Red Moon is my husband’s fault. He’s the one who receives Cabela’s catalogues in the mail and leaves them lying around the house. I happened to be bored that day and was flipping through the latest edition to see if there were any good deals when I reached the men’s clothing section.
In general, this section doesn’t get a strong reaction to me. Most of the Cabela’s models are semi-attractive, but still-normal-in-the-best-way-possible sort of men who look like they would be equally comfortable in the great out-of-doors or in the coffee shop down the street. Then I flipped the page and froze in a stunned silence that prompted my husband, who was looking over my shoulder, to ask, “What?”
More like, “Who?”
I couldn’t actually respond since my mind was flooded with a multitude of questions that were clamouring to be answered. Who was this blonde, confident, slightly bored man? What was he looking at out of the picture’s frame with that intense, forehead wrinkling focus? Was he looking at a girl? Would she be feeling the same butterflies I would be if he was looking at me that way? And why, oh why, for the love of God, could I not stop staring and drooling at his hands?!?
I think I mumbled something along the lines of “I need to go write,” before scurrying off with his magazine clutched to my chest. And to my darling husband’s credit, he only cried out in protest once when he heard the tell-tale sound of a page being ripped out.
The first lines I wrote of this story were, “But his hands made her mouth go dry. Strong. Roughened with calluses. A light dusting of blonde hair on the knuckles, nearly invisible until the sunlight caught it. A few faded scars and some healing cuts. No wedding ring or tan line of a ring. They were competent hands, working hands.” And like that, Flynn was there in the room with me, grumbling the entire time that he didn’t understand why I wanted to talk about him of all people; his brother would be far more interesting. I ignored him and wrote anyway.
His picture is still up on my bulletin board.
Flynn Sinclair understands pack loyalty — for years as his Alpha father’s enforcer, he has done things in the name of duty that he can’t ever forget. But the vast expanse of Alaska offers him a peace he’s never known. Alone, removed from pack life, he can focus on his research and try to forget his life before.
But duty has a way of inviting itself in, and Flynn finds himself doing two reckless things in one week: leaving the safety of Alaska to save his brother Connor’s life, and unwittingly falling in love with Evie Thompson, a woman who doesn’t deserve to be drawn into his terrifying world.
Connor carries news of their father’s descent into madness, and it looks like neither geography nor Flynn’s attempts at disengagement will put off a confrontation. Flynn had finally begun to believe that he might deserve something good in his life — something like Evie — but to move forward in the light, he must first reconcile with the dark.