Chapter 22
Harrison
The room is paid until noon.
The words haunt me as I bolt out of there without a backward glance back. Every instinct screams that this is the fuck-up to end all fuck-ups.
I made my Manhattan penthouse sound like a pay-by-the-hour hotel to the naked woman still in my bed.
While I was at it, I could’ve left a few hundreds on the nightstand.
What kind of man does that?
An asshole. That’s who.
Pix didn’t rummage through my stuff. I’d bet my left nut on it. But her douchebag ex definitely did.
Add it to my growing list of reasons to hate the guy. Right under her relationship with him being complicated. Whatever the hell that means.
The thought of him touching my stuff has my fist tightening until my knuckles crack.
The thought of him touching her has me mentally clearing my schedule to pick out headstones.
I force a breath. She said she hasn’t had sex in over a year. Which tells me somewhere along the way, that waste of oxygen lost his brain, his balls, and dick.
And yet, you’re the one walking away?
Shut up.
The elevator doors open, and I can’t get away fast enough.
The doorman nods. “Need a car, Mr. Evans?”
I’m about to wave him off and order a Lyft when I realize my phone is dead. I nod once. “Thanks.”
A black sedan pulls up a few minutes later, and I duck inside.
Travis scans my clothes. The same ones he picked me up in yesterday.
He smirks.
I give him the one-word-and-you’re-dead look.
He clears his throat. “Where to, sir?”
“Home.”
The ride is just short enough that I can’t sleep. And long enough that I can’t stop thinking about Pix.
Why the fuck did I leave?
Because if I hadn’t, I’d still be there. Losing entire hours of my existence to worshiping that woman’s body. Forgetting time. Forgetting myself.
She’s exactly the kind of distraction that leaves me satiated and spent, softening all my hard edges. And making me pretty much useless for anything else.
I’ve spent years sharpening those edges. They’re the difference between life and death.
I need focus.
I need to protect the people I love.
And I need to keep my carefully constructed life ironclad and impenetrable.
If not for me, then for my kids.
And Pix isn’t a once-and-done.
The last thing I need is to be distracted. And staying even a second longer would’ve sent things spiraling straight into distraction territory at breakneck speed.
And stringing her along would be worse. A revolving door of earth-shattering one-night stands would turn me into exactly the kind of man I despise.
She deserves a pedestal.
Not a booty call.
No, I made the right decision.
A clean break was the only way out. Or what I like to refer to as the chicken-shit option.
We round the corner, and my house comes into view. The tension drains from my shoulders at the first glimpse of blue sky, trees and flowers, the lake just beyond. A small patch of paradise tucked outside the city.
A place that keeps my kids grounded and safe. Fresh air in their lungs. Green grass under their feet. A carefree world that exists just for them.
The penthouse is different. It’s functional. It’s for the nights when work bleeds into morning, and the routine becomes twenty-hour days, shower, change, repeat.
When someone’s life depends on my ability to stay focused and fresh.
It doesn’t hurt that the rent is unbeatable.
As in free.
Perks of the Donovan empire.
The kids keep asking when they can come out there with me when I work. And I say soon.
Until I make it more kid-friendly and less four concrete walls and an empty fridge, they’re better off at home. It’s been a back-burner project for longer than I care to admit.
I don’t go there to relax. I go there to reset my brain and shove myself back into the fight.
It has exactly what I need and nothing more. Toiletries. Clean towels and linens.
And… shit.
Fresh clothes.
I glance at my outfit. Why didn’t I just put on something else?
Maybe because these came out of Pix’s backpack and still smell like her.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Still dead.
Relief curls low in my chest before I can stop it.
Because now I can’t ask the concierge if she’s still there.
When we pull into the driveway, I’m out of the car before Travis can reach my door. Old habits. Still, I pause and look back at him.
“Check on her.”
He chuckles. “Check on who?”
Smart ass.
“You know who. Call the concierge. See if she needs anything. If she does, you get it. If she has to go somewhere, you take her. No one else.”
“And report back to you?”
I pause. “No.”
He studies me for a beat, then quirks a brow. “You don’t want an update?”
“Not unless shit’s about to blow up. And tell no one.”
A slow grin tugs at his mouth. “Roger that.”
He pulls away, and I go inside.
An explosion of laughter comes from somewhere around the kitchen.
Which tells me two things. First, everyone’s alive. And, second, they haven’t missed me at all.
“I’m home,” I call out, dropping my keys into the bowl by the door.
Nothing.
A second later, everyone is barreling into me at lightning speed. The poster was right. Love collides.
Connor wraps me in a tight but distinctly teen-bro hug. Oliver follows, arms locked around my waist like he’s testing whether a WWE body slam is possible. I pretend to wobble.
And then Snooki barrels in, launches herself at me, and shrieks, “We have a surprise!”
Thankfully, no one comments on my day-old clothes.
“A surprise?” I ask, instinctively wary. I hate surprises. “I love surprises,” I add quickly, smiling widely.
Mrs. D. peeks out from the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. The options were us cooking for you or donuts from Hannah’s new shop.”
“Didn’t her glazed donuts with candied bacon sprinkles just go viral?” I ask, because I’m dying to try one.
“Yes,” she says brightly. “But the kids wanted to cook.”
Dear God. Why?
When my kids cook, the food is barely edible. You can’t just add hot sauce and marshmallows to things and call it creativity.
As I keep telling them, food should not double as a dare.
I can only pray Mrs. D. intervened.
Frequently.
Aggressively.
“I gave them free rein,” she sings.
That answers that. And my kitchen will probably be a disaster zone.
Before Snook can swan dive from my arms, I set her down. Six hands immediately descend, steering me toward my bedroom like this is a coordinated extraction.
They’re all shouting at once.
“We’re almost done.”
“You can’t look.”
“No peeking.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’m going.”
I brace myself for mystery meat, kale, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
The second they disappear, I rush to the kitchen door and press my ear against it.
Shit. Was that a blender?
From the other side, Mrs. D.’s voice slices through the door. “We can hear you breathing, Harrison Evans.”
Busted.
“I just wanted some coffee,” I tease, cracking the door like I might sneak in.
The full force of giggling kids slams it shut. Mrs. D. levels her scolding voice. “You’ll get it with breakfast. If you’re good. Now shoo!”
I smile despite myself. “I’m going,” I promise.
I head down the hall and into my bedroom, closing the door softly. I catch my reflection in the mirror and take inventory.
Bright eyes. Unshaven jaw. Barely a dark circle, considering the sex machine worked overtime last night. And… happy?
Who are you?
I plug in my phone and wait as it powers back to life. Notifications stack faster than they should.
Eight missed calls from work. Texts marked urgent. That’s bad. Everyone knew I was off the grid last night.
A message from an unknown number lights up my phone.
What the hell?
The message opens with, Hi, this is Gabe’s sister. I—
My phone rings before I can finish reading.
Iron Man lights up the screen.
Brian.
He’s probably fishing for intel on last night. He’s shit out of luck. Where Pix and I are concerned, I’m Fort Knox.
Not that there’s a Pix and me.
That would imply she’d want to speak to me again after my less-than-charming exit.
And unless I missed the memo, hell hasn’t frozen over yet.
I let it roll to voicemail and tap back to the message from Gabe’s sister.
Another call flashes across the screen.
Batman
As in Mark Donovan. CEO of Donovan Excelsior. Son of the woman currently playing Mary Poppins to my kids.
And a man who never, ever calls me on a Saturday.
I answer.
“Can you get down to the office?” he asks. No greeting. No preamble. Just clipped, sharp urgency.
“That’s a global CEO for you,” I reply. “Not how’s your day, Harrison. Not hell of a job selling your wares for charity.”
“Hell of a job selling your freshly manscaped chest for charity,” he shoots back. “Now, can you get down to the office?”
“When?”
“Right away. I’ll have Travis pick you up.”
I grimace. Travis has officially become a goddamn yo-yo. I feel bad for him. Almost as bad as I feel for myself.
There goes my coffee.
The doorbell rings.
How the hell did Travis get back so fast?
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. D. calls from the hall, fully aware I’ll use any excuse to check out the catastrophe going on in the kitchen.
“The sooner you can get here, the better,” Mark adds, his tone clipped enough that I know his request isn’t optional.
The call disconnects, and I brace myself for an encore of protests when I have to kiss the kids goodbye and head out.
If I say feel free to eat without me, would that be rude?
I make it exactly three steps down the hall before I stop cold.
“I’m looking for Evans,” a woman says.
My ears prick.
Not only do I know that voice, but my dick definitely knows that voice.
And that’s a problem.