Chapter 8
HARRISON
The elevator dings.
Tornado of curves storms out.
And I just stand there. Like a grade-A idiot.
A Grade-A idiot with my dick in my hand.
Her words bounce around my skull like live rounds.
I come hard, fast, and without warning.
All she’d have to do is whisper multiple times, and I’d have been on my goddamn knees.
I drag a hand down my face, biting back a frustrated laugh. The kind that doesn’t exactly sound sane.
Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s been a hot minute since someone’s gotten under my skin like this, flooded molten lava straight into my veins. Lit every cell.
Years, actually.
My smile fades into a tight frown.
Six years, two months, and seventeen days, to be exact.
Not that I’m counting.
My brain just hasn’t figured out how to stop.
My phone vibrates, snapping my thoughts shut like a steel trap.
Only then do I realize I’ve been standing here—frozen in the elevator, dick in hand—while passengers maneuver around me like I’m some bizarre exhibit on loan from the Met.
Clearly, this woman is pure, unfiltered kryptonite to whatever brain cells my kids haven’t already torched.
And to my balls.
I drag a breath, yank my head out of my ass, and read the text.
Captain America
Zac mentioned you volunteered for the Christmas Bachelor Auction tonight.
Me
I did not volunteer.
Captain America
Which is why it’s already my favorite event of the year.
And possibly my new lock screen…
Me
You put my face on your phone, I’m reporting you to HR.
Again
Captain America
And since the proceeds are going to vets, you better bring your A-game.
Self-tan…
Manscape…
And oil up like a Magic Mike halftime show.
Me
I hate you.
Captain America
PS-The clients need to move up their meeting an hour.
Can you get uptown by then?
I blow out a slow breath.
Why yes.
Yes, I fucking can.
Because God forbid actual work take precedence over my new profession…
Getting eye-fucked by a stranger, moments before becoming her launchpad into whatever dumpster fire she’s decided to start today.
I text Brian back.
Me
No problem.
Captain America
You sure?
Because you seem to be stuck in an elevator.
My finger’s already punching his number.
He picks up. “Yello?”
I keep my voice low—elevator’s packed now.
“How the hell do you know where I am?”
“I’m the chief of security for a multi-billion dollar global conglomerate,” he deadpans. “I have eyes everywhere. Bwahahahaha.”
Evil laugh included.
My gaze flicks to the corner.
Camera. Flashing red.
I discreetly flip it off and glare at it. “That explains how you know I’m in an elevator. But how did you narrow down JFK.”
“Corporate car. Corporate phone. Government-grade, 24/7 ass-tracking surveillance. You’re welcome.”
I shake my head.
“So, who was she?”
“What the hell, Brian? How long have you been watching me?”
“I wasn’t watching you,” he says casually. “I was watching her.”
Pause.
Wait—what?
My stomach knots.
He was watching her?
The fuck?
He’s stalking her?
Which is especially fucked up, considering he and Jules just got back from their romantic Eat, Pray, Love tour across Asia—filtered, hashtagged, and Lightroomed within an inch of its life.
Every last post captioned ‘my person’.
Get a grip.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
And for the love of God, don’t go full homicidal.
I clear my throat, aiming for calm and rational.
“Well, I suggest you stop watching her. The last thing my kids need is to find out why Uncle Brian’s missing from their Halo games. Because every device he owns died tragically in a freak arson incident.”
Smooth, Harrison. Real smooth.
Brian ignores my little outburst. “Media side of the house had a dozen intel requests. No idea why. Figured I’d check it out.”
Media?
That’s why she looked like she wanted to vanish.
A flick of heat climbs my spine. “Do not tell them anything.”
Okay, that came out sharper than intended.
“Relax, Dr. Banner. Not exactly my first rodeo. Hell, this one barely qualifies as a pony ride.
“Other than Harrison Evans—the size of a small SUV—got shoulder-checked by her,” another voice cuts in.
Fucking hell. “Mark?”
“I’m here, too,” Zac chimes in. “Just rewatching footage of King Kong getting shoulder-checked by a pixie stick.”
“Bold move, Pixie Stick,” Brian adds.
“And by the look on his face, Kong liked it,” Mark drawls in a bad nature-documentary accent.
“I did not like it.”
Who am I kidding? I did like it.
I liked it so much I’d trade caffeine, carbs, and two nights of sleep for five more minutes with Pixie Stick.
Not that these idiots need that kind of ammo.
“So you wouldn’t want to know where she is now?” Mark asks.
I step back from the land mine visible from twenty meters out.
In the immortal words of the giant fish-head Rebel guy from Star Wars—and my kids when they say they want to hit the LEGO aisle just to look—it’s a trap.
“Nope. I wouldn’t. It’s good she’s gone. Perfect, actually. Because I’m not here for her. I’m here to check on Gabe’s sister and make sure her flight got in okay.”
I let the lie breathe for a second.
“From LAX?” Brian asks.
Jesus. Does he know everything?
“Welp, you’re shit out of luck. That flight landed a while back. Pretty sure Gabe’s sister is halfway to Manhattan by now.”
Dammit.
“But if you’re interested in your lady friend—”
“I do not have a lady friend—”
“She’s waiting for her luggage at Carousel Three—”
“I do not care,” I say with conviction—while mentally filing the intel away.
“And—” Pause. “Uh, oh.”
My pulse hits a tripwire. “What do you mean, uh, oh?”
Silence.
I raise my voice. “What does he mean—uh, oh?”
Not that my sudden fixation on curves and attitude can go anywhere.
I’m a father.
She’s an emotional cactus—both feet welded to the brakes, walls higher than the moon.
And she’s also…
Feisty.
Curvy.
Hotter than Times Square asphalt in July.
Lips built for way too much trouble when she’s not sassing back.
The kind of raw, dangerous energy every cell in my body craves.
On my face.
Stop it.
Brian’s pregnant pause is about to make me lose my mind. Finally, he says, “She, um, seems to be looking for something.”
Looking for something…
I drag a palm down my face to smother a laugh.
The universe has a twisted way of shoving Pixie Stick right back in my path.
Hell, I can practically hear her stomping over now—
Back for round two.
And no, that’s not wishful thinking.
It’s not even my overbearing cockiness talking.
It’s the stone-cold fact that her bag—heavy enough to anchor a naval destroyer—is dangling from my fingertips.