Called To Love

Chapter 1

HARRISON

One shrill ring.

That’s all it takes to rip me from the bliss of sleep and slam me back into reality, where peace is a myth and children are weapons of mass destruction.

Sleep was sweet.

And brief.

That it happened at all? A Christas miracle, really.

Five whole hours without a whispered I need to pee, another request for water, or someone needing to discuss dinosaurs at 3 a.m.

In the Evans household, rest is always on borrowed time.

By the second ring, I’m definitely awake. Heart pounding like I’ve been dropped into enemy territory.

Only, I’m not storming a compound.

I’m buried alive under a tangle of curls and flannel pajamas.

Sophie’s asleep on my chest, drooling.

Ollie’s foot is jammed somewhere between my ribcage and liver.

And I’m pretty sure one of them farted.

Didn’t come from my lethal teenager, thank God. He’s probably passed out on the couch after another all-nighter of Halo and way too many energy drinks he shouldn’t have access to.

With his Uncle Zac, of course.

The fact that one of them is technically a grown-ass man?

Highly debatable.

My body used to thrive on that pre-dawn adrenaline kick in the ass—busting in doors, blowing shit up, saving the world one mission at a time.

Now?

Ugh. I groan like a ninety-year-old with my chiropractor at the top of my favorites list.

One more hour. That’s all I want. One quiet, blessed hour before I’m back on duty as maid, snack bitch, monster hunter, and pack mule to Sophie and Ollie.

Connor’s excluded from that last part. Teen Hulk can carry his own shit.

Blindly, I fumble for the phone, praying I grab it before there’s a disturbance in the force of my hellion tribe. Soon enough, they’ll stagger around like zombies craving Cheerios and the fifteenth replaying of whatever Marvel movie just hit streaming.

“Evans,” I hush without looking at the phone.

The voice on the line hits me off guard.

“Did I wake you, princess?”

I smirk. Smartass.

“Hang on,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Moving slowly, carefully, I peel Snookie Pie off me like a princess-themed minivan decal while trying not to wake the kid sporting a self-inflicted lightning bolt in Sharpie across his forehead.

SEAL training kicks in hard.

No sudden movements. No loud noises.

Just a human jungle gym navigating landmines in a king-size bed.

Silently, I slip from the room, navigating in the dark until my foot snags on Sophie’s stuffed unicorn. A monstrous, glittery beast bigger than my torso that now has me tripping into the living room.

I stumble quietly past the television and notice Connor.

He’s sprawled across the couch, limbs flung wide like he’s auditioning for a crime scene. The judgmental Netflix Are you still watching? banner is now watching him.

The kid’s got a perfectly good bed upstairs. How he always ends up anywhere but there is beyond me.

I sidestep one of his enormous shoes—the ones he’s already on the brink of outgrowing.

Note to self: stop feeding the teenager.

I promptly trip over the other one, landmined dead-center in the floor, and rip off my pinky toe on the square leg of the coffee table.

Fuck! I curse. Silently, of course, as both the Navy and parenthood have drilled into my skull.

When my next step lands in something suspiciously sticky, I promptly file it under Yell at Someone Later.

In the kitchen, I shut the door, pop a K-cup of high-octane diesel into the Keurig, and go fishing in the cupboard for a mug.

I come up with the I My Jingle Bells one and frown. A snowman with two shiny, strategically placed bells.

Connor and Ollie convinced Snook it was the perfect Christmas present for me last year.

Inward, I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

Outward, I took their phones for a whole day, which, in kid years, is basically cutting off oxygen.

Still, it’s the only clean mug in the house, and I will not be deprived of my fuel.

I jab the brew button and glance again at the screen. It’s not even four a.m. in Los Angeles.

Same old Gabe, freewheeling his way through life, one tequila shot at a time.

His last-minute Christmas trip to California means he’s probably stretched out on pre-sunrise Pacific sand… while I’m about to get cozy with a snowplow.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I drawl, voice still gravelly from sleep. “Just finished my last hundred push-ups.”

“Same. Did mine one-handed,” he deadpans smoothly. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“A favor?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “At L.A.’s witching hour? The only favors guys call about this early involve bail, body disposal, or donating a vital organ. Bail, I can Venmo.”

And yeah, I’d drag his ass out of lockup without a word. Hell, I probably owe him a kidney for taking that bullet four years ago.

Then again, I did land him that cushy gig as second-in-command of global security at Donovan-Excelsior.

Which technically makes me his boss.

I smirk. “Anything involving grunt labor, and you’re on your own, man.”

Gabe chuckles, low and dry. “I might’ve… inadvertently volunteered you for a few things.”

My eyes snap wide. A few things?

Please, God…not another train wreck involving Gabe, a dating app, and his warped idea of “help.”