Chapter 16 Harrison
Harrison
I open the door to a man pitching forward, close enough that I have no choice but to catch him.
First impression? Jackass.
So. Eavesdropping.
I wonder how much he heard.
He recovers fast, smoothing his jacket with a polished composure, like nearly eating carpet was a choice.
The man barely reaches my chin, wearing a condescending sneer over a fashion-thin frame. One look tells me he’s one bad decision away from being snapped like a twig.
But between the six-figure watch, immaculate manicure, and meticulously styled pretty-boy haircut, everything about him screams I buy influence.
And friends.
Which explains why no one bothered to tell him that a velvet tux makes him look like a magician.
Still, a warning flare ignites in my head.
Tread lightly.
The last thing my kids or I need is unwanted attention.
He sizes me up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“A woman ran in here,” he says, straightening his tie like he’s about to negotiate a hostile takeover. “I’m here to reclaim her.”
I blink. Once.
“Reclaim her?” I tilt my head. “What is she, a lost handbag?”
His mouth tightens. “She’s mine.”
Ah. There it is.
I almost ask if he’s got the receipt. Or the deed. Or a notarized certificate of ownership over her ass. But I rein it in.
Instead, I smile.
“There’s no one else here,” I say calmly. “So I’m not sure what to tell you.”
His jaw flexes.
Mine doesn’t.
He points past me. “I saw her go in.” When I don’t budge, he adds, “I’m her fiancé.”
“Fiancé?”
My gaze flicks behind me.
She shakes her head with fury, mouthing, The fuck he is.
I like her so much.
My attention returns to dipshit. “Like I said. You’re mistaken.”
He huffs, insistent. “I heard a woman’s voice in this room.”
“Yep. You did.” Pix’s hand slides to the bare skin of my back, unaware there isn’t a universe where I give her up. “I was on speakerphone,” I say. “This woman’s been chasing me all day. You know how it is.”
A fingernail digs lightly into my ribs.
I bite back a laugh.
“I do know how it is,” he says, nodding with a sleazy, self-satisfied grin. “Fuck them and forget ‘em, right?”
The quiet tension of restraint tightens along my neck.
He clears his throat, smoothing his cuffs. “If she’s not inside, mind if I take a look around?”
I don’t need to turn to know Pix is spiraling. I can feel it. Panic radiates off her in tight, frantic waves.
I open the door wider. “Sure,” I say lightly, waving a hand. “Go ahead.”
I shift just enough to block his line of sight, creating a narrow pocket of space between the door and the wall. Pix slips into it without hesitation.
Her small body presses flush to mine.
I should not be enjoying this.
But I absolutely do.
He steps inside and scans the room, methodical and thorough, like we’re hiding cartel drugs.
He even walks to the window.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking if she climbed out.”
“We’re two stories up,” I note. “Snow on every ledge.” I tilt my head. “Is she Spider-Woman, or do women usually risk their lives to get away from you?”
His scowl is deeply satisfying.
He gives the room one last, lingering look. Then exhales, smoothing his jacket. “I suppose she isn’t here.”
“Nope.” I nod toward the door.
It would be great if this guy could take a hint.
He hesitates at the threshold, bruised pride and all. Then, he turns back.
“If you see her—”
I close the door in his face and flip the lock.
End of conversation.
Pix exhales, the breath shivering through her chest. It sends a bolt of something electric through me.
Not lust, exactly. I want to know she’s okay. And promise her that guy will never bother her again.
But I say nothing.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I step back, giving her room to breathe. “No need to thank me.”
The urge to touch her is almost overpowering.
Almost.
She bites her lower lip again. Deliberately. Like she’s toying with my control. “So,” she says, “what do you need me to do?”
So many deeply inappropriate thoughts flash through my head.
I swallow hard. “Excuse me?”
“You said I owe you,” she reminds me. “And that you’d collect tonight.”
“Right.” I reach into my jacket and pull out a glossy card, holding it up between us. “It’s simple. I need you to buy me.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m fairly certain buying people is illegal.”
“Not to own,” I assure her. “You’re buying one date.” I tap the card. “I’m about to be hauled onstage and bid on. And you, Pix, will buy me.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because the last thing I need is a quiet evening chained to some half-baked socialite or influencer or—”
“Celebrity?” she offers, timidly.
“Or celebrity.” I shudder. “Exactly.”
She snaps the card from my hand and scans the rules, lips pursing. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Casanova.” Her mouth tilts, pouty. Patronizing. “Auctioning yourself off feels… bleak. Couldn’t you try, oh, I don’t know, Tinder?”
“You think I need Tinder?” I scoff, catching the distinct notes of disdain in her words.
She shrugs one shoulder, unapologetically. “I’m just saying. Tinder feels less… livestock-adjacent.”
Now I know she’s not just taunting me.
She’s pissed.
I have no idea what I did to set her off, but the urge to do it again is strong.
Preferably somewhere with a bed.
“It’s for charity.” I tap the flyer. “I’m not exactly chasing the spotlight. And attention is the last thing I need.”
“Says the shirtless man.”
“It’s a dressing room,” I point out. “A private one you barged into.”
“Fine.” Her hands lift in surrender. “How much do I bid?”
“As much as it takes.”
She tilts her head. “So… fifty bucks?”
I smile slowly.
Oh, someone needs to be spanked.
“I’m sure my going rate will shock you.”
“No doubt,” she says dryly. “Prostitution must pay handsomely. Or do you prefer man-whore?”
“The point is, I’ll reimburse you.” I check my watch and swear under my breath. We are officially out of time.
I rip open the garment bag.
“No need to reimburse me.” She folds her arms, chin tipping up. “I owe you. We’ll just call it even.”
“Trust me,” I say, already distracted. “When the Lamborghini-tier man-whore tab comes due, you’ll want reimbursement. And you will be. Just make sure no other woman walks away with me and—”
I look into the bag.
Jacket.
That ridiculous cummerbund I will absolutely not be wearing.
But where’s the—
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Pix leans closer, genuine concern breaking through her sass. “What?”
I dig the shirt from the bottom of the bag and hold it up.
A smear runs straight down the front.
Her lips twitch. “Is that… chocolate?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” I pull out my phone and tap Obnoxious Butthead Number One.
“Yello,” Brian answers.
“Did you let Ollie grab my tux?”
“Yes,” he says, cheerfully.
“With chocolate-covered hands.”
Silence.
Then, cautiously, “I’ll be right over.”
Click.
A second later, a knock at the door, followed by a rattle of the knob. “Harrison?”
Under her breath, Pix says, “So the lumberjack has a name.” Her smile is fucking kissable.
I open the door, and Brian rushes in with a club soda and a stack of paper towels. “The bartender said this would work.”
“It won’t work,” Pix says.
I snatch the club soda and point at her with a towel. “Yes, it will.”
“Not with cho-co-la-te,” she says, her delicious Spanish accent making it hard to think straight.
I shoot her a look.
She purses her lips, utterly unconvinced.
Her gaze holds mine a second too long.
“I’m Brian,” he cuts in, inserting himself between us with an outstretched hand.
Pix hesitates, then offers a small, polite smile as she takes it. “Viviana.”
“Viviana,” he repeats, slow and smooth, like the name just unlocked something as he keeps her hand in his.
My inner clock starts ticking. Loudly.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Yeah. No.
I smack his chest. “Ahem.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the spot. But at least his hand drops. He squints at her. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Nope,” she says quickly.
I get to work, blotting carefully with soda and a paper towel. Then rubbing.
Then, settling into that deeply uncomfortable feeling that Pix was right.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “I’ve somehow turned one chocolate smear into a Rorschach test.”
Brian nods. “If the answer is vagina.”
They both lose it.
The laughter cuts off when Brian’s expression shifts. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I ask.
He pulls the tux jacket from the bag.
Chocolate handprints. Everywhere. “I might have asked Ollie to make sure the tux was in there.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“I don’t have time for this.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your shirt.”
“No.”
“Give. Me. Your. Shirt.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Or did you forget, I’ll be onstage introducing you in”—he checks his watch—“literally right now. They’re waiting.”
I shove the shirt, the club soda, and the wad of paper towels into Brian’s hand. “That’s it. I’m out.”
“You can’t be out.” Brian frowns. “It’s a veterans’ charity. You already committed.”
“And you don’t bail on veterans’ charities,” Pix chimes in. “Ever. I’m pretty sure that lands you on some kind of watch list.”
Have they both lost their minds? “I don’t have a shirt,” I fire back.
She tilts her head. “You don’t need one. Just go like that,” she says dreamily.
That smile.
Those eyes.
Oh, this woman is enjoying my suffering way too much. She bats her lashes, and I’m pretty sure this is how Rome fell.
I point at her. “No. Out of the question.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Brian mutters. “And it’s not like you haven’t been shirtless on plenty of SEAL runs.”
“You were a SEAL?” Pix asks, suddenly too interested.
“Not a peep,” I order.
Brian shrugs. “Look, it’s not like you have a choice.” He’s already heading for the door. “Pants. Tie. Let’s go.”
I’m about to root myself to the floor when Pix wraps two delicate hands around mine.
Electricity sparks, catching me off guard.
“Come on, Lumberjack,” she says lightly. “I’ve got fifty bucks with your name on it.”
My feet unlock.
Wow. One touch from a gorgeous woman, and my common sense completely clocks out.