Page 3 of Ten Hammers

“Winnie, stop!” Goldie cries, and I finally notice her pointing at a cameraman half-hidden behind the hood of the van. “You’re aware that there’s a camera trained on us and your mic is hot, right?”

Oh, god. Ohhhhh, god.

I spin around.

“DELETE THAT!” I shriek, barrelling for the cameraman, a tall, wiry guy called Jonesy. He is grinning like he just caught me and Golds having sex. “You have to delete it!”

Now I really do sound like a teenager having a temper tantrum, but I don’t care. There’s no way intimate information I’ve managed to keep private forever can be aired now. No. Effing. Way.

But before I reach Jonesy, he dodges, scampering backwards. “Come on, Winnie, that was way too good to delete,” he says with a laugh. “It’s what the audience wants, baby.”

I want to puke. My vision starts to go white. “Please, no! I didn’t mean what I said.”

Strong arms gather me up, suddenly, cradling me with the scent of leather and warm vanilla, and I know that I’m being held by Max.

There’s a calming blast of sandalwood as his twin Mason rushes past us to get in Jonesy’s face.

“What the hell, man?” Mason growls. His ice blue eyes flash with protective anger. “Whatever it is you just filmed, delete it.”

“No way. The tea Winnie just spilled is TV gold–” Jonesy starts, but something he sees in their expressions stops him fast. “Yeah, yeah, cool. Consider it deleted.”

“If I find out it wasn’t–” Mason warns Jonesy, as he scurries away.

Max gives me a squeeze. “You okay, princess?”

I want to melt into him, feel his comforting arms around me forever.

“Yeah, fine. Everything is fine now. Thanks, guys.”

“What was that all about, anyway?” Mason questions. “What did you say?”

Like Leo and Theo, Max and Mason are identical twins, only distinguishable by their ink. They both flash me matching curious expressions.

“Oh…I… nothing,” I lie, my cheeks growing hot all over again.

They study me a moment longer before heading back to work and I’m relieved they’re too busy at the moment to quiz me harder. Ordinarily, Mason would turn this into a full-blown interrogation, endlessly questioning me until he found out what was wrong.

Goldie raises a brow, flashing me a sly smile from behind her clipboard. “Who knows, Winnie. With the way those boys rush to care for your every need… You might find yourself without a v-card sooner than you think. And one of the Hammer bros might be the one to snatch it up.”

Chapter 2

Winnie

Our show, while unscripted, is heavily edited, because there are things the viewing audience doesn’t need to see, like when Samantha, our make-up artist, needs to swoop in with a powder puff. At least these moments never appear in the episode, because I adore her but she never hesitates to loudly announce what she’s touching up and why.

“You’re so flushed today,” she announces, coming at my face for what is probably the sixteenth time since Goldie made that remark earlier about me losing my v-card. “Let’s get this decolletage, too, hun. It’s practically neon pink.”

The never-ending flurry of activity continues on around me as she pats me down. “There. Hopefully that’ll hold for a minute. Damn, girl, you are flushed!” she adds, for anyone who didn’t hear her the first time. “Are you getting overheated? Do we need to–”

“Have I mentioned that out of all the crew, I’m going to miss you most, Sammie?” I ask, my tone sweet and loaded with sarcasm.

Before she can respond, Max’s eyes are on me from across the room, where he’s wielding a power drill. “Hey, can somebody grab my water bottle? Win might need a drink.” Then to me, he says, “Sammie’s right. You may be getting overheated.”

He winks at me before returning his attention to the task at hand. His tattooed back is slick with sweat. I have each of those tats memorized. I could trace the lines with my eyes closed, starting with my favorite–the dragon winding up his bicep…

So, yeah, I’m overheated. But it has little to do with the stifling hot air that fills the house. Without the HVAC up and running yet, even with the windows open, it must be at least eighty-five degrees in here. It’s July.

But the true problem is that Goldie’s comment turned on my imagination, which turned on other parts of me. It’s probably pathetic that I have ten vivid, individual fantasy scenarios for how I would lose my virginity to each of the Hammer Brothers. It’s more pathetic that I regularly–

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