Shep Kingston can survive a week in the woods with nothing but a pocket knife and the clothes on his back. But navigating everyday social interactions? That’s a struggle. If only people were like his dog. Loyal. Well-trained. Quiet. With Puck, Shep knows where he stands. People—especially women—are complicated. Guiding a bunch of spoiled celebrities into the North Carolina mountains is his idea of hell. Until a beautiful, off-limits rock star makes it feel more like heaven. Joss says what she means…and shows Shep exactly what she wants.

Joss Wynter plays sold-out stadiums, not insane survival games. Except she’s no longer the adored lead singer of Scarlet Glitterati. Tragedy turned fans against her and Joss into tabloid fodder. Her manager claims TV’s hottest reality competition will relaunch her image. Joss has doubts but won’t let anything distract her from winning. Not even the rugged local guide with song-inspiring sex appeal. Shep is unlike any man she’s ever met. Direct. Honest to a fault. Unexpectedly tender. As the show’s challenges intensify, so does the attraction between them.

But the cameras aren’t the only ones watching. A deadly opponent lurks in the shadows, playing a dangerous game. And all too willing to kill for a win.

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Why in holy hell couldn’t people be dogs? Dogs were just better in every way. Loyal. Trainable. Incapable of conversation.

“Puck, sit.” Shep gave the gentle command to his golden retriever, careful not to communicate the agitation crawling through him like a kicked-over pile of fire ants. Obediently, Puck plopped down his haunches on the ground, but he whined up at Shep.

He knew. Puck always knew when Shep was starting to lose his cool. When he was edging toward overload.

Shep hunkered down in front of his dog, the prickle of mountain grass under his knees, and Puck settled his chin on his shoulder. The feel of his warm breath, his steady heartbeat, provided much-needed grounding. 

Shep stared up at the wooden support tower above them silhouetted against the mountains of western North Carolina. His boss, the owner of Prime Climb Tours, had summoned him out here to the zip line course, yanking him away from his weekly check of the rock-climbing equipment. He often did that, pulled Shep from one task and assigned him another.

How many times had Shep tried to explain to Dan that such requests—okay, demands—degraded the quality of his work?

Shep took several chest-expanding breaths. It was okay. He would get back to the equipment. Back to the order of his day. As his brother Cash would say, this wasn’t nothin’ for a stepper. Shep didn’t always understand idioms, but he’d learned this one meant that he could stomp his way through whatever pile of shit he was facing.

Puck touched his nose to Shep’s neck, indicating he could feel the overload receding.  

“What would I do without you?” He gave Puck a stroke down his back and stood. His dog would wait here until Shep returned.

He climbed seven staircases up the zip line tower to find the group of middle schoolers had already zipped across, leaving Dan “The Man” Cargill alone on the platform. He was just clipping his harness into the trolley—the metal housing of wheels that slid along the cable—with two carabiners, one that would actually carry his weight and another gimmicky one that he carried everywhere. Shep told him, “Dan, I can’t pick up this group. I’m in the middle of—”

“That’s not why I asked you out here.” Strangely, Dan’s voice was full of excitement instead of the frustration it usually held when he was talking to Shep. “You’re never gonna believe this. I got a call from some muckety-mucks out in California. They’re filming Do or Die right here in North Carolina, and they want Prime Climb to supply the local guide.”

“Okay.” What that had to do with him, he hadn’t a single clue.

“Apparently, their other setup got canceled, so we’re second choice, but who the hell cares?”

“Congratulations.” He was fairly certain that was an appropriate response to Dan’s enthusiasm. “Have a great time with that.”

“Uh…” Dan cleared his throat. “They had a couple of special requests. After studying the Prime Climb website, they requested you as their guide.”

“No thank you,” Shep said and turned to climb back down the tower.

Dan caught him by the shirt. Dammit, he knew Shep hated that. Knew Shep didn’t like to be randomly touched.

“I wasn’t asking, Kingston.” A tight smile stretched across Dan’s moon-pie face. “You will guide the group from Do or Die.”

“Why?” Unable to look at Dan’s lopsided face a second longer, Shep averted his gaze, hoping the view of the mountains would soothe him as it usually did. Shortleaf and pitch pines spiked toward the sky and hardy oaks hugged the hills. They seemed to guard and protect the Nantahala National Forest and the Great Smoky Mountains. That was where Shep wanted to be right now, not standing here talking to his boss.

“Because they asked for you.”

“Why did they ask for me?”

Dan mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

His boss’s lip curled, and he released his grip on Shep’s shirt. “Apparently, they looked at your picture on the Prime Climb website, and you have the so-called image they’re looking for in a local guide. I offered to lead the group, but they said something about wanting a guide in his prime. Whatever the hell that means. This is what prime looks like.” He raised his arms and flexed his biceps, apparently ignoring the quarter inch of fat that had developed around the muscles.

“Why do they need someone local?” Dread was sweeping over Shep, the way it did when he was being backed into any kind of corner. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his climbing shorts and fingered the length of paracord he was never without. “Don’t they have that survivalist guy? Tiger or Bear or something?”

He knew damn well the TV show host’s name was Buffalo Moody. 

“They contract with a local guide on every trip.”

“It’s not like they’re climbing K2 or something.” He tied a quick slip knot with the cord inside the pocket, but that didn’t soothe him one damn bit. A bowline didn’t make him feel much better.

“You know better than anyone, Kingston, that a bunch of urban softies have no business stumbling around in the mountains by themselves. They’d get themselves killed for sure. Besides it’s only four days, and the competitors are celebrities. Who wouldn’t want to rub elbows with famous people?”

Shep wouldn’t. Four days babysitting a group of snotty celebrities sounded like a level of hell even Dante never imagined. “It’s a stupid show.” Something like Survivor meets Bear Grylls meets Mean Girls. Three famous people competed with one another for airtime and bragging rights.

“Maybe, but it’s the hottest reality show on TV right now, and the producers have promised Prime Climb Tours a mountain of cash. And it’s like they say, you can’t buy this kind of publicity.”

“Then send Celia.” Not only was she a more than adequate guide, Celia actually liked people. She was constantly smiling at and chatting with the clients who booked tours through Prime Climb. Unlike Shep, who wished their customers were into silent retreat type adventures.

Dan gave a wait-just-a-damn-minute wave to the guide standing on the opposite platforms with ten kids who were, if the jostling and joking was any indication, getting restless. “They don’t want Celia. They want you.”

WWMD? What would Maggie—his big sister, law enforcement professional, and all-around badass—do?

She would probably stare down Dan, stating one more time in a cold voice that she would not guide a group of pansy-asses on a stupid trek in front of a TV camera. And Dan would probably shit his pants.

The right side of Shep’s mouth lifted. 

But then again, Maggie was the sheriff and rarely had to do what someone else told her to do.

“Let me put it this way,” Dan said. “You guide this group and I’ll give you a bonus from the fee they pay me. You decline this opportunity, and you’ll be looking for another job.”

That brought Shep around. Rarely did he look into other people’s eyes, but right now he needed any and every clue to determine if Dan was bluffing. Was bullshitting him. “Say that again.”

“You heard it the first time. Do this, and you’ll be rewarded. Don’t, and you can kiss your paycheck good-bye.”

Realistically, the check itself didn’t mean that much to Shep. He had a pretty simple life. Little cabin in the woods, a truck, and a dog.

“But you know I’m your final stop around here, Shep. No one else wants to work with you.”

Fuck Dan for being right. Shep had either worked for or been rejected by every other outdoor outfitter and adventure company in this part of the state. Those who’d hired him in the past manufactured reasons to strike him from the payroll within a few weeks. The others hadn’t bothered to hire him in the first place. They’d either heard about him through the grapevine or he’d blown the interview.

And why the hell did anyone need to sit down and interview a wilderness guide? If he or she was physically fit, exhibited appropriate skills and certifications, that was what mattered most. But no, everyone wanted their employees to say “I love people,” “I’m a people person,” or some other kumbaya crap. 

Potential employers would rather hear a lie than the truth. When they asked Shep that question, he made it clear that people were something he tolerated because that was the only way he could get paid to do the things he loved. Hiking, climbing, rafting, zip-lining. He did it all.

And he did it damn well.

In huge part due to the way he was raised, a little differently from his four brothers and sisters.

When he was ten, his parents decided to take him out of public school. Other kids didn’t like him, many teachers didn’t understand him, and a so-called normal education didn’t fit him. 

So he spent the rest of his childhood being what they now called free-range. Like a chicken.

His dad had called it life. 

Shep had once read a book that labeled it unschooling.

It all meant the same thing—that he’d been allowed to explore the things that interested him.

Guiding for an idiotic TV show did not interest him.

But maintaining his independent lifestyle did. And if he lost his job, he wouldn’t be able to keep the news from his family. They would rally behind him, try to lift him up. Maybe even badger him into moving back in with his mom and dad.

Uh-uh.

Shep liked being able to live his life on his own. He’d discovered it was much easier than sharing a space with others, even people who claimed to love him.

“Fine,” he finally said, and even he could hear the grudging tone of his own voice. “But you better tell the TV people that we do things my way. If they have a problem with that, then they can go fuc—”

“How ’bout I handle that?” Dan cut him off. “And I’ll make it clear that you’re the expert in these mountains.”

“It will take me at least a week to check and double-check all my equipment.” On a tour like this, he would need more than just day hike basics. “So when does this damn thing start?”

Dan stepped off the platform as he said, “Tomorrow morning.”

It was drizzling in Southern California, making the trail she was running on a mini-mudslide. And because Joss was staring up at the sky, paying more attention to the rain, a magic weather unicorn, than she was to where she was going, her foot slipped, and she went down on one knee. 

The fire road near her home in the Santa Monica Mountains was littered with sharp stones, and one made a painful acquaintance with her kneecap. 

Before she could get her feet under her again, it began to rain harder. Maybe she’d somehow caused the skies to spit. After all, the sun had seemed dimmer ever since… 

Since she’d abandoned and betrayed the people she loved most in this world.

Maybe the only three people in the world who loved her.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. Everyone loved Joss Wynter. After all, she’d filled arenas full of screaming rock fans.

But her band—Chris, Winston, and Miguel. They knew and loved the real her. 

When she and the rest of Scarlet Glitterati had hit the big-time music scene nine years ago, Joss had been dissected by every industry publication, featured on every blog, and interviewed on every major media outlet.

They described her as a fusion of the best of female artists. The vulnerable songwriting of Joni Mitchell. The sexy charisma of Debbie Harry. The velvety power of Stevie Nicks. The playful cheekiness of Katy Perry.

So Joss was either one-of-a-kind or some kind of Franken-musician.

But the fearlessness of Tina Turner? That, she could no longer lay claim to.

She pushed herself up from the ground and resumed her run, trying to ignore the two men following at a respectful distance. They knew better than to offer help.

Joss didn’t want help. Didn’t deserve help.

And after Celebrity Scoop published an article about how she’d gone behind her bandmates’ backs to negotiate the terms for a solo career, the public had turned on her. The tabloids and social media had been full of so-called news about how she’d put the band on a helicopter while she’d stayed safely on the ground in a billion-dollar multimedia company’s limo.

Headlines like Superstar Singer Guilty of Band Betrayal, Joss Clinches Solo Career by Killing Off Band, and Scarlet Glitterati Blood on Wynter’s Hands were accompanied by stories of how Joss had hired the private helicopter that had crashed minutes after takeoff.

Now, people who’d once adored her made death threats.

The applause she’d once reveled in had turned to apathy at best, anger at worst. 

As she approached her house, she slowed to a walk, barely registering the incredible Topanga retreat she owned. At over six thousand square feet, it had retractable glass walls that opened to a pool and breath-stealing views of the canyon. When was the last time she’d pushed back those walls?

She couldn’t remember, and she avoided them today, entering the house through the garage instead. Her home was no longer a respite. It felt like a prison of her own making.

In the past, when Joss felt alone or sad or just misunderstood, she’d reached for her guitar. Now, Fiona—her favorite old acoustic with a scarred body and abused tuning keys—sat propped in the corner of her living room. 

After the accident, she’d shoved the guitar deep into the coat closet, but the next morning, Fiona was back in the great room. As if Fiona had opened the closet door and strolled out by herself just to mock Joss. The incident shook her, but when she mentioned it to Jerry, her manager had gently reminded her that she was prone to sleepwalking when she was under stress.

And she’d been suffocating under ten tons of the stuff for three months now.

She couldn’t stand to look at her much-loved guitar for another minute. The jittery feeling that constantly crawled under her skin threatened to burst out. To finally eat her up. She needed… something.

Anything.

So she reached for the phone and punched speed dial to Jerry. He answered before the second ring as he always did with her.

“Hey, Jojo,” he said, his voice booming with a bit too much cheer, like he thought he could pour the emotion into her and fill her up. “I was just thinking about you.”

“I can’t stay in this house anymore. I need… I need something. I can’t breathe.” Even when she was outside, the air pressed in on her, maliciously compressing her lungs.

“I thought we agreed you would lay low for a few more weeks. Long enough for some other shit to hit the fan and for people to forget all the caca in your life.”

“I’ll wear a disguise. Pretend I’m covering Scarlet Glitterati songs.” She could hear the desperation in her voice even though her hands were shaking and her stomach was heaving at the thought of touching that damn guitar. “I will sit on a stool in some shithole bar out in the Valley. I’ll do anything to stop the”—Silence. Grief. Guilt. —“boredom.”

Jerry sighed. “Maybe you need more appointments with Dr. Whitmore.”

“If my therapist comes here any more often, the rags will start the rumor that I’m sleeping with her. And although I have no problem with nonbinary relationships, and she’s an attractive woman, that wouldn’t do a damn thing to help this situation.”

“Neither would you wandering around Los Angeles in the state you’re in.”

“I am dying.” She was. Just as surely as… Shut it down.

“I did have a nibble of something, but you would hate it.”

“I’ll take it.” Joss’s heart lunged against her ribs. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Smaller venue is fine.” In fact, that would be best. Fewer people to witness any meltdown that might attack her on stage. Because if she wasn’t out there, wasn’t in front of people singing and making them love her, then she would no longer be anyone special.

“It’s TV.”

Okay, TV would be forgiving. If she flubbed up, froze on stage, forgot the lyrics, they could just edit out any mistakes.

“Tell them yes.” Maybe her lungs were tight as she said it, but she couldn’t be in this house, alone with all the ghosts, any longer. “I don’t care if it’s an award show. Hell, I’ll even do something on American Idol or The Voice.” She could be a judge like Katy or Kelly. That was even better. Safer. She would be able to win her way back into the public’s hearts without singing a note. “When do they need me?”

“You’ll have to catch a flight at—”

Her heart did something inside her chest that should’ve been anatomically impossible. “No helicopters.” She’d sit in twelve hours of LA traffic hell if she had to.

“This show doesn’t film in LA, so you’ll be on a plane.”

A plane. Maybe she could do that. She’d known she would have to fly again at some point. Surely it would be easier to keep her cool inside a big, enclosed metal tube than inside of something the size of a bumblebee. A tiny insect that could fall out of the sky so easily.

“You’ll have to hop on a red-eye to the east coast, but if you’re serious about doing something, this is our best option. You could take a sleeping pill to get through it.”

East coast. New York. “You got me a spot on Jimmy Fallon?” Doing the Tonight Show would be tough, but Jimmy was known for being kind, for having a light touch when needed.

“Not exactly, Jojo. But I promise that if you do this show, do a good job and open up a little, people will come around, stop blaming you. Heck, if you work hard enough, you might even win the whole thing.”

“Win?” She paced back along the huge glass doors, purposefully avoiding the corner where her guitar sat. “Win what?”

“I’ll text you the airline ticket as soon as my assistant can book it.”

Foreboding smothered her, and she gripped her cell so hard that her knuckles ached. Why wasn’t Jerry telling her the name of the show? “Where am I flying?”

“Direct from LA to Charlotte, North Carolina. From there, we’ll have a driver take you out to a place called Steele Ridge.”

That… that sounded like a town with a population slightly smaller than New York City’s. “And then?”

“And then you’ll woo back your fans by winning the reality show Do or Die.”

* * *