Rowan Callahan is a career-climbing slut. At least according to the vicious—and false—rumor that is destroying her professional life. But a little thing like her career as an attorney ceases to matter when a plane crashes in downtown Chicago and the entire city goes dark. Her unconventional upbringing makes her suspect the worst: she’s just witnessed the kick-off to the apocalypse. Armed with a backpack of supplies, she leaves Chicago, intent on resetting her skewed priorities and seeking shelter at the family farm with her father and sister. She’s injured and running for her life when she stumbles directly in the crosshairs of two men who just might be her salvation . . . and her greatest temptation.
Graham Buchanan and Zachariah Sawyer are best friends and brothers-in-arms who have been indulging in ménages since before their Force Recon team served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’ve hung up their uniforms to build a new life for themselves and their team at Castle Creek Whitetail Ranch—a rustic deer hunting preserve that covertly doubles as a doomsday prepper’s paradise. They thought they were prepared for anything until Rowan comes crashing into their lives. Graham and Zach are convinced she’s the one woman who can handle them both, but she has no intention of deviating from her carefully laid plans for longer than it takes her to recover from her injuries. So they propose a deal: they’ll provide her an armed escort home, and in exchange, she’s theirs until they part ways.
It was the perfect plan; except once they’ve had her, they can’t let her go . . .
Meghan March is a Michigan native who has spent a good portion of her life buried in a book. Case in point: she read the entire romance section of her small town public library by age fourteen. Even after growing up (sort of) and getting a law degree, she never lost her passion for a great story, twisty plot, epic romance, and amazing characters. When she’s not writing, she’s probably reading, target shooting, drooling over fast cars, playing with her crazy mutts, or hanging with her very own sexy man.
A plane fell from the sky.
It was quite possibly the only interruption that could have dragged Rowan out of the epic pity party she was throwing herself. It was the kind of pity party one threw when a carefully planned life and decades of hard work were demolished by a complete and utter shit storm. And not demolition by a run-of-the-mill shit storm. A shit mudslide, followed by a category five shit hurricane. Rowan doubted anything other than the plane, the fifty-story building it toppled and the hundreds of lives that had been violently and tragically cut short could have pushed the thoughts of the lying asshole and blackballing bitch who owned his sad sack from her mind.
Rowan had to swallow back the bile that rose when what she’d just seen started to sink in. The loss of life … What the hell just happened?
The symphony of honking horns that filled the Chicago streets died abruptly, right in time with the falling plane. For a single moment, the lunchtime crowds on North Wacker Drive completely stilled.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos erupted.
“We’re under attack!” a woman screamed. She was only three feet away from Ro, and her screech nearly ruptured an eardrum. Terrorists. Okay. That makes sense. Doesn’t it?
“Run!” a large man in a suit shouted as flames burst from the collapsing building.
Traffic stood still. The familiar sound of idling engines and car radios was eerily absent. Rowan’s gaze darted around frantically. The traffic lights and DO NOT WALK signs were dark. There were no fire truck sirens screaming toward the building that was quickly becoming a fully involved inferno. No ambulances were rushing to the scene to try to save potential survivors.
A greasy feeling of panic pooled in Ro’s stomach. Loud popping noises punctured through the sounds of chaos as the glass globes of the nearby light poles shattered before bursting into flames.
Without taking her eyes from the disaster playing out before her, Ro rooted around in her bag for her cell phone. Her panic spiked when she pressed the button and swiped her finger across the darkened screen. Nothing. It had been nearly fully charged when she’d unplugged it from the charger on her desk only twenty minutes ago. Ro’s continued furious pressing of buttons did nothing to bring it to life.
Her brain snapped into focus. No way. It’s not possible.
A firefighter crashed into her bistro table as he ran toward the burning building. Her uncapped bottle of iced tea toppled, spilling onto her lap. The splash of cold liquid freed Rowan from her temporary paralysis, just as three other firefighters ran past. Thank God help is on the way. In that moment, she made her decision. She reached down to yank off her pumps, swapped them for the ballet flats in her bag, and started to run.