Chapter 6
Harrison
“I’m sending you a car,” Brian says, having already apologized for the fifth time for pulling me away from the kids on a Saturday.
After this morning’s epic shitstorm of fishing a drowned remote out of the toilet, sealing it into a bag of rice I’ll now treat like a biohazard, and undoing a post-breakfast kitchen apocalypse, my only response was, “No problem. I’ll be right there.”
We end the call, and I text my failsafe.
Me
Got called in to work.
Can you cover?
Hannah-BananaHead
No-notice kids?
Today?
GIMME!!
Muffins and a coffee-to-go will be waiting.
I smile and love my sister even more.
Me
I take back at least half of what I said about you in grade school.
You’re the best!
Then I jot a quick note to Gabe’s sister and stick it to the entry mirror.
Dear Gabe’s sister,
Our casa es su casa.
Last bedroom on the left.
Connor’s room is fully stocked. A bed he ignores. A tub that doubles as a laundry bin, which I made him clean out. And two walk-in closets.
I have no idea what the prior owners were thinking, but someone definitely lost a bet during construction.
Enjoy the perks, hermanita.
The car meets us right on time, and I hustle the Evans brood out the door and deposit them with Auntie Hannah. They cheer like ditching their dad is the best thing that’s happened all week.
I remind myself not to take it personally, embrace the win-win for what it is, grab the muffin and coffee, and get back in the car.
Did I say car? I meant monster G-Wagon.
When Brian offered up a car and a driver, Travis, I lunged at the opportunity like it was the last chopper out of a zombie apocalypse.
Normally, I’d drive myself—no offense to Travis, who settles in behind the wheel. But the matte-black G-Wagon isn’t my thing.
It is, however, the platinum standard for private security.
Bulletproof. A non-negotiable.
Built to own the road and survive the parts no one plans for, while wrapping its passengers in luxury.
If I didn’t have a high-risk career and three kids I’d throw my body in front of shrapnel for, any four-wheel-drive pickup would do just fine.
But this ride has its perks. Pellegrino. Chilled hand towels. An assortment of candy and premium mixed nuts.
And because I handed my muffin to Travis after learning he pulled an all-nighter and got even less sleep than I did, I’m fucking starving.
The sacred, brutal oath of fatherhood.
Kids eat first.
My men eat next.
Dad eats when he can.
Usually dinner. Assuming fathers everywhere haven’t already gnawed off their own arms by then.
After polishing off a bag of nuts and a chocolate bar, the plush leather seats are enough to make a grown man weep.
A power nap would almost be on the table, except I have a file to review.
For the rest of the day, I’ll be elbow-deep in inspecting discreet security measures for an eight-figure client. Incognito. Brian hinted at suspected protocol breaches, possible internal sabotage, and just enough danger to raise my pulse.
It stirred something in me I hadn’t felt in weeks.
Raw.
Unapologetic.
Fuck yeah.
A workday where I can trade the 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?
A text pops through from Gabe. Codename: Gambit. Because his superpower is turning just about anything into a weapon. That, and a very drunk woman once mistook him for Channing Tatum, which he never lets us forget.
Yeah. The fucker wishes.
Gambit
Thanks again, man. I owe you.
It’s followed by a meme of two soldiers clasping forearms, captioned Ride or die.
I picture his sister arriving alone. A low burn flickers in my chest. I glance out the window and clock the sign. JFK. Next exit.
I make a snap decision. “Head to the airport. Arrivals.”
“You got it.”
Why did I just say that?
Gabe was adamant that his sister’s transportation was airtight.
Am I… hovering?
The tires squeal, sharp and angry, as Travis yanks the wheel and just makes the on-ramp.
Fine. I might be helicoptering a little.
No. I’m being practical.
If anyone knows what’s been eating at Gabe lately, it’ll be his sister.
Of course, I don’t even know what she looks like.
I’m about to text Gabe for a photo, but that would be awkward. Besides, I don’t need it. She’s on a flight from LA. At this hour, how many could there be?
Since a Donovan badge grants me access to pretty much every restricted corner of the airport, I’ll just pop by the gate and look for someone who resembles Gabe and Tatum’s love child.
Travis pulls up at arrivals, and I don’t wait for him to open the door.
“I’ll be two minutes.”
“Copy that, sir.”
He gives a crisp nod, eyes sweeping the perimeter behind dark lenses. Satisfied, he slides the Donovan Security pass into the windshield like it carries weight.
Because it does.
I hop out and make my way through the crowd, ignoring the voice in my head asking, Why the fuck am I doing this?
It’s not like I don’t have somewhere to be.
Two minutes.
I just need two minutes to… I don’t know, introduce myself. Maybe help her to her car. Make sure she’s okay.
The knot in my gut is weird and tight. No good reason for it. Still, I need to know she’s okay.
I stab the elevator button harder than necessary.
“Any day now.”
When it finally arrives, a dozen people spill out, all camera bags and raised phones, bumping into me like I’m part of the furniture.
Welcome to JFK. Where patience goes to die.
I finally step in, draw a breath, and hit the button for the floor where the gates are. The elevator lurches, then crawls along at a snail’s pace.
Come on.
Eventually, it stops, and the doors glide open. I’ve barely taken a step when a pint-sized missile launches herself straight into my chest.
Impact like a bug dive-bombing into a windshield.
She ricochets off me, and I’m just about to ask if she’s okay when, defying every sane instinct she must possess, she shoves me. With both hands.
I blink, momentarily stunned that a butterfly just tried to take down a rhino. When her palms press into my chest again, I let her.
Bare face. Eyes blazing beneath a mess of ink-black hair. Curves wrapped in soft cotton. Chest heaving as she drags in air.
Utterly fucking captivating.
My pulse slams into fifth gear.
I should move.
This is my stop. If I don’t hustle, I’ll miss what’s-her-name.
Instead, I stand here.
And stare.
Like a creeper.
Which I’m blaming on being exhausted, under-caffeinated, and painfully sex-deprived.
Did I just say sex-deprived?
At this point, I’m basically a walking monastery billboard.
And the most disturbing part? The woman smells like a chocolate shake.
Not in a sexy way.
In a slightly rancid way. Coupled with the food stains on her shirt and the force she hit me with, there’s a solid chance I smell like that now, too.
And here’s the really fucked-up part. I don’t mind at all.
It’s weirdly… familiar.
And damn it, the only way I’m ditching this woman now is with a cattle prod.
Or an exorcism.