Chapter 6
HARRISON
"I'll be two minutes, Travis."
My driver-slash-security gives a sharp nod, eyes scanning the perimeter through dark shades. He places the Donovan Security pass deliberately in the windshield. "Copy that, sir."
Normally, I’d drive myself in my matte-black G-Wagon. A ruthless hunk of raw metal and barely contained power, my personal road menace devours whatever the city spits out that day.
It also happens to be bulletproof. An essential perk of the job.
But after this morning's epic shitstorm—fishing a drowned remote out of the toilet, sealing it into a bag of rice I’ll handle like biohazard, turning a post-breakfast kitchen apocalypse back into something resembling clean, and hustling the Evans brood out the door while fielding an unexpected work call.
When Brian offered up a car and driver, I lunged at the opportunity like it was the last chopper out of a zombie apocalypse.
Besides, I needed a quick detour before work, and a VIP limo with a driver trained in evasive maneuvers was my fastest rush-hour route to JFK.
Plus, it comes stocked with Pellegrino, chilled hand towels, and premium mixed nuts. And I’m fucking starved.
I twist open the water and tear into the nuts, offering Travis a bag. He accepts without hesitation, a silent bond forming between two sleep-deprived dads.
He gets it.
The father of eight-month-old twins means he probably hasn’t tasted anything besides tepid baby formula and cold coffee in days.
The sacred, brutal oath of fatherhood: kids eat first.
Dad eats whenever.
Probably dinner, assuming he hasn’t already gnawed off his own damn arm by then.
I recline the seat slightly, sinking into leather plush enough to make a grown man moan.
At least I’m dressed down today.
That last-minute call meant I’d be elbow-deep inspecting discreet security measures for an eight-figure client. When Brian hinted at a possible breach, it stirred something in me I hadn’t felt in weeks—a raw, unapologetic fuck yeah.
Trading that choking noose of a tie and rigid suit for broken-in denim, steel-toed boots, and a flannel shirt softer than a baby’s butt?
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
But first, one quick stop.
Sure, Gabe swore his sister’s transportation was airtight. Maybe I’m helicoptering this thing like an over-caffeinated soccer mom, but his sister’s arrival isn’t something I’ll half-ass.
Call me cynical, but I’m more of a trust-but-verify guy. Heavy on the verify.
Besides, Gabe’s been off lately. Distracted. Twitchy. If anyone knows what’s chewing holes in his brain, it’ll be his sister.
Yeah, squeezing intel from a sibling is low. Morally questionable at best.
But in my world, morals were made to be broken.
Safety beats morality.
Every damn time.
I flash the security access badge, a sleek all-access pass through every check-point at JFK, courtesy of Donovan’s infinite airline connections.
After waiting a year for the elevator, I check my watch and jab the button for the terminal handling the flight from LAX.
It should arrive any second.
The doors hiss open, and I’ve barely scanned the crowd before a pint-sized missile launches herself straight into my chest like a bug dive-bombing a windshield.
She bounces off, panic flaring in her enormous eyes as if she’s praying for spontaneous combustion. Then, defying every sane instinct in that tiny body, she palms my chest and shoves me backward, back inside the elevator.
I’m so stunned that a butterfly just tried to drop-kick a rhino, I let her.
She immediately melts into the wall, tugging her ball cap lower to hide half her face, shoving her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose like armor.
Every inch of her screams activate invisibility.
But damn, invisible is the last thing this woman could ever be.
Bare face. Eyes blazing defiantly beneath a mess of ink black hair. Curves wrapped in soft cotton. Chest heaving. Out of breath.
Utterly fucking captivating.
My pulse slams into fifth gear as I try making heads or tails of her.
Her bag hits the floor like she’s ditching evidence at a crime scene, and when the doors ding shut, she exhales softly, tension visibly draining from her shoulders.
She’s stand-offish, armed with a touch me and I’ll happily crush your nuts kind of charm, yet there’s something about her that’s undeniably compelling. Maybe it’s the way, despite that ice-queen glare, her eyes glide over me like melted chocolate poured over a banana split.
I should move.
I mean, this is my stop. If I don’t hustle, I’ll miss Gabe’s what’s-her-name sister.
But fuck—I don’t know. I really fucking don’t.
So, I stand here.
And stare.
Like a creeper.
Which I’m conveniently blaming on being that triple-threat of sleep-deprived, caffeine-deprived, and painfully sex-deprived.
Did I say sex-deprived?
At this point, I’m pretty sure I qualify for a monastery.
And—here’s the really fucked-up part—she smells like a chocolate shake. A slightly rancid, vaguely alarming chocolate shake, but weirdly familiar in a twisted, haunting sort of way that I’m oddly okay with.
And damn me, the only way I’m ditching this woman now is with a cattle prod.
Or an exorcism.
Fuck. Does this elevator come with an emergency hatch?