I hate the cold. I hate snow. And I definitely hate Pine Peak, the tourist trap town I’ve been sent to audit.
My job is simple: look at the books for the local tree farm, find the tax loopholes, and get back to my heated apartment in the city. Then I met the owner, Klaus. No, he’s not Santa.
He’s a mountain of muscle with a beard that should be illegal and eyes that undress me faster than I can shiver. He’s charming, in a gruff, silent way, but the man has zero boundaries.
He’s constantly touching me—”to keep me warm,” he says. He eats four steaks for dinner. And his family? They’re a nightmare.
They travel in a pack, they wrestle in the snow shirtless, and they all stare at me like I’m a pork chop. I should leave. But then a blizzard snowed us in together in his cabin.
We shared a bottle of whiskey, one thing led to another, and I woke up with the distinct feeling that I’ve been claimed.
Now, if I could just figure out why the local “stray dogs” keep guarding my car, I might actually survive the holidays.
