Chapter 25
Harrison
“So we’re all agreed?” Mark says it more like an order than a question.
I drum my fingertips, unease creeping in. “Keeping Ava in the dark is a mistake.”
Gabe shakes his head. “Most of what’s in that file, she hasn’t seen. She saw a few notes. That’s all. I buried the rest because she already has enough shit on her plate with the press. She doesn’t need this, too.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Well, I don’t like my sister being mind-fucked by a psycho,” Gabe fires back. “But here we are.”
Zac closes his folder. Final. “We stick to the plan. Quiet surveillance. Where’s she staying?”
“She’s staying with Harrison,” Gabe says, like it’s nothing.
Every head turns to me.
Brian’s brow lifts, interest sparking.
I kick him under the table. “It’s just for the night,” I quickly add. “I’m checking out her hotel as soon as we’re done here.”
If she ever texts me.
Any day now, Pix.
Mark nods. “Then you’ll take point, Harrison. Gabe, when are you heading home?”
“When I’m done here. I’ve got a few leads I want to chase, then I’ll be back.”
“Let us know if you need anything at all,” Mark says.
“Will do.” Then Gabe ends the call.
Mark turns to Zac and Brian. “Give us the room.”
Without a word, Zac closes his tablet. Brian pushes back from the table, his eyes flicking between us once before he stands. Neither of them asks a question. They just go.
The door clicks shut behind them.
The room feels smaller. Quieter. Mark studies me the way he does when the stakes are high enough to matter. When they’re personal.
“The world’s watching Ava Alvarez. And her protection just became our number-one priority.” He pauses. “It’s hardest to protect the people closest to us. If you want another detail assigned—”
“I’ve got it.” There’s no hesitation in my voice.
“You’re sure?”
“Mark, Gabe is my best friend. And nothing, and I mean not one fucking thing, is going to happen to Ava Alvarez on my watch.”
* * *
I told Mark nothing would happen to Pix on my watch.
Which is ironic, considering I’m about to kill her if she doesn’t text me.
Yes, I could call. Except I won’t.
The last thing she needs is a pushy, overbearing douchebag. That’s what her ex is for.
I rub my chin. I could ask Gabe. Which would immediately spiral into questions I have zero interest in answering.
How was the auction?
What have you and my sister been up to?
And if she’s only staying with you tonight, where’d she stay last night?
Where?
Riding my face until sunrise, that’s where.
So, no. I keep a deliberate ten feet between myself and that landmine.
Travis lights a cigarette and leans against the hood, watching me pace.
The problem is that until Pix tells me exactly which hotel her luggage is at, I’m going nowhere. New York City has more than seven hundred hotels, and I don’t intend to check them alphabetically.
Any day now, Pix.
Finally, my phone pings.
About damn time.
Unknown Number
My suitcase is at The Barrington.
My PA Kali gets in shortly.
She’ll meet you in the lobby.
The Barrington.
You have got to be kidding me.
I tamp down my irritation and program her name in my phone before responding. Dumbfounded, I type.
Me
Did you pick this place?
Her Royal Highness
What’s wrong with The Barrington?
I blow out a breath and shake my head.
What’s wrong with The Barrington? Let me count the ways.
The luxury hotel is tucked at the tail end of red-carpet row, where celebrities hate paparazzi in public and adore them in private.
A place that’s earned the nickname Fame-seekers Central for a reason. Not that celebrities are exactly known for blending in.
And no matter how much it turns my stomach, the reality remains. She is a celebrity.
I take a meditative breath and remind myself to look on the bright side. They know me. I’ve worked with them before and can pretty much do anything I want there.
The bad news is they pour their budget into imported stone and architectural indulgence, leaving security limping behind. Last year, they were named the city’s most photographed hotel.
They have their priorities. I have mine.
Hence the reason I’ve worked with them before.
Repeatedly.
I dial her number before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the first ring.
“If you’re calling to lecture me about my choice of hotel, I’m a little busy,” she says. “No, Snooki. Not the cleaver.”
A smile sneaks up on me before I can stop it.
“No lecture,” I say casually. Which is generous, considering I had one fully loaded and ready to fire. “I just wanted to thank you again for watching the kids.”
“They’ve been a dream,” she says. Then, louder, “Connor and Ollie, we are cutting off tequila shots at three.”
I laugh. “Are they even within earshot?”
“No. I stepped into the living room for a minute.” A beat. “They’re cleaning the kitchen.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “I’m sorry, I must have I heard you wrong. Did you just say that my children’s little fingers didn’t melt off while doing chores? Because I was pretty certain they were deathly allergic.”
“Maybe they just needed the right encouragement.”
“By encouragement, do you mean bribes? Or thrashings?”
“Bribes.”
“Let me guess. Selfies with Princess Luna?”
“You know your children so well. I told them if they cleaned every inch, every dish, and the fridge, I’d even let them dress up.”
I laugh, already picturing it. “Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
“Snooki will be a princess,” she says, utterly confident. “Ollie? A pirate?”
“Which pirate?” I quiz.
The conversation flows so effortlessly it catches me off guard. No careful word choice. No stepping on eggshells. Just… easy.
“What about Connor?” I ask, interrogating her.
“Oh, I have no idea,” she admits freely. “He could show up dressed for prom. Or as a soldier from one of his games I promised I’d play with him later.”
I nudge a pebble along the sidewalk, smiling to myself. “Yup. He’s your wild card. He also loves special-effects makeup, so don’t rule out a zombie apocalypse.”
“Please let it be zombies.”
It feels strangely good to talk to a woman without censoring myself. Without editing around the fact that I have kids.
I love them.
I love talking about them.
Not every minute of every day, but they are my life. And pretending they shouldn’t take up space, pretending they don’t deserve some of the spotlight, is just wrong.
I glance over to see Travis yawning, stretching like he’s about to fold in half. I’ve kept the poor guy out all day. “I gotta run, Pix.”
“Me, too,” she says. “I think I smell something burning in your kitchen.”
“What?”
“Kidding.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “I should let you go.”
“Yeah…”
Neither of us hangs up.
The call lingers, filled with nothing but soft breaths and the quiet pull of something between us.
Then I hear them. My boys, arguing somewhere in the background, their voices carrying.
“Ava said I could clean the fridge.”
I blink. What on earth? Was that Ollie?
“No, she said I could do it,” Connor insists. “Ava, didn’t you say me?” he hollers loudly.
“Pix,” I say quietly, equal parts amused and alarmed, “I don’t know what kind of unholy spell you’ve put my children under, but never, ever stop.”
“Ava!” my kids shout in unison.
“That’s my cue,” Pix says, laughing through her words. “See you later, Lumberjack.”
“See you later, Pix.”
I hang up and head to the car. “Where to, Boss?” Travis asks.
“The Barrington.”