Chapter 8
Harrison
The elevator dings.
And the tornado of curves storms out. After shoving me again. For emphasis.
I just stand there. Like a grade-A moron.
A grade-A moron with my dick in my hand.
Her words ricochet through 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.
Christ.
How long has it been since a woman got under my skin like this?
An adrenaline rush of molten lava straight to my veins. Especially my dick.
My smile fades, pulling tight.
Six years, two months, and seventeen days.
Not that I’m counting.
My brain just never 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, while people come and go, maneuvering around me like a bizarre exhibit on loan from the Met.
Clearly, the woman is kryptonite to whatever brain cells my kids haven’t already torched.
And to my balls.
I drag in a breath, yank my head out of my ass, and finally read the text. It’s from Brian.
Iron Man
Zac mentioned you volunteered for the Christmas Bachelor Auction tonight.
Me
I did not volunteer.
Iron Man
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, and I’m reporting you to HR.
Again.
Iron Man
And since the proceeds are going to vets, you’d better bring your A-game.
Self-tan…
Manscape…
And oil up like a “Magic Mike” halftime show.
Me
I hate you.
Iron Man
PS. The client wants to meet with you.
Can you get uptown in an hour?
I blow out a slow breath.
Why yes.
Yes, I can.
Because God forbid actual work take precedence over my new profession…
Eye-fucking unstable women in an elevator.
I text Brian back.
Me
No problem.
Iron Man
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. The elevator’s packed now. “How the hell do you know where I am?”
“I’m a VP at a multibillion-dollar global conglomerate,” he deadpans. “I have eyes everywhere. Bwahahahaha.”
My gaze flicks to the ceiling corner.
Dome camera. Flashing red light.
I discreetly flip it the bird. “That explains how you know I’m in an elevator. But how did you narrow it down to JFK?”
“Other than the fact that you’re on a corporate phone with government-grade, twenty-four-seven ass-tracking surveillance?” A pause. “That and Travis is still waiting by the curb, wondering if you’re ever coming back.”
I shake my head.
Did I say two minutes? I meant two days.
“So,” Brian sings. “Who is she?”
What the hell? I glare up at the camera. “How long have you been watching me?”
“I wasn’t watching you,” he says casually. “I was watching her.”
Pause.
Wait. What?
My spine stiffens.
He was watching her.
The fuck?
He and Jules just got back from their Eat, Pray, Love trip. A romantic getaway with each and every moment filtered, hashtagged, and Instagrammed within an inch of its life.
All lovingly captioned, my person.
And yet he’s watching my person.
Not that she’s my person.
I don’t have a person. Just as I don’t have any right to pound my chest and lay claim to the voluptuous dumpster fire who just derailed my morning plans.
I ease the tic in my jaw. Maybe I misheard him.
“You’re watching her?” I ask, aiming for calm. Rational.
“I am.”
I see red.
“Well, I suggest you stop watching her. Or the kids are going to wonder why Uncle Brian disappeared from family Halo night after all his devices died in a freak arson incident.”
Smooth, Harrison.
Real smooth.
Brian chuckles. “Easy, big guy. Media side of the house had a dozen intel requests. No idea why. Figured I’d check it out.”
Media?
Was all that spitball defiance actually… fear?
Unease lodges in my gut as Brian continues. “I was going to tell Media where to find her—”
“Only if you want to die.”
Okay. That came out sharper than intended.
“Relax, Dr. Banner. Not exactly my first rodeo. As I was saying, I was going to tell Media where to find her, but not until I figured out what the hell was newsworthy.”
“Not a thing,” another voice says, dribbly. “Other than Harrison Evans, roughly the size of a small SUV, getting shoulder-checked by her.”
Fucking hell. “Mark?”
“Bold move, Pixie Stick,” Brian adds.
“And by the look on his face, Kong liked it,” Zac drawls in a bad nature documentary accent.
Is everyone on this call?
“I did not like it,” I state, matter-of-factly.
Who am I kidding?
I liked it enough that I’d trade caffeine, carbs, and two nights of sleep for five more minutes with Pixie Stick.
Not that these clowns need that kind of ammo.
“So you wouldn’t want to know where she is now?” Mark asks.
Yes, I would. But the trap is in plain sight. I sidestep it and cover my tracks.
“Nope. Not at all,” I lie. “Why would I? I’m not here for her. I’m here to check on Gabe’s baby sister and make sure her flight got in okay.”
“From LAX?” Brian asks.
This is the downside of working in intel. Everyone knows your shit.
Before I can reply, he adds, “Welp. You’re out of luck. That flight landed a while back. Pretty sure Gabe’s sister is halfway to Manhattan by now.”
Dammit.
“But,” Zac cuts in, “if you’re interested in your lady friend—”
“I do not have a lady friend.”
And certainly not Pixie Stick. The woman is an emotional cactus. Bristly. Armed with ten-foot spikes.
Her walls are higher than the moon.
Frankly, so are mine.
Then again, she’s also…
Feisty.
Curvy.
Hotter than New York City asphalt in July.
And those lips…
She’s the kind of raw, dangerous energy every cell in my body craves.
On my face.
Stop it.
“She’s waiting for her luggage at Carousel Three,” Brian adds.
“I don’t care.”
Still, I check my watch and file it away. Carousel Three.
“And…” Mark pauses. “Uh-oh.”
My pulse hits a tripwire. “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh?’”
Silence.
I raise my voice. “What does he mean, ‘uh-oh?’”
My tone does the trick. When the elevator doors open, everyone files out.
Just before I completely lose it, Brian clears his throat.
“She, um,” he says carefully, “seems to be looking for something.”
Looking for something…
I drag a palm down my face, barely smothering a laugh.
Well, well, well. Fate has a twisted sense of humor after all.
Because whether I want her here or not, Pixie Stick is a boomerang with my name on it.
And no, that’s not wishful thinking.
It’s not ego.
It’s not my cock talking.
It’s the cold, undeniable truth that dangling from my hand is her backpack.
One heavy enough to anchor a naval destroyer.