Chapter 11
HARRISON
“Love you too,” I say, blowing a kiss at the screen.
Not that my hellions notice. They’re too busy losing their minds in one of their favorite places: Mrs. D’s restaurant. Or more accurately, the gourmet kitchen, after hours.
She’s got them making voodoo brownies. An amazing concoction that, once assembled with ice cream, cinnamon whipped cream, and slightly charred spaghetti noodles, looks like a voodoo doll.
In their hands, her legendary recipe becomes a full-blown crime scene.
Cocoa hangs in the air like smoke after a blast, batter freckles every inch of counter space, and chocolate streaks cut across their cheeks—strategically placed like game day stripes.
They’re grinning like they just pulled off the heist of the century. And God, I miss them.
“Love you too!” they shout in unison, voices tangled in laughter as an all-out chocolate war detonates. The first volley fired by Mrs. D. herself.
The call dies. The screen goes black.
The second the call ends, my FOMO kicks in. Hard. It sinks fast, dropping low and heavy until it settles in my chest—a permanent lump of lead I can’t shake.
Leaving them with Mrs. D isn’t weird. She’s family now. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.
Back-to-back deployments already stole too many days I’ll never get back. Now I only hand them off when it’s non-negotiable—like when I had appendicitis and was too doped up to remember my own name.
Or when they broke my nose because “indoor baseball” apparently sounds like a solid plan… if you’re a kid.
And feral.
Even then, I ache for the time I’ve lost with them. It’s a physical pain, sharp and constant, lodged right behind my ribs.
My sister’s right. Hannah says kids will push you to your absolute limit. But it’s the quiet they leave behind that breaks you.
She would’ve been in the middle of brownie making too, but with Zac here and their wedding around the corner, she “volunteered” at tonight’s event.
And by volunteered, I mean she’s plotting a blackmail album—already promising to catch me in “about a hundred” shots once I’m in that tux.
Translation: if I fuck with her, my humiliation will be epic—high-def, multi-angle, meme-ready shit.
Why are women so vicious?
Zac’s finger snap cuts into my thoughts.
“You’ve stalled long enough. Back to our discussion.
You’re telling us you didn’t even ask for her name?
” I glance up from untying my boots. Zac’s perched backward in a chair, forearms hooked over the backrest, studying me like an ape at the zoo—half curiosity, half waiting for me to fling something at him.
I yank one boot free, then the other. “A name leads to a number. A number leads to a date.”
“If you’re about to give us the whole how-babies-are-made play-by-play, I’m good,” Brian calls from across the dressing room, fussing with his bow tie like he’s auditioning for a cologne ad. “Oh, and I slipped a condom—or three—in your wallet. One for luck. Two for skill. You’re welcome.”
I scowl. “Unlike you two players, I don’t date.”
“Reformed players,” he corrects. Then, softer, like he’s tiptoeing on a landmine, he lets out a slow breath. “And… it’s been four years.”
Two words slip out on autopilot, flat and practiced—like the hundreds of times I’ve said them. “She died.”
Zac’s voice is low, steady, carrying a quiet care I don’t know what to do with. “You’re still here.”
“Whoever said what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger had his head up his ass. Sometimes, it just leaves you moving through life like a ghost. Breathing, but not living.”
Zac chips at the wall I’ve spent years cementing. “You’re living again for your kids. Maybe it’s time for you, too.”
He and Brian exchange a look. That look. The one I’ve come to know—and hate. The kind that means they’re sitting on something they don’t want to say out loud.
“What?” I snap.
“Sophie wrote you a letter…”
Ah. So that’s what this is. I smirk. “I know.”
Not only do I know my little girl wrote to her mother in heaven—I’ve read it more times than I can count.
The heart-jab is branded into my skull.
…maybe one day, you’ll send Daddy a princess to watch over him too?
Zac passes me his flask.
I take a long swig until I’ve drowned half my brain in it.
When he finally speaks, his voice is brotherly, woven into my life like ivy in the cracks. “We’re not saying dive into the deep end. We’re saying…dip a toe in. Test the waters.”
The tux hangs from a hook by the mirror—custom-tailored, matte black, satin lapels. I give it a long, hard look. It’s the kind of expensive that costs more than a two-door truck.
I hate everything about it.
Mostly because the last time I wore one, I was saying vows.
I blow out a breath. “Considering I’m about to get sold to the highest bidder? If this isn’t cannonballing off the high dive, I don’t know what is.”
Zac takes the now-empty flask and pockets it. “You’ll parade the catwalk for a minute. Maybe two. And who knows… you might get an anonymous bidder.”
I peel off my shirt. “A what?”
He shrugs. “Some women are private. They don’t want to be on camera.”
I lose it. “I’m private. I don’t want to be on camera. There’s a reason I have zero social media. I’m not social.”
Brian cuts in, looping a tux tie around my neck and squaring me in front of the mirror—bare chest and all.
“Relax, big guy. It’s not everyone. Just the high rollers.
Or the ultra-private celebrity types. Sure, they might pay a pretty penny to indulge in man candy”—he motions to my crotch—“but no one wants to be caught with a death grip in the nutter butter jar.”
I glare. “Are you telling me I’m about to be… Spotified?”
Brian shrugs. “More like trending on OnlyFans.”
“Hey, with your hair and physique, women will be licking screens worldwide,” Zac says.
“Men too,” Brian adds, waggling his eyebrows. “Good thing someone manscaped.”
I point to the door. “Get. Out.”
Brian claps me on the shoulder. “Since your Bachelor Number Seven date won’t come cheap, on behalf of the troops, we thank you for your service.”
I brush a speck of lint off his shoulder. “Roger that. I expect hazard pay, chopper on standby, and—if it all goes to hell—a medal of valor. Full. Fucking. Honors.”
Brian smirks. “There’s a medal for fucking honors? Guess those condoms will come in handy after all.”
“Out.”
They leave, still chuckling.
The door shuts, and silence rushes in…if you don’t count the low, obnoxious thump of bass bleeding through from the main hall.
I yank my belt free and toss it onto the chair.
The assholes aren’t wrong.
I’m still not ready to date.
Not date-date.
And yeah, I’m about to prance my ass in front of bidders for exactly that reason. But that is not a date.
That’s for the vets.
Service.
And sacrifice.
I rub a hand over my scruff, weighing an avalanche of thoughts.
Maybe it’s time.
My shoulders roll back as I shore up my resolve. Time to dip a toe in.
Like… a pinky toe.
Maybe coffee.
Coffee isn’t a date—it’s a recon mission with sugar and cream.
And a date sure as hell isn’t relentlessly replaying every sinful thing I’d do to a certain someone’s mouth. I’ve lost count of the moments I almost closed the gap just to taste them—full, defiant lips, always one heartbeat from starting a fight.
One I’d be more than happy to finish.
I tip my head back, exhaling regret like smoke I can’t quite cough out of my system.
Why didn’t I just go back?
I could have.
There was time.
Instead, like a total weirdo, I kept out of sight in the terminal and watched her.
Full stalker mode.
Little Pixie Stix stood there, visibly uncomfortable, not moving until Travis urged her into the car.
She was waiting for me—while I was being a fucking idiot.
My gaze snaps back to the tux.
I shake my head once, hard, like I can knock her out of my system.
Time to get out and stay out, Pix.
Sure, I could have Travis track her down.
But what’s the point?
I don’t have time for distractions, and I’ve got no business wanting anything more.
I have three priorities. Their names are Connor, Ollie, and Snook. Period. Dot.
For no reason at all, my eyes skim past the Christmas overkill—ornaments and garland choking every inch of the room, and snags on a motivational poster hanging crooked on the wall.
It’s outdated and glaringly out of place.
Stars. Misty mountains. A hollow one-liner you only ever see in therapist offices or the DMV.
I read it and blink.
Love doesn’t pass you by. It collides.
Every muscle in my face pulls tight.
What kind of crap is that?
And for the record, whatever this was today wasn’t love. It was… a distraction. From a woman who attracts bizarre, unwanted attention like a goddamn supermagnet.
Once again, I glare at the poster. Weird that it’s here. And it’s exactly the kind of crap my sister would eat up with two spoons.
And yeah, technically, Pix and I collided.
Or, more accurately, she collided into me.
Twice.
Annoyed, I shove a hand through my hair and pace the room, the need to see her again sparking hot and restless beneath my skin.
I pick up my phone. I put it down.
Pick it up again.
Put it down harder.
I will not ask Travis for intel.
As it is, my self-control’s hanging by a thread.
If I’m within three feet of that woman and her out-fucking-rageous curves, she’ll be pinned against the nearest wall.
All that restraint I’ve bottled up for five years? Gone. Torched. Incinerated.
And no good can come of that.
No it cannot.
Frustrated and wound tighter than I’ve been in years—especially in my cock—I try to get my head on the task at hand: having my ass auctioned off for the troops.
Last year it raised a hundred thousand dollars for disabled vets. This year, Mark Donovan will be matching whatever is raised.
I suck in a breath and remind myself this is important and I will do my part. Tux and all.
I peel off every last stitch until I’m down to nothing but my underwear.
Well, that and the hard-on to end all hard-ons.
Shit.
I can’t go on stage like this.
Does this place have a shower?
That’s when the door slams open.
Followed by a small voice. “Holy… fuck,” she whispers.
I turn.
Flowing red dress.
Lush curves.
Plush lips.
Gorgeous doe eyes that lock on mine…
That is, until they drop to my crotch.
I cross my arms as a slow smile breaks free.
“Hello, Pix.”
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