Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Rot alone in my apartment…
Or escape to Sweden—where snow, champagne, and three of the most dangerously attractive men I’ve ever known were waiting.
Guess which one I picked?
Worst. Decision. Ever.
I should have said no to my brother’s invitation.
A luxury ski retreat?
Gorgeous log cabins, crackling fires, and the triplets I’ve crushed on since Highschool—my brother’s three best friends.
Because the Andersons don’t just share the same face, the same panty-melting smirk, the same hands that know exactly how to ruin me—
They share everything.
Including the one secret that could destroy us all.
“There’s zero chance of knowing who the father is. Identical triplets share almost identical DNA.”
The words slam into me like a freight train.
Oh. Hell.
How did I let this happen?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
MAKAYLA
“Hold the plane!”
I sprint, but I’m too late—the boarding gate is already locked.
“I’m sorry, boarding has finished, and we can’t let anyone else on,” a clerk says.
“But I can see it right there,” I tell her, pointing to the jet idling outside the window.
“Boarding is complete, ma’am,” she says, her tone flat.
“Please, you don’t understand. I’m supposed to meet my brother in Stockholm, and if I’m not on that plane, he’s going to be so disappointed. He needs me there,” I say, my voice rising.
She shakes her head. “Would you like me to look for the next available flight?”
“I want a seat on that flight,” I say, jabbing my finger toward the window.
The ticket taker sneers. “Ma’am, do I have to call security?”
I can almost see the dismayed look on Bryan’s face when I do make it to Stockholm. It’s a look I will never be able to live down. As if the universe hasn’t tested me enough these past couple of weeks.
I exhale. “Fine,” I say to the ticket clerk. “I’ll take another flight.”
“Right this way.” She leads me to another computer terminal, then leaves to finalize the paperwork for the flight I just missed.
I drum my fingernails on the counter, impatience thrumming through me. Maybe Bryan’s already settled into the chalet. I hope he’s enjoying the mountain views and good company. I wish I were with him, but I’m staring at an eight-hour flight and who knows how much time before the next plane takes off.
The ticket clerk returns and gives me a tight smile. My heart stutters, still hoping for the best.
“How many passengers will be traveling with you?” she asks.
I look around. “It’s just me.”
“Would you be open to a layover in London?”
“Sure.”
“Great,” she says. “There’s a flight leaving in an hour from Gate A15.”
I exhale. “Thank you.” One hour isn’t so bad. I wasn’t expecting a layover, but beggars can’t be choosers. I grab the ticket from her and hightail it to the right gate.
This time, I’m among the first to board. I make my way to my seat, thrilled that I scored a window. I open the shade to look out at the tarmac. Airport staff buzz around like bees as they load our bags into the plane. I hunt through my carry-on for my earbuds and sync my phone to the plane’s Wi-Fi. I’m all ready to go by the time the last passenger arrives.
The Wi-Fi flickers and the ride turns bumpy, but as long as I can stare out at the clouds and the faint curve of Earth below, I’m content.
During my London layover, I kill two hours nursing a coffee and sampling local pastries, even splurging on a flaky Cornish pasty.
Touching down in Stockholm, I don’t expect anyone to meet me, though I’ve texted Bryan.
“He needs his rest; I’m the one who’s late. I’ve got this,” I tell myself.
I grab my bags, already wishing I’d packed lighter. I haul them up the long ramp to the front door and step inside, barely noticing the shift from outdoor frost to the lobby’s cozy warmth.
The place is stunning with three enormous Christmas trees lighting up the lobby.
Tinsel and tiny white lights sparkle everywhere, and I love how the decorators have kept it professional yet still warm.
“Makayla?”
A gentleman in his mid-fifties approaches, glancing at his phone between steps. At first glance, he looks like a movie-perfect chauffeur. He wears a dark suit and leather gloves, his silver hair neatly trimmed, his smile warm. Right then, my phone pings with a text from Bryan.
“Your driver should be at the airport—Hans. Great guy,” he writes.
“I’m Makayla,” I tell the silver-haired gentleman.
“I’m Hans, your driver. Allow me to take your luggage,” he says.
I can’t help but smile. “Honestly, I’m so tired, I wouldn’t dare stop you.”
“Please, it’s my pleasure.”
I’d almost forgotten how fluent most Swedes are in English; he even nails a faint American accent. Grateful, I let him carry my luggage and follow him across the parking lot to a sleek yet sturdy SUV, its taxi light glowing and license neatly taped to the windshield and rear doors.
He loads everything into the back, then helps me climb in. “Make yourself comfortable. It’s about a two-hour drive.”
“Thank you.” I sink into the seat, doing exactly that.
You’re almost there, Makayla. Almost there.
The Golden Stag crowns a ridge of snow-capped mountains that glitter like diamonds under the starry sky. The sight gives me pause. It’s gorgeous—a blend of classic architecture and modern lighting—and I’ll bet the views are even more breathtaking in daylight.
Hans brings my luggage all the way in, then politely shakes my hand and leaves me to marvel at the even more impressive interior, starting with the sumptuous lobby clad in festive red velvet and gold tinsel. I can’t stop staring at the centerpiece—a massive crystal chandelier that sparkles overhead. Still, I have a bed to crash into, so I look around for the front desk.