Chapter 2
HARRISON
“I swear to God, Gabe, if you made another fake Tinder profile for me, I will personally end you.”
“Hey,” he protests. “I was trying to do you a favor—get you back in the swing of things. And where I come from, ‘natural’ means no makeup…not auditioning for Tribble Number Three in the next Star Wars reboot.”
“Tribble’s are Star Trek, genius. Wookiees are Star Wars. And considering she looked like she was smuggling baby Wookiees under each armpit, I’d say, if anything, you owe me the favor.”
For a split second, I swear I hear the pitter-patter of little feet on the other side of the door.
When the silence stretches and I’m convinced it’s just my brain screwing with me, I move on.
“So, what’s the favor?”
He blows out a heavy breath. “It’s my sister…” His voice trails off for a long, heavy pause.
“Is she okay?” Genuine concern slips past my defenses.
Gabe used to talk about his hermanita all the time when we were deployed.
His little sister.
The baby of the family.
What the hell was her name?
I press the heel of my hand into my eye socket and try to remember.
I remember the photos. Dozens of them.
Braces. Thick glasses. Messy ponytail that looked like it lost a fight with her hair brush.
In one shot, she was at the library in a wrinkled K-pop T-shirt two sizes too big, like she’d rolled straight out of bed and into community service.
Gabe thought it was hysterical.
I thought it was adorable and mourned his impending funeral.
Yeah, I know the drill.
Girls like that grow up cataloging every word you say—filed, dated, and polished into emotional shivs.
Probably scrawled in a burn book somewhere between try me and another reason to take merciless vengeance on my brother.
My own baby sister, Hannah, has that same double threat: sweet smile, savage streak.
And the revenge?
It always shows up when you least expect, and she’d never, ever forget.
Not in middle school.
Not in therapy.
And definitely not when she’s feeding my kids triple-scoop ice cream on the hottest damn day of the year…
A trio of chocolate scratch-n-sniff kids brought home sticky and high as kites.
In my car.
The woman is vicious.
God, I love her.
Speaking of kids…
They’re the reason I can’t, for the life of me, remember Gabe’s sister’s name.
Gah. I swear, three kids will drain your mental bandwidth faster than a juice box in a toddler’s fist.
I yawn as Gabe’s voice cuts through the train wreck of my memory. No clue how long he’s been talking.
“…she’s heading to New York, and I could put her up at a hotel, but I just… need to know she’s somewhere safe.”
There’s a pause. Then a sigh so low and ragged, it feels like he’s trying to scrape the words off the bottom of his ribcage.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“She’s been getting a little unwanted attention lately, and I—”
He stops. Just cuts himself off mid-thought.
I can see him clear as day—hand dragging through his hair, jaw tight, that sharp, restless stare he gets when shit turns serious.
I’ve seen that look under fire. Under rubble.
I wait. Sip my drink. Keep my mouth shut, even though every instinct’s screaming to rip the words out of him and find out what’s got him ruffled.
But I can’t.
I know him like a brother. Gabe won’t take a lifeline. Not before drowning a little.
I’ll let him thrash it out until he tags me in.
But I’ll never let him sink.
Not on my watch.
“Fuck, man,” he mutters, voice frayed like he hasn’t slept or taken a full breath in days. “I just need someone I trust to keep an eye on my sister. Keep her safe.”
My spine goes rigid, tension coiling tight between my shoulders. I know that edge in his voice—the powerless frustration of an overprotective brother stuck too far away for too damn long.
Hell, I’ve worn that hat more times than I can count with Hannah while I was deployed.
Instinct kicks in. Hard.
“Say no more,” I tell him, firm. “I’ve got her.”
Relief seeps through the line in a long, unspooled breath. “It won’t be for long. And my sister doesn’t need much—a couch, a corner, anything.”
“A corner?” I scoff. “What is she, a puppy? No, your hermanita is not crashing on the damn couch. I’ve got two guest rooms—she can take her pick.” I smother another half-yawn. “When’s she getting here?”
“Uh…” he pauses like he’s checking. Or stalling. “She’s inbound to JFK. Lands in three hours.”
“Three hours?” I stare into my half-empty mug. Not nearly enough caffeine in the world for this. “Gabe—”
He slices in, smooth as silk. “Trust me, you’ll barely notice her. She’s quiet. Clean. Works most of the time she’s in town. Doesn’t even need a ride—I’ve already booked a car service. And—”
His pauses are never good.
“She’s got the access code to your house.”
“What?”
“You gave it to Mama last time she visited, and Mama gave it to her.”
I shake my head, hiding a smile behind a slow sip.
Totally forgot about Mama’s visit while the kids and I went camping. A strategic win for her, considering Gabe’s crash-pad décor is a gaming chair, a blow-up bed… and possibly a blow-up doll.
And let’s be honest. The odds of me saying no to Gabe are fifty-fifty at best. Futile. Frustrating. Pointless.
But his iron-willed, always-smiling mama? No one says no to her.
Her bribery comes in the form of vibrant charm and still-steaming tamales that can make a grown man weep. Partly because they’re incredible, and partly because they’re so addictively spicy I temporarily lose all feeling in my tongue.
Mmm. So worth it.
I lay down my terms. “Is your sister bringing tamales?”
“She might be hauling a few dozen,” he chuckles, but there’s a hitch under the humor. Something cautious, tightly locked down.
“Just… keep an eye on her, yeah?”
Gabe doesn’t ask for favors. And he sure as hell doesn’t beg. Ever. Which means whatever this is, it’s serious. And something I’ll be digging into the second he’s back in town.
“Fine,” I groan, full drama. “But if she starts organizing my shit…”
“Just threaten to steal her diary,” Gabe cuts in, laughter threading through his voice. “Trust me, man, it’s her kryptonite.”
“She keeps a diary?” Christ, could she get any cuter? Suddenly I’m picturing Snooks sprawled on the floor, scribbling secrets into a sparkly unicorn-covered notebook.
I head to the fridge to jot it on the shopping list, then pause, scowling at the sugary lineup already scribbled there—raw cookie dough, teeth-rotting cereal, and enough energy drinks to power a rave.
Nice try.
I slash through every last item, knowing damn well I’ll cave the second they hit me with their big, pleading eyes.
I scrawl diary at the bottom of the grocery list and smirk into the phone. “Tell me your baby sister documented all the humiliating shit I can use to blackmail her big brother later.”
“Maybe,” Gabe deadpans. “And you’re definitely gonna need that leverage when you hear favor number two.”