Chapter 34
Harrison
“What the fuck was that?”
I barge into the kitchen like a storm.
Gabe’s at the stove, squarely in the blast radius of my restraint. Wooden spoon in one hand, tongs in the other. What in the ever-loving fuck.
He lifts both in surrender.
I rip the spoon from his hand and blow out a breath. “You were supposed to tell her the truth. That her stalker is in New York. That we need to take extra precautions. Not”—I gesture vaguely, sharp and irritated—“spin some acting-career bullshit.”
He exhales slowly. “I had to say something. You saw my sister. Crying. Shaking. What was I supposed to do?”
I shoot him a look. “Not make your boss look like he’s having a midlife crisis.”
“It’s better than the alternative.’”
I scrub a hand down my face. He’s not wrong. And for the thousand ways I don’t really know Pix, this one, I do.
Soft candy center. Titanium shell.
The kind of woman who only cracks when the pressure is unbearable.
I snatch the spoon from his hand. “Give me that.”
I toss a dishtowel over my shoulder and taste the broth. Two more pinches of Mexican oregano, and it’s just about there.
Gabe hands me the tongs. Helpful. Like he has any idea what he’s doing. Like I haven’t been the one preparing this meal for the past hour.
“Keeping the truth from your sister is wrong. If she doesn’t know the stalker’s here, she’ll be vulnerable.”
The words turn sour the second they leave my mouth.
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “But we know they’re here. We just need a few more days. They’ll slip up. I know they will.”
Desperation fractures his tone. I look at him then. Really look. Then shake my head.
“That’s hope, Gabe,” I say quietly. “We’re hoping they slip up. And what happens if they don’t?”
I gesture toward the other room. Toward the woman we’re trying to protect.
“You can’t keep her in the dark,” I continue. “Not when we have zero margin for error and no advantage.”
“But we do have an advantage,” he insists. “We have you.” He points at me. “You’re the advantage. And you have to do this.”
I’m about to give him my top ten reasons why whatever half-baked plan he’s cooked up is a terrible idea when he passes me the chipotle powder.
“Just hear me out.”
I don’t answer right away.
Because Gabe isn’t just another vet I served with. And he’s damn sure more than my employee.
He’s my best friend.
I roll my eyes, then give in. “Fine. I’ll hear you out. But not until you grab some beers.”
He grabs two Tecates from the fridge, pops the caps, and hands me one.
“There’s something I never told you about my sister.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. His voice doesn’t break. It just… thins.
“When she was ten, she was kidnapped.”
My heart slams to a halt. “Kidnapped?”
“He’d been casing the playground,” he says. “People remembered the weirdo hanging around. My sister was just… there.”
Wrong place. Wrong time.
He pulls in a breath like it costs him something. “That son of a bitch had her for almost three hours before they found her.”
Another drink. Slower this time.
“She was lucky,” he says. “Most of his victims weren’t.”
Bile climbs my throat. I don’t want to ask.
I have to.
“Did he hurt her?”
“Not physically.” His jaw tightens. “But she was locked in a trunk on the hottest day of the year. For three hours.” A pause. “And there were things in there with her.”
“What things?”
“Dead animals. Rodents, mostly.” He shakes his head once. “By the time they found her, she was barely conscious.”
“Jesus.” My anger sharpens, contained but barely.
“She didn’t speak for a year.”
My jaw tightens. Heat crawls up my spine.
“Is it him?” I ask. “The one who’s been harassing her?”
My hands curl at my sides. Nails bite into skin.
He drags his hands through his hair, then shakes his head.
“I thought it was,” he says. “That’s what I’ve been chasing in LA.” He blows out a breath he doesn’t quite finish. “He was supposed to be serving back-to-back sentences.”
He looks at the floor.
“He died. Three years ago.” He doesn’t look at me. “There was an incident at the jail. Transfer. Records were a mess. But it’s not him.”
I take it in and keep calm.
Up until the point my fist slams the counter. “She’s not going back to LA. Not with a psycho after her.”
“She doesn’t have a choice.” His voice hardens, matching mine. “The other reason I was in LA. was meeting with entertainment attorneys. She’s contractually obligated. Period.”
“Then she’ll—” I stop, searching for something. Anything. “She’ll quit her job.”
Gabe lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Sure. My sister, who just landed the biggest role of her life, is going to simply walk away.”
Okay, fine. It sounds ridiculous when he says it.
Silence stretches.
My voice goes cold. “A maniac has full access to her. And we have nothing.”
“No. We have you.” He taps my chest. “No one knows who you really are. And you’ve got the perfect excuse to be close to her.”
A beat.
“My sister won’t suspect a thing. Nobody will.”
“Why me? There are three dozen men who could do this. All of them on my payroll.”
“It has to be you. Kali mentioned that the two of you met. A family friend.” He snorts to himself. “The lumberjack.”
“That’s me. I'm getting my shirts embroidered as we speak.”
“So,” Gabe says, watching me too closely, “you’ll do it?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because the problem is, this woman has made me break every rule I live by. Repeatedly.
Rule one. No getting attached.
Rule two. Maintain professional distance. No exceptions. And for the love of God, stop staring at her lips.
Rule three. Never, and I mean never, revisit a one-night stand. The clue is in the name.
And then there’s Mt. Vesuvius.
He’ll take any excuse to inch closer to the center of heaven, and I don’t trust that fucker for a second.
But I can’t tell Gabe any of this because, frankly, I’m attached to breathing.
I take a slow slip and nod once. “I’ll do it.”
Relief floods his face. “Thanks, man. I owe you. And I trust you.” He grabs the plates, and starts setting the small table. “You’re one of the few straight men on the planet who doesn’t want to get into my sister’s pants, right?”
I choke up my beer.
He offers me a napkin as I get my guilty breathing under control. “You all right?”
“Yup.”
That’s when Pix walks in.
Her eyes are rimmed red, like she’s spent the last twenty-five minutes locked in a bathroom, pulling herself together just long enough to fall apart again.
And if she’s anything like my sister, no one’s supposed to notice.
She steps in beside me and inhales. Whatever tension she walked in with eases away.
“Is that…?”
“Caldo de pollo,” I say, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “Chicken. Rice. Carrots. Potato. Two pinches of Mexican oregano.” I scoop up a spoonful, blow, and lift it to her lips. “Your mom’s recipe.”
She tastes it.
Her eyes close for half a second. A quiet sound slips out of her, soft and involuntary. Not hunger. Not lust.
Comfort. Pure and real.
And hits me harder than it should.
I look away. Rule two. Remember?
She takes the spoon from my hand and goes back for another bite. Bigger this time.
A smile curves, slow and satisfied. Something warm fills my chest.
And suddenly, I want to give her this. Every day.
She glances up, still chewing. “How can I help?”
I lift the dish towel from my shoulder and dab her mouth. “Just eat. Relax. I’ve got you, Pix.”