Chapter 14 Harrison
Harrison
For a while, I sit and I give the tux a long, hard look and scowl.
It’s custom-tailored. Matte black. Satin lapels sharp enough to cut.
Hannah picked it out and made me suffer through three fittings. Three.
What is this? The Oscars?
I hate everything about it.
The cufflinks.
The non-flannel fabric.
The price tag large enough to buy half a Ford truck.
But mostly, I hate the way it feels. That tightening of the chest. The ache that’s never completely gone.
Because the last time I wore one, I was saying vows.
I glare at the tux for a solid five minutes before I snap out of it.
I yank my belt free and toss it onto the chair, then unzip my jeans as a laugh punches out before I can stop it.
Mt. Vesuvius.
Idiots.
Though, they’re not wrong.
And maybe that’s the real itch I haven’t been able to scratch.
But what if I’m not ready to date?
Not date-date, anyway.
I glance at the Christmas Bachelor Auction flyer taped to the wall. Bid for a Date shouts at me in bold, judgmental font.
I suck in a breath and remind myself that whatever the hell tonight is doesn’t count.
A date is conversation. Getting to know someone on a somewhat meaningful level. Hauling myself across a runway to be bid on like a prize bull is… performance art.
I think of a date, and the first thing that comes to mind is…
Pouty lips…
Addictive curves.
Pix.
I rub a hand across my scruff. Seriously, would a coffee kill me? Coffee is not dating. It’s a recon mission with sugar and cream.
Call her!
“I don’t have her number,” I mumble to myself. Irritated, I huff. “And now the damn woman’s got me talking to myself. Argh, no good can come of this.”
I crack my neck, determined to not think of her. Especially not her lips.
Is it me, or did it feel like her mouth was always one heartbeat away from starting a fight?
One I’d be more than happy to finish.
With Mt. Vesuvius.
Shut up.
I tilt my head back and breathe out pure frustration.
Why didn’t I go back?
It wasn’t exactly impossible.
Hell, it wasn’t even hard, considering Pix stood there for a small eternity. It got to the point that Travis looked one second away from uprooting her like a Christmas tree just to load her into the car.
I know this because I was equally as rooted just inside the terminal.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Watched her. Full stalker mode.
Like a grade-A weirdo.
God. She was waiting for me to come back, while I was being a fucking idiot.
Annoyed, I shove a hand through my hair and pace the room, the need to see her again sparking to dumpster fire levels.
I reach for my wallet.
Then put it down.
Because the truth is, if I’m within breathing distance of that woman and her out-fucking-rageous curves again, all the restraint I’ve been hoarding will blow. She’ll be against the nearest wall and I’ll be dick-deep in the epicenter of her one-woman disaster zone.
And no good can come of that.
None at all.
My thumb drags over the ringless finger. “Is it time, Cecile? What do I do?”
Silence.
I guess my dead wife’s still not talking to me.
I draw in a breath and let my eyes wander over the full spread of Christmas overkill.
Glittery ornaments.
More garland than Lowe’s.
Lights strangling every square inch.
My gaze snags on a sad, crooked motivational poster that has no business here.
Love doesn’t pass you by.
It collides.
What the hell?
I look at the poster again, unsettled.
Why is it here?
And why am I irritated by it?
Probably because it’s exactly the sentimental bullshit my sister tries to spoon-feed me every chance she gets. Usually in meme form.
Did she put it here?
So what if Pix and I collided?
Twice.
I shake my head, hard, and remind myself I have exactly three priorities: Connor, Ollie, and Snook.
Add in a job that eats me alive and enough emotional baggage to fill a barge, and I am not anyone’s great love story.
I’m just a single dad trying to keep my family whole.
Pix is a complication. A distraction.
The very last thing I need.
And I’m the last thing she needs.
Determined to knock her and her scorching-hot kiss out of my system, I focus on the task at hand.
Beef auction.
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.
A small voice follows.
“Holy… fuck,” she whispers.
I turn.
Flowing red dress.
Lush curves.
Plush lips.
Gorgeous doe eyes locking on mine…
Right up until they drop to my crotch.
I cross my arms as a slow smile curls free.
“Hello, Pix.”