Savage love heatstroke h.., p.1
Savage Love (Heatstroke Hearts Book 3), page 1
Savage Love
BAILEY HART
Savage Love
Heatstroke Hearts Book Three
Copyright © 2024 by Bailey Hart
www.baileyhartromance.com
All Rights Reserved. This publication or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored, distributed, or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons alive or deceased, places, or events is coincidental.
Cover: Echo Grayce of Wildheart Graphic Design
Editor: Victoria Straw
Proofreader: Claire Milto
Contents
Playlist
Content Warning
Chapter 1
Hannah
Chapter 2
Savage
Chapter 3
Hannah
Chapter 4
Savage
Chapter 5
Hannah
Chapter 6
Savage
Chapter 7
Hannah
Chapter 8
Savage
Chapter 9
Savage
Chapter 10
Hannah
Chapter 11
Hannah
Chapter 12
Savage
Chapter 13
Hannah
Chapter 14
Savage
Chapter 15
Hannah
Chapter 16
Savage
Chapter 17
Hannah
Chapter 18
Savage
Chapter 19
Hannah
Chapter 20
Savage
Chapter 21
Hannah
Chapter 22
Savage
Chapter 23
Hannah
Chapter 24
Savage
Chapter 25
Hannah
Chapter 26
Savage
Chapter 27
Hannah
Chapter 28
Savage
Chapter 29
Hannah
Chapter 30
Savage
Chapter 31
Hannah
Chapter 32
Savage
Chapter 33
Hannah
Chapter 34
Savage
Chapter 35
Hannah
Chapter 36
Savage
Chapter 37
Hannah
Chapter 38
Savage
Chapter 39
Hannah
Chapter 40
Savage
Chapter 41
Hannah
Chapter 42
Savage
Chapter 43
Hannah
Chapter 44
Savage
Chapter 45
Hannah
Chapter 46
Savage
Chapter 47
Hannah
Chapter 48
Savage
Chapter 49
Hannah
Epilogue
Bailey’s Babes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
You are allowed to want what you want, love who you love, and be who you want to be.
Playlist
“Midnight Sky” — Miley Cyrus
“Yes, and?” — Ariana Grande
“Made You Look” — Meghan Traitor
“Fearless (Taylor’s Version)” — Taylor Swift
“Put Your Head On My Shoulder” — Paul Anka
“Wicked Game” — Chris Isaac
“Watermelon Sugar” — Harry Styles
“Lover” — Taylor Swift
“Stay” — Rihanna, Mikky Elko
“I Will Always Love You” — Whitney Houston
Scan in app to listen:
Content Warning
This story contains topics that readers might find upsetting. I’ve done my best to handle them with grace and sensitivity.
Please visit www.baileyhartromance.com/svlcw or scan the QR CODE below for more details.
One
HANNAH
This is the most important day of my life.
Fifty habanero peppers. Five contestants, and a crowd that’s filled with so many familiar faces, my head swims. I can’t afford to choke. I’ve been training for this for literal months.
“Welcome to Heatstroke’s Twenty-Fifth Annual Hot Pepper Eating Contest!” The announcer, Richard Walton, is Heatstroke’s favorite newscaster, and he’s exactly what I imagined he’d be like. Elaborately-coiffed, overly friendly, with a thousand-watt smile and one of those combs tucked into the top pocket of his snazzy suit jacket.
It’s easier to focus on his jacket than the way his gaze remains fixed on the TV camera below the makeshift stage in the Heatstroke Public Park.
The crowd cheers and claps.
“Let’s go, Hannah!” June calls from somewhere in the masses.
I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.
I am so not good with crowds. But I swore I would do this, and I’m not backing out. The sky is peony blue, the grass in the park is lush, and the heat of the day is threatening, though it’s barely past ten. And this is it. My shot.
“As y’all know, this year’s contest is proudly sponsored by the Heatstroke Board of Better Businesses, a collection of local businesses, including the General Store, Beets and Yeets, Bagel’s Bakery, the Heartstopper Diner, Longhorn’s, and your very own News Channel Nine,” Richard continues, in his professional announcer voice. “And get this folks, this year’s prize is bigger than ever before, with the winner walking away with a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.”
Gasps and cheers follow that, and I steel myself, trying not to be intimidated by the cameras, the mass of peppers on the plate, or Paul, who’s last year’s winner, standing next to me with his arms folded, and a look on his face that says, “Why did you even bother to show up?”
I’m here for two reasons.
First, because I want to show my family that “boring” little librarian Hannah can be just as crazy and adventurous as the rest of my siblings.
Second, the money.
With that kind of money, I can revamp the children’s section of the library before I leave.
My stomach twists, and I glance toward Richard.
“—how it’s going to work. In the first round, contestants will eat up to fifty habanero peppers. Those who survive will move on to the final round, in which they will eat as many Carolina Reaper peppers as they can handle. The last person standing wins.”
Sweat beads on the back of my neck. The Carolina Reaper pepper is one of the hottest in the world at over 1.5 million Scoville units. In other words, hot enough to make a grown woman cry or eviscerate this particular woman’s digestive system.
Why am I doing this again? The children. A parting gift. You can do this.
“Don’t touch your eyes,” I murmur. “Do not touch your eyes.”
“Worried, sweetheart? You should drop out now,” Paul says. “Save yourself the pain. We all know I’m going to win, and this ain’t the amateur leagues.”
“What’s the matter, Paul?” I whisper. “Can’t handle a little healthy competition?”
Paul’s eyes widen, but before he can retort, the crowd bursts into cheers again.
“All right, folks,” Richard says. “Let’s get this pepper-eating show on the road! Contestants, come forward and stand behind your eating stations.”
I tie my hair back in a high ponytail as I step forward. I grab the plastic bib that’s been laid over the back of the chair at my station. Really, it’s just a spot behind a long wooden table that might as well be an eating trough.
Hot peppers have a myriad of benefits. They decrease inflammation, for one. They—
“Take your seats,” Richard says.
I sit down and stare at the hot pepper pile. My gaze lifts to the crowd, and I spot June and Cash out there. Cash is unmistakable, especially since he’s taller than most of the other people, and he’s wearing that “Hannah, what the heck are you doing” scowl. I’m grateful he’s here. He turned down an invitation to host the event, and an interview about me, which would really have been about him.
That’s the cross my famous brother has to bear, and he handles it so well.
I force a smile.
June waves frantically, bobbing up onto her tiptoes, and I wave back.
“At the ready,” Richard says. “Let’s count it down. Three.”
The crowd joins in, clapping on the countdown.
“Two.”
“One! Start eating,” Richard yells.
Next to me, Paul fists five peppers, stem and all, and rams them into his mouth. He chews like a man blessed by Çhicomecoatl, the Mexican goddess of fire and fertility herself.
“Go, Hannah!” June screams above the crowd. If Marci wasn’t on her honeymoon, she’d be here too.
I grab the first three peppers on my plate and shove them into my mouth. And the world becomes fiery pain. My diaphragm contracts, and I start hiccuping so hard it’s a struggle to swallow one pepper, let alone three.
Maybe if I swallow them whole?
My eyes and nose stream.
Paul’s making grun
Eat past the pain. Remember why you’re doing this. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I shove another pepper into my mouth and then another. I blink, my vision blurry, and try seeking out June in the crowd for moral support, and that’s when it happens.
That’s when I see him.
Carter Savage, striding toward Cash, the crowd parting in front of him effortlessly. My brother’s best friend, who doesn’t know I exist as anything other than Cash’s hopeless little sister.
Carter’s gorgeous, even through tears with his rough, well-kept beard streaked with gray, tattoos that arc up his muscular neck, tan skin and those dark, devilish eyes. A gray T-shirt strains against the muscles that make up this man’s body.
I can’t help staring or the butterflies in my stomach or the fact that I gasp when his gaze wanders to the stage and lands on me.
Thanks to Savage, I’ve conveniently forgotten that I have a mouth full of hot peppers. And now, chunks of them are lodged in my throat.
I can’t breathe. The realization hits me, and I try to inhale again. I gag and smack my hands down on the table. I slap Paul on the arm for help, but he ignores me and keeps deep-throating peppers.
Help me. Help me.
I’m choking on national television. I’m choking in front of the entirety of Heatstroke.
I scramble to my feet.
I’m choking in front of Savage.
I stumble on the stage, heading toward Richard, pointing at my throat. Panic has my mind in an iron grip.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die in front of all these people.
I gag and sputter.
Richard gives me a smile, blissfully unaware. Or maybe he just thinks this is what peppers do to people. “Looks like we’ve got our first tap out, folks. Hannah Taylor is—”
I pull on Richard’s arm and fall to my knees, trying to drag him down with me, to make him realize.
Please. Help. Anyone. Anyone.
Strong arms wrap around my middle and lift me into the air. The scent of cedar and smoke envelops me, but I barely have a second to register them, because those muscular arms tighten and thrust upward into my abdomen. A rush of air bursts from my lungs, sending chunks of pepper splattering across the front of Richard’s suit.
I suck in air and fire, doubling over, but I’m held upright by my savior.
He sets my feet down on the stage. “Are you all right?” he asks, and his voice is gravelly and impossibly deep.
No. No, no. No. Nope. This isn’t happening.
I turn around and stare up into Savage’s dark eyes, streaked amber by the morning sunlight, and hate my life. He releases me, a frown wrinkling his brow, and holds his arms around me in a protective circle without touching me.
Because why would he want to touch me? I’m the geeky younger sister who just choked on a pepper in front of everyone.
“I’m fine,” I manage, even though my throat is raw, and I am mentally not okay.
I want out of here. The competition is over for me because the rules are simple—leave your station and you’re out.
Savage scans my face, searching me for I have no idea what, and then he finally gives a nod. His gaze shifts over my head and darkens into something beastly. “You,” he says, and then he moves past me.
He walks up to Richard and grabs him by the front of his pepper-spritzed jacket. He lifts him off the stage so that his fancy loafers dangle and kick. Richard’s jaw drops. The reporter’s face is dotted with bits of orange pepper and habanero seeds. He’s lucky he didn’t get any in the eyes.
The crowd shouts, the cameraman is getting every second of the altercation and loving it, and most of the other contestants have stopped their pepper-eating, unsure of whether the contest is still on or not. Except for Paul, of course, who is just about done with his first plate.
“You didn’t realize she was choking? Are you fucking dumb?” Savage growls, giving Richard a shake. “Where are the medics?”
“M-Medics?” Richard manages.
“You don’t have a medical team on standby at this event?” Savage’s words are deathly. “What kind of idiot are you?”
“Hey, man, I’m just the host,” Richard says, his tone reedy. “Listen, I—”
“Do safety standards mean nothing to you people?” Savage drops him, towering over him.
It’s too much. The choking, Savage saving me. The mortification and the loss. I turn and run down the stage steps as fast as my legs will carry me.
The most important day of my life? Try the worst day of my life. I can’t get out of Heatstroke fast enough.
Two
SAVAGE
I’m playing with fire by coming here, but I can’t not check on her. And I have an excuse.
The Harley burbles as I direct it toward the Heatstroke Public Library. It’s been a day since Hannah choked on a hot pepper, and I’ve spent every minute thinking about what happened.
I haven’t been angry enough to lose control in years. Not since before I moved to Heatstroke, but yesterday, I nearly lost it. That fucking dumbass. It still makes me boil with anger—the sight of Hannah red in the face, dragging on that reporter’s arm, dropping to her knees in front of him while he gave her a vacant “TV-friendly” smile and announced she was out of the contest.
What kind of man was he to let that happen?
What kind of man are you?
I park the Harley in a spot outside the library, take off my helmet, hang it over my handlebar, and snap the helmet lock into place. I grab the book on horticulture from my saddlebag and head up the stone steps toward the open front doors.
Turn around.
But I won’t or I can’t.
I made a promise to look out for her. And another promise I try not to think about, and the two parts of my brain are warring. I manage to convince myself that I’m being a good friend to Cash by the time I enter the library.
Hannah’s not at the glossy front counter, the wood worn from years of use, so I tuck the book under my arm and head between the stacks. I nod to the elderly woman behind the counter, and she purses her lips. Maybe because she was there for my loss of temper yesterday. Or maybe it’s the permanent frown I wear.
The library smells like every library on the planet. Books, a hint of dust, and old wood. The quiet in here is a comfort, but it doesn’t stop me from pacing up and down the rows of books with my features twisted into a scowl.
Shouldn’t be here. This is a bad fucking idea.
But I can’t forget it. My arms wrapped around her middle, the soft scent of her floral perfume, hints of roses and something else I couldn’t place. Her blue eyes staring up at me, wide, shining, innocent.
You’re sick. You’re a sick, sick man. This is my best friend’s little sister. She is ten years younger than me, for fuck’s sake.
I pace back to the front of the library, the book under my arm, and stop near the romance section, my gaze tracing the spines of the books.
“There you are, Hannah,” the librarian at the counter says.
“Sorry, Irma, I had to use the bathroom,” Hannah replies, her voice sweet and soft.
Normal. Her voice is normal. Her voice is almost childlike. But I can’t convince myself of that, because it’s not. It’s a tempting voice from a twenty-eight-year-old woman.
“Again?” Irma asks.
“Yeah, let’s just say habaneros and I do not get along.”
The corners of my lips twitch, and I stroke my beard, staying behind the shelf and out of line of sight.
“It’s such a pity that happened yesterday,” Irma says, and she doesn’t sound upset enough in my humble opinion. “You vomited all over Richard Walton, you know. People are not going to forget that any time soon. Goodness, I’m surprised you decided to come into work today. I wouldn’t dare show my face after that.”
