Chapter 3
HARRISON
“Hang on, Gabe.” My Spidey sense flares. “There’s a disturbance in the force.”
Because whatever Gabe was about to unload about favor number two suddenly takes a backseat to the unmistakable sounds of all-out war erupting in my living room.
I edge the kitchen door open, carefully scouting for enemy activity.
Sure enough, my hellspawn have staked their claim on the couch, locked in fierce combat over the remote. Sophie’s elbow swings dangerously close to Ollie’s face, while Connor bellows something about “first player rights.”
My fantasy of another quiet cup of coffee evaporates before my eyes—along with the last tattered shreds of my five a.m. paternal sanity.
Blowing out a rough breath, I jam another K-cup into place and lift the phone back to my ear.
“All right,” I mutter grimly. “Hit me. Where were we? Oh, right—favor number two.”
“Well, since I won’t be back as planned, I need—”
“Say no more,” I cut in firmly, already bracing for impact. “If it’s your workload, we’ve got you. One team, one fight. The guys and I will divide and conquer.”
“Right. Work…” Gabe’s voice trails off in a way that makes my mug freeze halfway to my mouth. My grip tightens around the ceramic.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Fine,” Gabe replies casually—way too casually. “Just…there’s also that tiny favor I promised Zac.”
Shit.
Zac, as in Zac Donovan. Brother to CEO Mark and my soon-to-be brother-in-law. Which means exactly one godforsaken thing:
The Donovan-Bishop Christmas Bachelor Auction for Wounded Vets.
Goddammit.
“No.”
“You have to.”
I grit my teeth, volcanic irritation hissing just below the surface. “I already told Zac no. Now I’m telling you. I. Don’t. Date. Ever. Say it with me till it sticks.”
“But I’m stuck in L.A. for at least another week.” He huffs dramatically. “If this is about you being self-conscious over your dad bod—”
What the actual—?
I bench more than this asshole weighs and can still crunch my way through SEAL Hell Week without breaking a sweat.
Dad bod my ass.
“Do you hear that?” I interrupt, smacking my abs loud enough to echo through the phone. “Eight-pack, butthead. Fully intact.”
“Then what’s the problem? Everyone knows you have no life.”
What’s the problem?
The problem is I’m an overworked single dad of three who barely has time to choke down a second cup of coffee—let alone dive headfirst into the dating pool.
Not that I even want to.
From everything Mark, Zac, and Brian have said, there’s a whole lot of pee in that pool.
Desperate and grasping at straws, I toss my kids straight into the line of fire. I scour their activities calendar, praying for a legitimate excuse.
Hmm. Sophie’s ballet is Mondays. Ollie’s Taekwondo, Tuesdays. Conner cut back on gaming camp because hockey season just kicked off—
Holy shit. I really am a slave to my kids’ social calendars.
Maybe I do need a life.
I scrub a frustrated hand through my hair, blowing out a rough exhale. “Fine. When is it?”
“Um…tonight.”
Of course it is.
My eyes land suspiciously on the white space exactly where someone’s urgent activity should be—despite me being double-booked Saturday between one of Sophie’s friends’ birthdays and Conner’s robotics competition.
Desperate, I reach for my only out. My silver bullet: “Can’t. No babysitter. On short notice, finding someone both responsible and fun is impossible.”
“Good news. You have one,” Gabe counters smoothly, clearly prepared. “Zac figured you’d use your kids as human shields, so Mrs. D’s already locked and loaded. His mom’s practically Mary Poppins—responsible, fun, and head-over-heels for your kids.”
Dammit. No arguing with that logic.
His voice dips lower, smug amusement sliding like silk through the line. “Besides, I’ll owe you. And that’s worth more than gold, right?”
Instantly, my mind conjures an image of Gabe, all six-foot-four of him, strutting around the office in sky-high stilettos for an entire workday.
“Oh, you have no idea,” I mutter darkly.
Before Gabe can fire back, Sophie rockets into the kitchen at Mach ten, colliding with me hard enough to nearly neuter me.
Thanks to lightning-fast reflexes honed from years of ducking, dodging, and weaving around my pint-sized hurricane, the family jewels narrowly escape devastation.
My coffee, though? Not so lucky. It explodes spectacularly across the countertop, streaking down the cabinets and pooling onto the floor like a Starbucks horror film.
I damn near weep.
“Dad! Ollie dropped the remote in the toilet!”
“Ewww,” Gabe drawls loudly through the phone, barely bothering to hide his laughter. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full anyway. Plus, I’ve gotta run. Thanks a million.”
Yeah, I bet he has to run…straight to schedule his vasectomy.
I grab a towel, scoop Sophie up, and prop her securely on my hip to prevent tiny cappuccino handprints from decorating every surface within reach.
So much for my second cup.
Glancing between Sophie’s wide eyes and the flung open kitchen door, I spot Ollie poised over the toilet. Conner’s beside him, handing him something suspiciously familiar—
“Freeze right there, mister! If my toothbrush kisses toilet water, you’re all grounded until college!”
Ollie shrugs casually. “Um, we were just fishing it out.”
Connor snatches it from his hands, holding it up like a trophy. “Relax, Dad, I’ll rinse it off. Good as new!”
I shake my head.
That’s it. I officially surrender.
A night out.
Drinks.
Strutting my dad bod in a tux instead of my worn-to-hell, ultra-soft US Navy tee.
Hell, sign me up.