins during class at school. This snowballed into pulling all-nighters after the promise of “just one more chapter”.

  Her love of reading, especially the romance genre, took root early and has grown immeasurably.

  In between reading and writing, Layla spends her free time rocking out(at concerts, on the couch, in the car… Anywhere is a stage if you get into it enough), watching TV(the nerdier the better!), and being a foodie. Though she lives in NY (the state, not the city), she’s an avid Red Sox fan.

  Check out my books here!

  Logan and Demi

  Brynne Asher

  Force of Nature

  A Carpino Novel

  © 2021 Brynne Asher

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Only purchase authorized editions.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, things, locations, or events is accidental.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  To my OG readers, who embraced my Carpinos in the beginning. This is for you.

  Let’s take it back to where it all started…

  Chapter 1

  Demi

  The Asshole

  “Do it.”

  “No. I’m not doing it.”

  “Forget that nightmare ever happened and jump back in the saddle, Demi. You know, carpe diem—seize the day. It’s what everyone says on Instagram.”

  “Like I care about Instagram, and I know you don’t either. I danced too close to the fire and got burned. I don’t trust my own instincts anymore. I think I need to sit out the next decade.”

  “Just one more swipe. For shits and giggles.”

  “Nope. Never again.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll pick for you.”

  My eyes widen to the size of the china saucers my grandma serves with tea when Posey reaches for my phone. “Like hell—”

  But before I have a chance to delete the app or stuff my cell down my bra—like that would stop Posey—she plucks my cell from my sweaty palms and backs away from me in her ugly Christmas sweater. Artie, the owner of Peak 7 Local, a bar on the main drag, always hosts the annual Christmas party. He opens the back room for the town residents only. It’s usually one of my favorite times of the year. But given my current fiasco, I’m done. I want to go home and hibernate until the holiday rush is over when I can hit the slopes without getting mowed over by wannabe shredders who really have no clue what they’re doing.

  “Give me that.” I lunge around the high-top table we’ve been drinking at for the last hour.

  She’s faster than me, and her thumb scrolls at the speed of light as her eyes light up in mischief. “Ooooh. Here’s a good one.”

  “Don’t—”

  But I can’t stop her. The moment she swipes, my stomach drops. Posey’s green eyes land on me and they scream winner, winner, chicken dinner. Damn her. “There. Tall, dark, and, from his profile pic, broody as hell—which matches your current state of mind perfectly. Also, I widened your location. That guy lives far, far away from Winter Falls. No need to worry about another stalker. And since we just reported the last guy who can’t take a hint from Daddy Sheriff, all will be good in the hood.”

  Ugh.

  She tosses my cell, but she’s still as clumsy as she was on our sixth-grade softball team. I grab it at the last second, and it gets tangled in the mini strand of lights on my ugly grandpa sweater. But she doesn’t care and turns to pick up her White Elephant present. “This will be a fun experiment. A long-distance relationship might be just what the matchmaker ordered. And I know you, Demi. You’re too nice to delete the app since I swiped right.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m deleting it now.” Who am I kidding? She’s right, I’ll never delete it now. But I refuse to admit it, and pretend to scroll through my phone as I pull up the profile Posey just exposed me to like a bad rash.

  I cringe.

  Not because he isn’t hot.

  He is.

  Like, scorching.

  And she wasn’t kidding about the tall and dark part. He claims to be six-three and has a lush head of wavy, dark hair that makes me green with envy. I doubt he needs five bottles of products and enough hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer to get those waves to behave, like I do.

  His profile picture is different from any other I’ve seen. His crisp blue dress shirt is loose at the neck, rolled at the sleeves, and has a day’s worth of wrinkles. It’s somewhat of an action shot as he stalks down a city street. But what’s most shocking is the frown marring his perfect olive-skin and five-o’clock-shadowed face.

  And the middle finger he’s using to flip off the camera. Though, the veins running up his thick forearm and disappearing into his rolled sleeve don’t suck.

  Still, he chose this picture to market himself to single women.

  What the hell?

  This guy is from New York City—specifically, Manhattan. That might explain his foul mood. I’m somewhat relieved. The Big Apple isn’t exactly half a world away, but it’s far enough I don’t have to worry about him turning into a Sambal VanDervleté, the reason for my current life crisis. I should’ve known better than swiping on his profile. VanDervleté sounds like a villain from a children’s novel, not a mechanical engineer from the next town over.

  No, the angry guy from Manhattan is Logan Carpino.

  Wait. This could be worse than a fictional villain.

  Carpino screams mafia—and not the soft, PG-network-TV kind of mafia. This guy could be the real, legit hard-core premium-cable-channel mafia.

  And if his picture isn’t scary enough—while hot—his profile couldn’t be more confusing.

  And, quite frankly, alarming.

  Gender: Pure fucking male, with all the extras, if you know what I mean.

  Relationship Status: Unapologetically single and never been close to marriage.

  Age: Mid-thirties and thriving.

  Ethnicity: Italian-American Perfection. Yes, with a capital P.

  Born: Omaha, Nebraska. Don’t knock it. We have the College World Series.

  Current Residence: Higher in the sky than you can afford.

  Income: You can’t even fathom.

  Highest Level of Education: It doesn’t matter. I’m smarter than ninety-nine percent of the population. The other one percent can kiss my ass. Still—it must be mentioned—my MBA is from Wharton.

  Children: Billions of genetically perfect humans, just waiting to be set free.

  Interests: Golf—playing and watching, kicking ass at pickup basketball, math, Fortune Magazine, and my Perfect hair. Note the P.

  Hobbies: Irritating my administrative assistant and siblings.

  Occupation: Businessy stuff.

  Is this guy for real?

  Businessy stuff?

  Pretentious much? And aren’t we all in some sort of business? I mean, I’m in the business of hacking, but my profile says computer programmer. I don’t need to attract the kind of people who would be interested in me solely for my skills. Having a mechanical engineer as a stalker is bad enough.

  But, seriously, what an arrogant ass! Who puts themselves out there like that? Most assholes are assholes enough to at least fake being an asshole. No one advertises their asshole-ness like this.

  It has to be a fake account.

  Yes. That has to be it. The knot in my chest untangles and the thought of a repeat of Sam VanDervleté happening all over again disintegrates into thin air.

  I exhale. I think I’m good.

  “I’m out of here. I have a project that’s due before Christmas. It’s late and my voice will be toast tomorrow unless I get some rest.” Posey’s voice is the most beautiful I’ve ever heard. It’s melodic, smooth, and, yes, even sexy. She has a way of making you want to sit and listen to her for hours. Which I do all the time. She utilizes her gifts and makes a killing narrating audiobooks.

  “I’m not speaking to you for at least a week,” I mutter and toss my phone in my bag. That’s a lie. I could never go that long without Posey. “It’s not like you’re the queen of putting yourself out there. You suck as much as I do … and don’t try and pretend you don’t. You’re never allowed to touch my phone again.”

  She has the nerve to laugh. “It’ll be fun to see what happens with that one.”

  I focus my glare on her. “It’s a fake account, and you know it.”

  Her expression turns smug. “So you didn’t delete the app and you were curious enough to look. He’s hot. And he’s not hiding the fact he’s a dick. He’s put it out there for the world to see. You’ve gotta give him credit—that’s worth the swipe on its own.”

  “I’m not giving him anything.”

  She shrugs her coat up her arms and wraps it around herself. “You might be happier if you give it away more often.”

  I shake my head. “I hate you. Goodbye. Drive safe. I’ll see you next year, since I’m unfriending you for the rest of this one.”

  She saunters out as she yells over her shoulder, “Whatever. You know you’ll call me tomorrow. And just for fun, let your magic fingertips do their thing and research the Italian hottie with a capital P. I want to know if he’s real or not. As much as you want to pretend otherwise, you do too.”

  I wave her off before the heavy, paneled door shuts, and she disappears into the cold, dark night.

  It’s colder than normal, and a front is forecasted to hit the mountains. The Farmer’s Almanac promised this winter would be a bad one. So far, they missed the mark and the ski slopes don’t have nearly as much powder as they usually do.

  “You need a ride, Demi?” Artie calls from behind the bar.

  I shake my head and smile. “I’m good. Dad is on duty tonight and said he’d give me a ride since it’s so late.”

  He nods, and his jaw goes hard. “Heard about your stalker. You’ve gotta take that shit seriously.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. He just…” I do my best to play it off because, no matter how bad it was, I don’t like the attention. “He wasn’t ready to call it quits. Stalker is a strong definition. I’m fine now.”

  In other words, I’m fine now that the county sheriff paid Sam a visit. My dad promised me that Sam is not fine, though. He was shaken up when Dad threatened him with an order of protection.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Artie sing-songs as he washes glasses. “I heard your daddy threatened him within an inch of his life to stay far away from his little girl.”

  Well, so much for playing down the drama, and I’m hardly little. I’m twenty-eight. “It’s over. That’s all that matters.”

  “Heard you met him on some new-fangled dating app. Stay away from those, Demi. Nothing but freaks out there. You need to settle down with someone here in Winter Falls, where you belong.”

  I’ve known Artie my entire life, so I don’t roll my eyes. I love him. He coached my soccer team for years and is a family friend. But if someone else tells me what to do tonight…

  “There’s my girl.”

  Cold air swirls through the bar. When I turn, Sheriff Joel Benjamin stands tall and wide in the open door, snowflakes glinting in the street lights behind him. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Joel!” Artie yells.

  Dad lifts his chin and turns his attention back to me. “You ready? We got a call on the other side of the mountain. Someone got a flat. I’ll drop you home on the way.”

  “Yeah. I’m tired and have a long day tomorrow.” I tug my purse up my shoulder and turn to the bar. “Bye, Artie, and thanks! Fun night.”

  I head to the door and my dad circles his arm around my shoulders. “Fun, huh? Am I going to have to threaten anyone else?”

  I think about my cell phone burning a hole in my purse. I was itching to research the Italian hottie before Posey suggested it. I still don’t think there’s any way the asshole can be real. At least not anyone who wants to be taken seriously. A woman would be mad to take that on.

  Logan Carpino, the fictional asshole-slash-mafia boss can bother some other unassuming woman.

  I’m done with online dating.

  Chapter 2

  Logan

  Notifications

  I control myself, even though I want to frown.

  My phone vibrates on the table in front of me as I’m addressing the board of directors.

  Cellphones are to be used when one needs them, but should never interrupt my thoughts, my work … or, most importantly, my life.

  My notifications are turned off. For everything. Phone calls, texts, and emails. When you’re a Carpino, it’s damn near impossible to get anything done when your notifications are buzzing your ass every five minutes. My family is that much of a pain at times. They’re relentless.

  Unlike the rest of the world, I use my cell to keep track of time. Time is money. I’m obsessed with the latter, so the prior is equally important to me. Wasting time is wasting money.

  Other than my banking and investment portfolios, the only apps I use are for weather, sports, and workouts.

  I go to those when I have time at the end of the day or if I’m stuck in traffic. Otherwise, my assistant manages my messages and emails. She knows my priorities and feeds me what I need, when I need it.

  But even from her, I do not have my fucking notifications on because she’s always on the same continent as me. Hell, she’s usually in the next room. So my phone vibrating on the conference table is a first.

  I flip to the last slide of my presentation and look to my audience—a group of men and women who hated me before I even stepped foot in their country two weeks ago. But then again, they usually do when I first come onto a project. They’ll come around eventually.

  Or, they won’t and they’ll hate me forever. I don’t give a shit. Either way, their company was about to go under, and we’re the reason they still have jobs. It’s not my fault their prior owners and board had their heads up their asses and fucked up what should’ve been a profitable corporation.

  Mergers and acquisitions.

  It’s what I know, and quite frankly, I’m a killer in my field. It’s why I rose to the top of my firm. I’ve made my company more money in the last decade than they made in the last thirty years. We buy corporations that are about to go under, fix them—which usually means cutting the fat at the top—and make them a lean, mean, cash-generating machine.