It was 6:14 a.m. and I was awake.

The engine revved for a third time—louder, longer, angrier.

I know an engine can’t be angry, but this engine sounded angry. Specifically, it sounded angry with me. The engine must’ve been feeling pretty pissed in my general direction, because why else would it be waking me up after less than three hours of sleep?

But what the engine didn’t know was that I was not afraid of its anger. I took crap from no engine, not anymore and especially not when the engine was under the control of one of my six brothers. Because now, I was a badass.

The only way one of them would be awake at 6:14 in the morning was if they’d never gone to sleep the night before.

Likely, they were either drunk or stoned or both.

Lovely. Just…lovely.

Good old boys revving their loud engines early in the morning was reason number thirty-three for why I never came home. I’d started making the list two days ago, when I’d decided that I had no choice but to fly to Tennessee.

Though I hadn’t been home in eight years, my momma had visited me at college many times. Every year since I’d graduated four years ago with my BSN—a bachelor’s degree in nursing—I’d taken her on a vacation with me, just the two of us.

But three days ago, she hadn’t returned my call, nor had she picked up the phone when I’d called the next day. This was remarkable because she and I had spoken on the phone at the same time every day for the last eight years except for when we were together, of course. Our conversations didn’t typically last very long, just a quick check-in to see if she needed anything, see how life was treating her. Sometimes she’d share gossip about people I’d grown up with, and sometimes I’d tell her about a new book I was reading.

Mostly, I think we just took comfort in the sound of each other’s voices.

So after two days with no contact, I was worried. Finally, I resorted to calling Jethro, my oldest brother. He told me that Momma was in the hospital, and she was refusing to see or talk to anyone.

Therefore, I hopped a plane, intent on discovering the truth behind her mystery hospital visit. I was determined to take care of the woman who’d never failed to take care of me.

The car engine revved again. I growled, threw my covers off, and marched out my bedroom door. In my rush to rain a world of hurt on whoever was responsible for the early morning wakeup call, I slipped on the last three stairs leading to the first floor of my momma’s house and cursed, almost falling flat on my ass. The resulting spike in adrenaline was rocket fuel to my irritation.

Gone was the girl from small-town Tennessee, mild mannered, sensitive, and ignorant youth that my brothers once knew. Before I left I’d just begun to fight back against their antics. Now I was a ninja of mind over matter. Whichever of my brothers was responsible for waking me up revving his hopped-up engine after I had endured a delayed, three-connection flight from Chicago to Tennessee was going to suffer.

Retribution. Revenge. Perhaps death. At the very least, someone was going to be the recipient of an epic titty-twister.

I flew out the front door and let the screen door slam behind me. I wasn’t worried about waking anyone. If the inhabitants of the house could sleep through the ruckus coming from the garage then they could sleep through the banging of a porch door. Besides, the roosters were already holding a crowing contest.

Another thing I wasn’t worried about was my state of undress. My family’s property was situated on fifteen acres in the middle of Green Valley, otherwise known as podunk nowhere. It backed up to the Smoky Mountains National Park on the Tennessee side. If you didn’t count all the cars on blocks, defunct trailers, old tires, rusted machine parts, and general trashy appearance of the grand old house and yard, it was actually a lovely spot.

Usually, my idiot brothers ran around half-dressed, so I paid no mind to the fact that I was in my pink tank top pajamas with matching sleep shorts. I was likely overdressed.

I avoided a pile of broken beer bottles on the path leading to the detached garage; really, it was more like a giant hanger. My mind told me that the structure was called a quonset hut and I told my mind to hush. I didn’t care what it was called. I only cared that all of its inhabitants were soon going to be murdered by my hands. Then I would go back to sleep.

The sun was already up, which made the inside of the metal structure dark in contrast. Regardless, I could see the machine of my angst as I approached; it would have been impossible to miss.

Two male bodies leaned inside the open hood of an orange and white Charger. A third numbskull, currently hidden, was in the driver’s seat revving the engine.

As was my custom, I was yelling before I’d made it to the garage. “I don’t care which of you hillbilly, disease-infested, flea-bitten, catawampus-heads are in here making this ruckus, you better stop right this minute!”

Jethro turned as I approached and tugged his pants upward. As I suspected, I was overdressed. He wore nothing but his beard and a pair of stained jeans. Jethro’s longish brown hair was askew and unkempt, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his beard could do with a trim. But his brown eyes were warm and sharp as they surveyed me.

Billy, the second in our family, kept his back to me. I knew it was Billy because he had a tattoo on his left shoulder of a goat with the word Billy beneath it. He was likewise attired, which meant that his ass-crack was on full display for the sun in the sky and the small woodland animals in the forest.

Of my brothers, Billy and I look the most alike; we are almost replicas of my father. We both have dark brown hair that’s almost black, blue eyes, and the same wide mouth with pillow lips, as my brother Duane used to say.

But where I was pale skinned and curvy, he was suntanned, muscled—presumably from manual labor—and tattooed.

“Well, hello gorgeous. When’d you get in? It must’ve been late.” Jethro waved with grease stained hands, his white teeth a glaring contrast to his dark brown beard.

Billy called over his shoulder, “Why are you even up?” He sounded exasperated.

“Because you geniuses are out here testing decibel limits. I can’t sleep through all the-”

Just then the engine revved again. The sound spiked, absorbing my words, and caused a new wave of aggravation.

“Argh! Which of you ugly idiots keeps doing that?” I guessed it was Cletus, the third oldest, behind the wheel. He was the sweetest, but also the least likely to comprehend the obvious.

I charged into the garage, nearly kicking over a quart of oil in my haste. I didn’t care. I needed my sleep. I did not need an early morning of boys and their toys.

I began bellowing as soon as I crossed the threshold. “I swear to the god of moonshine, I am going to pinch your nipples straight off your chest!”

Without a second thought, I reached my hand in the open driver’s side door of the charger and twisted the nipple within reach. I did this with relish, the gleefully vindictive kind, not the pickle kind. I also gripped the roof of the car with my other hand for leverage in case Cletus tried to push me away.

“Ow! What the…?”

A string of impressive expletives arose from the car. A large and powerful hand gripped mine and ripped it away from the male chest.

I gasped. This was for several reasons, not the least of which was that Cletus didn’t know the equivalent word for fuck in Latin, nor did any of my brothers.

Therefore, this person whose nipple I’d just assaulted was most definitely not my brother Cletus.

A shot of adrenaline coursed down my spine, my eyes widened with shock, and I tried to unsuccessfully wrench my hand away. The fingers that held me were punishing; with one fluid motion the occupant stood from the driver’s seat, twisted my arm behind my back, and brought my body flush against his.

He was breathing hard.

I was breathing harder.

I stared at him.

The occupant stared back.

Gray-blue eyes, almost silver, held mine in a vice grip of anger and surprise. I felt an electric bolt, like I’d been tazered in the stomach. Other than a very slight shadow of wonder, he wore an expression that would have made a thunderstorm proud.

As well, he was so ruggedly sexy I’m sure my mouth fell open to protest the unfairness of his existence. Luckily, no sound emerged. I was too busy oscillating between stunned, mortified, and turned on.

This man was definitely not one of my brothers.

First of all, this guy had a blond beard and a smattering of blond chest hair. All the Winston boys had dark brown beards except Duane and Beauford, who were twins. They were numbers five and six in the family and had ginger beards.

Also, this guy had a bronze tan. He was tan all over, like a grease stained surfer or a Viking marauder who spent all his time at sea shirtless.

And… what number was I on?

Oh yes. Third, he was the kind of expertly disheveled, ruggedly handsome that made me forget what number I was on.

He was massive. Like, six-foot-four huge. His chest and arms and stomach and shoulders were cut like a boulder; he felt stone hard.

The staring continued. I watched confusion war with fury as his glare devoured my face, lingered on my lips, and darted back to my eyes.

Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!”

He blinked at me and shook his head once, quickly, as if I’d just appeared. He released my hand and stepped away as though touching me might burn him. “What the hell was that?”

I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest—a very, very nice chest—but his left nipple was red and angry. My nipple-wist marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound of dismay tumbled from my lips.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, and I reached forward and petted the offended skin. “I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d known you weren’t related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have known you weren’t Cletus; he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and taken evasive maneuvers.”

“Evasive maneuvers?”

I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautiously.

I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and I completely lost my train of thought.

“What?”

The Viking’s eyes looked directly into mine. After a short pause, he glanced down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my fingers were caressing his man-nipple. I flinched, yanked my hands away and balled them into fists between us.

“Sorry,” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop talking....”

His eyes lowered to my feet then swept up my body in an unapologetic assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled on my chest.

“Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.

“Who am I?” I asked, because honestly—and I might lose my badass card for this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.

“Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more annoyed. I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was Oklahoma or Texas.

“I…I’m Ashley Winston.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, obviously surprised by my response. His frown was equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy blond beard as he surveyed me.

Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”

The fact that the golden Viking had addressed my brother rather than me was a slap of sobriety, and I responded with mildly offended displeasure. “Yes they have a sister.”

Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”

“I thought Ash was a boy.” The handsome marauder said this like he was both shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with trickery and deception.

“No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.

The man’s eyes swept up and down my body again, a flagrant scrutiny. He did not look pleased.

“Obviously.” The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.

In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.

He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

But his less than flattering expression was just the reality slap I needed to propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction to his rugged handsomeness, and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that it was six-something in the morning, and this male specimen of fineness was the reason I was awake.

Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.

I gave him my very best you’re not worth my time glare even as I fought against a delayed blush of embarrassment. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or if I was flustered because he obviously found me repulsive.

Really, I’d ogled him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out stink-eye.

Suppressing these disturbing and uncomplimentary musings, I turned to Jethro. “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated the bearded stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”

Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a lot, which was not typical for him. “Come on, Ash. We need to be at work in two hours. Cut us a break.”

I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a job?”

Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I have a job, baby sister.”

I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with renewed embarrassment. I had been gone a long time, and I had no desire to insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.

Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and glared at me. Even though I was younger than both of them, I’d been the only consistently responsible child of the seven Winston brood when we were growing up, and the only girl. My brothers had always seen me paradoxically as an authority figure and a doormat.

I imagined it was similar to how they viewed my mother.

I fought the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twister tempest and took a calmer approach. “Look, my flight just got in at two this morning, and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with Momma.” I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “I just need some sleep.”

“Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger. My back stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.

Billy walked to the side of the car and leaned against it. “When I came home two days ago, she’d left a note.”

“What kind of note?” The Viking asked; I didn’t want to notice but he had a delicious growly and authoritative quality to his voice.

Stupid growly commanding Texan Viking voice.

“She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital,” Billy explained.

My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that I hadn’t been home in a while, and maybe she was sick with the flu or just needed a vacation from the craziness that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely fine.

“I didn’t know she was sick,” the blond man said, coming to stand next to me, my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision, I noticed that he’d folded his arms across his sculpted chest, his right hand covering his left nipple.

“No one did,” Billy said, looking straight at me. “Not even Ash,” he added in a slightly sardonic tone.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” An unmistakable air of privilege and authority hung heavy around the stranger. “Start from the beginning,” he demanded.

A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man, this unknown person, sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in the loop regarding what happened to my mother.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep; maybe it was the stress of not knowing what was going on with my mother; maybe it was because this man’s sense of entitlement reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at my job in Chicago, but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder despite his colossal handsomeness and the fact that I’d assaulted then molested his man-nipple.

I glared at his unkempt beard and longish blond hair, both of which annoyed me now, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your business? And who the hell are you?”

Mr. Blond Beard considered me with impatience, as if I were gum on his shoe. I returned his malicious glower, as if he were gum in my hair.

I heard Jethro clear his throat, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Runous. He’s my boss.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston,” he drawled, extending his hand in a show of ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use when they say “bless your heart,” and what they really mean is “you couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an escort.”

But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively aggravated by the audacity of my existence.

“Likewise, I’m sure.” Ignoring his offered hand, I returned his ironic southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced volley.

When I’d left Tennessee eight years ago, Jethro’s “job” was selling weed to vacationing teenagers then stealing their cars. I guessed that this self-important blond toolbox was likely in a similar trade.

I continued, “Your professional relationship with my brother notwithstanding, I’m certain even someone like you can recognize that this a personal family matter and is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

Not waiting for his reaction, I turned back to Jethro. “Rev your engine all you like. I’m getting dressed and going to the hospital to see what I can find out.”

I strolled out of the garage with my head held high and did my best to ignore the fact that I felt Drew’s eyes—sure and hot as a brand—on my backside. This was accompanied by the unavoidable and spreading warmth in my chest associated with the awareness that a super-hot mountain of a man was watching me walk away.

I decided to overlook the knowledge that my hasty, arrogant dismissal of him was likely undermined by the fact that I was leaving in a snit while wearing nothing but my sleep shorts and pajama top. Also undermining my superiority was the fact that I’d just attacked his chest then fondled it. I’d even ogled him, and he’d responded with repulsion.

So…yeah, I didn’t have much air in my sad little kite.

Once I was back in the house, the door behind me, I leaned against it and released a slow breath. My hands were fisted at my sides so I shook them out, flexing my fingers, and sent a silent prayer upward that whatever was going on with my momma was resolved sooner rather than later.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding the banister for balance, and crossed to the upstairs bathroom. I had no desire for any further interactions with Viking marauders, especially when the marauder was so good looking that it nearly eclipsed his entitled arrogance.

These were the thoughts in my head when I opened the bathroom door and, to my life-long horror, saw Beauford Winston—at least I think it was Beauford, though it could have been Duane, the other twin—standing at the edge of the tub. He was naked except for his ginger beard, a dirty magazine propped on the counter, and his hand wrapped around Beau Jr.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My hands flew to my face.

He cursed.

I heard a thud and I turned my back to him. I was now fully and mortifyingly awake.

“Shit, Ash. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry—I should have knocked.”

“Nah…” he huffed, “I should have locked the door. It’s just that everyone knows Tuesday mornings are my time slot.”

“Your slot? What do you mean your time slot?”

“It’s my private time in the tub, you know, to get my rub on.”

“Gah!” I shook my head and pressed my palms into my eyes.

“I can give you a copy of the schedule.”

I heard the front door open and footsteps thundering through the house then up the stairs.

“Don’t! Do not give me a schedule. I don’t want to know. Just, can’t you put a sock on the door or something?”

“That’s what we used to do but then we kept losing socks. It’s good to see you, Ash.”

“Uh, you too…?” My hands fell away from my face and I moved to the doorway. “I’ll just give you some privacy.”

My escape was blocked by the worried visages of three shirtless, sweaty men—Jethro, Billy, and Drew Runous.

I closed my eyes and covered my face again; I seriously considered crawling into the cabinet under the bathroom sink, one of my favorite places to hide from my brothers’ torture when I was a kid. I wondered if I would still fit.

“What the hell?” Jethro’s winded exclamation met my ears, and I stifled a groan.

“Are you okay?” Billy asked. I felt a small, hesitant touch on my shoulder. “We heard screams.”

I nodded. “Yes. Fine. I just need to learn to knock.”

“Who screamed?” Drew demanded.

“I did,” I said, inwardly grimacing.

“We heard two screams,” Jethro contradicted. “Did you scream twice?”

“I didn’t scream. I…I hollered.” Beauford said.

“That wasn’t a holler. That was a scream. You screamed like a woman.” Billy said this like he was addressing a jury.

“Whatever, screamed, hollered, who cares. I should have locked the door.” Beauford’s easy-going tone made me feel a bit better. I didn’t remember him being so nice. Then he said, “Oh, hey, Drew. Didn’t see you there.”

“Hey, Beau.”

“What happened to your chest?” Beau asked.

I wished for the ability to disappear, especially when Drew responded, “Some woman couldn’t keep her hands off me. What’s going on in here?”

Beau didn’t answer. The room was blanketed in a brief silence as, I was sure, understanding began to dawn.

Jethro was the one to break the awkward soundless comprehension. “Uh,” He cleared his throat. “Tuesday mornings are Beau’s time slot.”

“I know that now,” I peeked at them from between my fingers. “I’ll just knock from now on.”

“Do you want the schedule? We have a schedule.” Billy’s offer was paired with his thumb thrown over his shoulder, presumably pointing in the direction of where the schedule was kept.

“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just knock.”

The sound of barely suppressed laughter pulled my eyes to where entitled Drew stood in the hallway. His lips were compressed, rolled between his teeth, his big shoulders were shaking, and he stared at the floor like his life hung in the balance.

My mortification abruptly turned to irritation, then to fury.

Drew Runous and my brothers probably looked at me and saw the gullible little sister I used to be, not to mention the starry-eyed beauty queen I was in high school.

But I was now more than the accident of my genetics, more than the face and body I’d inherited from my parents, more than my backwoods Tennessee accent.

I wasn’t that person anymore. I’d worked eight years to change and improve myself. I’d become someone new, someone stronger, armed with knowledge, fierce. I was someone who could hold her own in any situation, be it a discussion on post-modernism or Japanese art as an influence on Van Gogh; debating with an MD Harvard graduate when I disagreed on a course of treatment for one of my patients; or standing up to four bearded masturbators (obsessed with schedules, no less) in the upstairs bathroom of my momma’s house.

In fact, I was completely different. I was a new person entirely.

“On second thought,” I said, my hands dropping from my face, my spine straightening, “I will take that schedule.”

Billy glanced over my shoulder to Beau then shot a look at Jethro. “Oh, okay. I’ll get it for you.”

“In fact,” I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at Drew the Amused Viking’s persistent smile, “what days are free?”

Another stunned silence descended, and I noted with satisfaction that the marauder’s grin fell as his eyes lifted to mine. They searched and burned. I knew, beyond a doubt, that he was imagining me in the bathroom naked, by myself, getting my rub on, as Beau put it. It was written all over his ruggedly handsome face.

Strangely enough, given our earlier encounter, he didn’t look repulsed by the thought. Maybe he was just an equal-opportunity perv.

I refused to blush. I refused to appear even an ounce embarrassed.

Because he was staring at me—his gaze moving to my chest, then hips, then thighs—as though compelled to take mental notes. His eyes were hot and a little unfocused and, irritatingly enough, were making me feel hot and a little unfocused.

I couldn’t conquer the thundering of my heart or the sudden twisting in my abdomen or the tingling awareness on the back of my neck. It was everything I could do to hide all the outward effects that his evocative, penetrating gaze elicited.

Instead, as Drew looked directly at me again, I slid my eyes over to Billy, who was staring at me like I was a three–headed possum.

“Uh, what?” Billy asked.

“Which days are free, on the schedule?”

Billy blinked at me and his voice cracked a little when he responded, “I think Sundays and Wednesdays, since Roscoe moved out. But you probably don’t want Wednesdays.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s usually when the new magazines show up in the mail.”

I fought the urge to grimace. Instead, I nodded once and gave him a tightlipped smile. “Good. Put me down for Sundays. There’s no postal service on Sundays.”

Beau groaned, which he turned into an overly dramatic gagging sound. “Things I never needed to know about my sister.”

With that, I strolled down the hallway to my room, pointedly not looking at the physical manifestation of every bodice-ripper hero I’d ever read. Like before, I felt the weight and heat of his gaze on my backside.

Once inside, door shut (and locked), I crossed to my bed and flopped down on my stomach. I willed the tingling and twisting heat that had taken up residence there to stop post haste.

I made three mental notes:

One: Always knock on every door, every room, every time. Drag my feet and bang pots and pans down the halls. This is not a house to be a ninja in.

Two: Never be alone with Drew Runous.

Three: Do everything in my power to leave before Sunday.