Page 1 of Accidentally Joining His Cult (Chicago Awakenings #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Beckett

M urder was not previously on my list of things to do today. But if the person in line behind me doesn’t stop making so much fucking noise before I can even order my coffee, it’s getting added right to the top.

In the few minutes since I arrived at Joe's Coffee Shop, they've alternated between zipping and unzipping something incessantly, tapping on the display table like it's a drum set, and humming what I can only describe as pure nonsense.

Whoever this person is clearly doesn’t need any more caffeine and should leave before I snap—and I’m usually not a violent person.

Not that anyone would describe me as nice, either. I know how people see me: tattoo sleeves, dark hair, and a resting bitch face that says don't even try me. Judgy assholes take one look and make their assumptions.

My last name comes with its own baggage—a whole other list of assumptions I never signed up for.

Most people don't connect the dots just by looking at me, though.

And okay, maybe I’m being a little judgy right now, plotting this stranger's demise just because they're annoying. But at least I'm judging actions, not appearances. That counts for something, right?

I'm much nicer after I've had my coffee. I promise.

I finally turn my glare in their direction, ready to obliterate them with a look, and?—

Poof.

All my irritation evaporates.

In fact, all thoughts of anything other than how hot this guy is are impossible right now.

He’s easily the most attractive human that I’ve ever seen in person. At least three or four inches taller than my six-foot frame. His long golden hair and tan skin make him look like he spends his life on a beach, and I swear, his muscles must have muscles. They're testing the seams of his perfectly fitted suit jacket, and I really want to see what he looks like without it on. His suit looks expensive, but he still seems approachable, not giving off any of the stuck-up vibes most of the men I work with do.

The stylish laptop bag slung over his shoulder must have the loud zipper that's been inspiring my dark fantasies. Now, all I can think about is how his biceps bulge as he continues to move.

By the time our eyes meet, I have no idea what expression I’m wearing. Judging by the amused smile he flashes me, I've been very obvious about checking him out. That smile definitely belongs in a toothpaste ad.

Or in my bedroom.

And don’t even get me started on his eyes, they’re the most fascinating mix of browns, golds, and greens. They make me feel like I’m lost in a forest during golden hour, and I can’t look away.

He chuckles and, yup, he definitely caught me checking him out. He doesn’t seem annoyed, though. If anything, his smile might be flirty.

Should I give him my number? Do people even do that in person anymore? Nearly all of my hookups start with apps and end with a blurry memory and a hasty goodbye.

This man seems like he could hold my attention for way longer than that, though, so maybe I should? But before I can get my thoughts together to say anything, he beats me to it.

“Do you know what you’d like?” he asks in a friendly tone.

“You,” I blurt out before I can stop it. Did I really just say that? I usually have no trouble flirting, and I’m a fairly confident person, but that was blunt even for me.

Somehow, his smile grows wider, like he didn’t hear the word vomit that just escaped my mouth. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he replies smoothly, like I’d asked him the question instead. “Did you need a minute? Want me to go in front of you?”

Even his deep voice manages to be upbeat and full of energy.

Seriously, why does this man need caffeine?

He points behind me, and the world around us comes back into focus. Right. I’m still in line at the coffee shop. At some point, I must have completely turned to face him, and I still can’t pry my eyes away from his gorgeous smile.

“Go ahead.” I open my arm out toward the register, stepping to the side and gesturing for him to go in front of me to order from the very annoyed-looking employee. I guess I’ve been holding up the line, staring for longer than I’d realized.

It takes me a few moments to pull myself together. I have never had this strong of a reaction to a man. What is it about him that has me acting like this? When the next register opens on the opposite end, I quickly order and practically jog to the pickup counter, scanning the crowd of commuters.

But he’s gone.

Any chance I had of being nice today officially disappears with him.

* * *

After walking the two blocks to Caldwell Tower, I head past security and use my badge to scan into the private elevator on the right, which only goes directly to the top three floors.

My younger brother, Oakley, is the only one waiting with me, which means I can avoid awkward small talk with employees. They’re usually either trying to impress a Caldwell—or worse, shrinking into themselves like I’m the Big Bad Brother to avoid.

“Good morning,” he says around a sip of his coffee once we’re inside. He looks a lot like me, but slightly shorter and with fewer tattoos. Oakley’s one of my favorite people, but I’m still too distracted by my coffee shop experience to be polite.

“Is it though?” I ask with more attitude than I’d intended.

“Your shining disposition is always so refreshing first thing in the morning.”

“Fuck off.”

“Do everyone a favor and finish that coffee before you talk to someone you’re not related to,” he says with a smile, used to my shit. “See ya.” He waves as we exit, heading toward his own office.

Our whole family works here. My father is the current owner and CEO of Caldwell Corporation, which my great-grandfather founded after making some lucky real estate investments back in his day. My grandfather still likes to show up occasionally to “see how things are going” when he’s in town and not away on some extravagant golf trip or cruise my grandmother has planned.

The Caldwell Corporation is a successful holding company with ownership or controlling interest in dozens of other companies. My siblings and I each act as president of one of these companies. And if they’re not done with their degrees, they still spend all of their free time at “their” future company learning the inner workings.

Most of them are headquartered in this building, with offices taking up as many floors as fit their needs. Each sibling has an office in their respective company’s dedicated space and a second office on the top level, where official Caldwell business is conducted.

I always start my day up here in the Caldwell offices to check in with my assistant, Adrian, and to see if any of my family members are around. Then I make my way down to my much cooler office inside the Werewolves headquarters.

I usually bring Adrian his favorite coffee in the mornings. Technically, he’s my employee, but he’s also my best friend and one of the only people I’ve ever met who’s never cared about my last name.

He grew up in a small town in Arkansas, so it’s possible that he didn’t know the Caldwell name when we met during freshman year of college, but as time went on, his attitude toward me never changed. When his homophobic roommate started harassing him, my childhood best friend, Jordan, and I insisted he move in with us, and he's been a constant in my life ever since.

Then we graduated, I went to grad school, and Adrian worked for my dad for a few years. When it was time for me to take over with the Werewolves, Adrian had made himself so valuable as one of my father’s assistants that I had to win a bet against my dad and agree to find his replacement before Adrian could officially come to work for me.

Despite my protests, he always arrives over an hour before me and seems to do way more actual work than I do. So, I like to show him how much I appreciate everything he does by bringing him his favorite fancy drinks as a small thank you.

“Shit, I had a weird morning and forgot your coffee,” I say as soon as I see him at his desk in the reception area outside of my office. “I’d offer you mine, but I know you’d never drink plain black.”

“Eww.” Rolling his eyes, Adrian gives me a disgusted look despite the fact that we’ve had this exact conversation a few hundred times. “I’ll never understand why you choose to torture yourself with that garbage when you can literally add chocolate. Who turns down chocolate?”

I roll my eyes right back. “Do you want me to go get you your fancy mocha and pretend I was running late?”

He dramatically sinks into his chair, the disappointment on his face evident.

“First, you need to stop doing nice things for me, or people are going to realize that you’re not a scary asshole,” he starts, and I shoot him a small smirk. “Second, you don’t have time. You’ll be at the executive empowerment program thing all day.”

I drop into the seat across from him, groaning loudly. “Pleeeease tell me that this isn’t another bullshit HR seminar that we’re all required to go to so that they can post pictures on the company’s socials about how we’re ‘Such a fun place to work!’ and how we ‘Encourage personal success for all of our employees’.” I use air quotes and a fake peppy voice to really get my point across.

Adrian doesn’t even pretend to feel sorry for me as he replies with an enthusiastic, “That’s exactly what it is! Have fuuuun.”

“How is it that you always seem to get out of these things when my siblings’ assistants will no doubt be there?”

He grins conspiratorially. “I tell them you’ve excused me to handle ‘very important Werewolves business’ with Hudson Roy. Nobody questions me when I name-drop the star players.”

Being the eldest child meant I had my pick of which company I wanted to work for back in high school. The goal was to start early and learn everything that I possibly could so that I was prepared to take over after graduating with my master's.

Naturally, my fifteen-year-old self chose the NHL team, and I have spent every day since being grateful for that decision. Now, I’m acting CEO of the Chicago Werewolves Hockey Team, which is still the coolest job in the world.

The team manager, president of business operations, and coaches handle most of the actual hockey stuff. My dad is also still the official owner of the team. My job is everything behind the scenes—financial strategies, operational success, and long-term goals.

“I swear you know the players better than I do.” Not grumpy about that at all . Not even a little bit.

“I do,” he happily agrees. “Because I’m not their boss, and I’m way less scowly than you are. They’re all afraid of you. I’m harmless.”

His innocent, doe-eyed expression might work on other people, but I know him too well for that. “Sure you are.”

He drops the act and returns to professional mode the next second. “You should already be on your way to the seminar if you don’t want to be late.”

“God forbid.”

* * *

I’m definitely running late, but still take my time getting to the conference center where the seminar is being held. Maybe I should skip this bullshit too and get some actual work done. But the last time I tried that, Oakley made it his personal mission to drag me there himself, and I don’t feel like dealing with that again.

When I enter the room, my first instinct is to grab a chair in the last row and ignore this entire pointless presentation, but familiar golden curls draw my attention to the stage.

Holy shit. It’s the coffee shop guy.

On second thought, this is obviously too far from the stage to properly enjoy the seminar.