Send resume here.
Only qualified candidates will be contacted.
No further details provided; the cryptic ad hadn’t been there when she’d checked the job board earlier in the day. She’d been hoping to secure temporary work as a grocery clerk, fry cook, or house cleaner until she found something with a salary big enough to allow her to buy groceriesandsleep indoors.
Unfortunately, pickings had been slim, and few businesses were hiring over the holidays. The battery on her phone low, she wasted no time and hit the link. An email popped up sporting a generic address. She typed what she hoped sounded like a professional expression of interest and added her resume as an attachment.
With a prayer, she tapped the send button, and the swooshing sound of the email going out into the ether set a wave of butterflies zinging through her belly.Please. Please. Please. Let this be legit and not a way to kidnap women before forcing them to work as sex slaves.
She needed this. Almost out of money, and with the local women’s shelters full, it wouldn’t be long before she had to consider pawning a few of her things. Her stomach twisted. Okay fine. Not things. She only had one thing of value. Her father’s acoustic guitar.
Well, according to her mother, the instrument had belonged to her father. She had no real way of knowing for sure. Summer had never met the man. Had no idea if her musical talent came from him or some other random sperm donor.
It certainly hadn’t come from Melanie, who to this day, still refused to talk about the man who’d knocked her up at fifteen and then disappeared into the black of night before Summer had been born.
Her father could be anyone. Jim no name, the guitar player, or Joe schmoe, the accountant? Rich or poor? Alive or dead? Didn’t matter. The instrument had been passed down to her. And whether she shared the same DNA as the previous owner or not, she felt a connection to him through the calloused pads of her fingers every time she pressed them against the metal strings.
The old Taylor guitar felt like home. Like a piece of her. And she had so few pieces left. If she lost this one—she’d have nothing—and unfortunately, she couldn’t pawn her car. She needed the tin can on wheels to get to any potential job interviews.
So many parts of Northern Montana were rural. Family ranches smack dab in the middle of hundreds of acres. No public transit around for miles and miles. She liked it that way. Preferred the isolation. The vastness of the land and the untamed wilderness allowed her to commune with the music in her head.
The histories, the stories, the hardships, and heartbreaks came to her in a tumbled collection of notes. Each musical scale presenting to her in a kaleidoscope of colors she could see as well as hear. Infinite nature scapes of her own design. Synesthesia, according to the Google research she’d done.
A gift passed along by her father?
Or an effect of the drugs Melanie did while pregnant with Summer?
Who knew?
Still cradled in her hand, her phone pinged a notification, and a spike of excitement quickly turned to disappointment as the low battery warning appeared about three seconds before her mobile powered off and the screen went blank.
“Crap.” Although she felt warm enough under the blankets, her breath fogged around her head. Did she start the car to charge her phone or wait until her nose froze and she needed the heat?
Easy answer. Wait.
The nanny wanted ad had been posted mere hours ago. They wouldn’t contact the people they were interested in interviewing for a few days at least. And nobody else would be trying to get a hold of her tonight. Not on Christmas Eve. Not even on Christmas Day.
The temptation to feel sorry for herself weighed her down.
Nope. Summer pulled her knit hat over her curls and reached for her favorite book. She refused to let her current circumstances ruin her evening.
She had entertainment in the form of a super-hot three-and-a-half centuries-old vampire. Enough lighting to see the words on the page, courtesy of the trees decorated with Christmas lights. And a full belly after a bowl of everything-but-the-kitchen-sink soup provided by the women’s mission.
Life was good.
She fluffed her pillow, settled her back against the car door, and opened to the chapter she’d been reading. About to mark his mate in a sex-filled biting ritual, Talen Kayrs, Enforcer for the Realm, would keep her blood warm for hours.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
After drivingthree hours through the mountains on snow-covered roads, Summer’s hands were cramped around the steering wheel of her car as she made her way down a narrow lane. The engine had started knocking in time with the thumping of her heart about fifty miles back, and if the motor conked out now, she’d be up a creek. No paddle in sight.
God, she prayed she wasn’t lost. There’d been no signs of civilization since she’d left the main highway behind almost two hours ago, and she’d begun to wonder if she’d made the right decision in agreeing to come to such an isolated spot for an interview.
Yeah. In the middle of a thousand acres of Flathead National Forest, she’d put herself in the perfect position to be abducted by a sex-trafficking ring, mauled by wolf shifters, or held prisoner by a mafia king.
Did Montana have mafia kings? Anyway, didn’t matter. She needed this job. The temperature had dropped in the last week and sleeping in her car had become impossible. Unfortunately, her money had dried up fast, and she’d been unable to stay at the Pine Glen last night.
Worse than being homeless and squatting in the back seat of her car—again—she’d had to pawn her guitar to pay for gas. She hadn’t gotten much for it and planned to buy it back ASAP. Hence her willingness to risk life and limb for a nanny position she had little information on.
