Chapter Sixteen
The storm chased them to Garrett’s porch, wind whipping the rain sideways as they bolted inside. Isla shoved the door closed behind them, the slam drowned out by thunder rolling overhead.
Her hair clung damp against her face, raindrops sliding down her cheeks and dripping from the ends onto her jacket. Garrett wasn’t any better, water streaking down his face, his jacket and jeans darkened with the rain, his boots leaving faint damp prints on the floor.
For a long moment neither of them moved. They just stood there, catching their breath, dripping, the quiet of the house pressing down on them. Frustration hung between them like another storm cloud, thick and heavy.
All day. Reports, interviews, dead ends. The hours had slipped through their fingers like water, and Harris… Harris was still gone. It was as if he’d been swallowed whole by the city.
Isla’s chest ached with the memory of how close they’d been. Close enough to look into his face. Close enough to hear his voice. Close enough to watch him run. And then the smoke. Gunfire pinning them down, the attacker melting away before they could get a glimpse.
Maybe it had been a genuine attempt to kill them. Or maybe it had been exactly what it felt like—a smokescreen. A staged distraction so Harris could escape.
But why? Why run from the very people trying to give him answers about his life? Why leave them behind in gunfire and chaos?
Her stomach twisted as she glanced at Garrett. Who was pulling the strings, and how far did those strings reach?
They shrugged off their jackets, the heavy fabric damp but not soaked through.
It had done its job, at least partly, though Isla’s hair was wet, sticking to her neck and cheeks in irritating strands.
She tugged her phone from her pocket, thumb swiping over the screen with a flicker of hope that maybe she’d missed something.
Nothing.
The last update from Raines had been the most useless kind. No sign of the shooter. No sign of Harris. Nothing in the warehouse unit to suggest that Daniel Cole knew he was really Harris McCord. Everything inside bore Daniel’s name, his identity as neat and untouched as a perfectly staged life.
A groan of frustration escaped her before she could stop it. Garrett cut her a look and said, “Easy there, Prescott. You’ll be fa-la-la-la-ing and decking the halls with longhorns again in no time.”
She managed a small laugh, but it froze almost instantly when her gaze dropped to his arm. Her stomach clenched. The rain-darkened sleeve was streaked with red. The bullet graze had opened back up, blood trailing down his skin.
“My God, you’re bleeding.”
Garrett glanced down at his arm as if he were only just noticing, then gave a half-shrug. “That’s what happens when you slam a bullet graze into the side of a Dumpster.”
She scowled. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Bathroom.”
Without waiting for more, she caught his good arm and steered him down the hall. He let her, but she could feel the weight of his eyes on her the whole way. Once in the bathroom, she flipped on the light and tugged at his shirt.
“Off,” she said firmly.
His mouth curved into something too close to a smirk.
“Bossy.” But he lifted his arms enough for her to pull the damp cotton over his head.
She tried to be gentle, but his sharp inhale told her the fabric dragged against the wound.
Her throat tightened with guilt and worry, but she forced her hands steady as she dug the first aid kit out from under the sink.
When she turned back, he was sitting on the edge of the tub, bare chest and shoulders gleaming faintly from the rain. The blood stood out starkly against his skin. She set her jaw, tore open a packet of antiseptic, and pressed it carefully against the wound.
He hissed, not moving away. She kept her eyes on her work, though her pulse had other ideas. Every time she leaned in, she caught his scent—soap, rain, him. Her hand brushed the heat of his chest as she steadied herself, and her breath hitched before she caught it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice low.
“I’m not,” she snapped, though she very much was.
Isla taped the dressing into place on one side, her fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary. The line between worry and want blurred, and the tension that had started with frustration wound into something heavier, hotter.
She squeezed a ribbon of antiseptic cream onto her fingertips and leaned closer to spread it gently across the graze. Garrett’s muscles went tight beneath her touch, but he didn’t make a sound. She was about to tape the edges again when both their phones chimed in quick succession.
Her heart jumped. Finally.
Garrett reached for his phone and scanned the message, his expression hardening. “It’s from Raines. There’s an APB out on Harris. He convinced San Antonio PD that Harris could be in danger.”
She stilled, the tube of cream still in her hand. “In danger.” The words tasted bitter.
Garrett set the phone aside, his jaw working. “It was the only way to get the local cops to act fast.”
Isla nodded, though her chest knotted tight. She didn’t want to believe Harris—Daniel—was in danger, but deep down she knew better. Someone had called him, panicked him, driven him into a run.
She taped the fresh bandage into place and stepped back. “Whoever has him in their grip,” she said softly, “they’re not letting go without a fight. And we still don’t know what the plan is.”
Garrett’s eyes met hers, dark and unreadable, but the same determination burned in both of them.
Another chime. Garrett’s phone again. He glanced down, thumbed the screen, and let out a low sound before looking up at her. “Raines just sent another update. He’s spoken to Paula, Anais, and Randall. They all swear they know nothing about anything.”
Isla frowned. “Of course they do.”
Garrett continued, his tone clipped. “SAPD already checked Harris’s phone records. The call he got right before everything went to hell came from a burner. No way to trace it. And security cams in the area are being pulled now to see if they can spot his Jeep or catch the shooter.”
Isla crossed her arms, the antiseptic still stinging her fingers, her mind replaying the scene behind the warehouse. She heard the bullets again, felt the weight of Garrett shoving her behind the Dumpster. The noise, the smoke, Harris bolting.
She shook her head. “That person wasn’t shooting at Harris. Every single shot was aimed at us. It was cover fire. They wanted him gone.”
Garrett’s gaze locked on hers, dark and steady. “I know,” he said quietly. “Whoever was behind that attack made sure he had a clear path out. Harris didn’t run from us on his own. Someone pushed him.”
Isla washed her hands, scrubbing away the sting of antiseptic, and then dried them on the towel. When she turned, he was still sitting there, shirtless, the muscles in his chest and shoulders flexing as he shifted. Still hot. Still Garrett. The pull in her gut hadn’t faded—it never really did.
“Deck the halls with longhorns,” she muttered under her breath, hoping the absurdity of it would reset her brain. But it didn’t. Not with him sitting right there, close enough for her to see the faint rise and fall of his breathing, close enough to smell the clean bite of soap clinging to his skin.
Her gaze caught his. Heat flashed in his eyes, sparking against every nerve in her body. The quirky line fell flat. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.
“Screw this,” she whispered.
She closed the gap, fisted her hands in his damp hair, and pulled him to her. His mouth met hers with no hesitation, no question, just fire and the dangerous kind of hunger she’d been trying to keep locked down.
The kiss deepened, burning through her like a fuse catching fire.
She couldn’t find the will to stop, not when every nerve was sparking, not when the years of wanting him wrapped tight around her chest and squeezed.
The need hit her like a flash storm, sharp and overwhelming, and she knew there wasn’t a single excuse she could make to pull back.
So she didn’t. She leaned in, pressing closer, her palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest. Warm, solid muscle shifted beneath her touch, and she let out a shaky laugh against his mouth.
“You didn’t have this body when we were teenagers,” she breathed, dragging her fingertips over him like she had to prove he was real.
His answering groan vibrated against her lips, and his hands came up to cup her breasts, thumbs stroking with a heat that made her gasp. “And you didn’t have this,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dark.
The kiss flared hotter, emotions tangled in every movement—want, fear, memory, and the sharp edge of something that had been waiting far too long.
The need for him roared through her, flooding her veins with heat, and she knew Garrett felt it too. His eyes burned with the same hunger that had been locked away for years, waiting for this exact moment. He tugged her top over her head, and before she could catch her breath, his mouth was on her.
Kisses trailed over her neck, down to her breasts, each brush of his lips pulling a gasp from her.
When he moved lower, to her stomach, she gripped his shoulders, half-wild from the storm he was stirring in her.
She was on fire, every inch of her strung tight, and all she wanted was to have him now, not later, not when things had cooled.
Later they could savor. Right now, she wanted the burn.
She went for his jeans, fumbling with the button, urgency sharpening her touch.
The second she got them undone, Garrett’s arms wrapped around her, strong and steady even in the rush of heat.
He lifted her with ease, her legs instinctively winding around his waist as he carried her into the adjoining bedroom.
The world narrowed to the thud of her heartbeat and the feel of his body against hers. He set her down on the bed, easing her onto the cool sheets, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that sent another wave of fire through her veins.
Her body ached with urgency, the kind that made her gasp out his name. “Hurry,” she whispered, the plea rough and desperate.
But Garrett didn’t hurry. He moved with purpose, with patience, easing away her clothes piece by piece.
Each time he bared her skin, his mouth followed, his lips leaving trails of fire over the places he revealed.
The combination of restraint and devotion made her tremble, the tension between them stretched so tight she thought she might shatter.
When his mouth brushed her ear, he murmured, “I’ve had twenty-two years to think about doing this.”
The words struck deep, right into her heart. Twenty-two years of him carrying her with him, never letting go. It touched something in her she didn’t know could ache more than her body already did. She had always been on his mind, always been with him.
She wanted to tell him the same, that he had been with her through every lonely night, every regret, every what-if.
But before she could speak, his mouth claimed hers, and the words dissolved on her tongue.
His kiss robbed her of breath, leaving only the burn, the ache, and the truth of how much she wanted him.
The urgency clawed through her, impossible to hold back. She kissed him hard, pouring every ounce of want into it while her hands moved quickly, ridding him of the last of his clothes. His body pressed to hers was everything she had craved and everything she had denied herself for far too long.
Garrett reached to the nightstand, pulled a condom from the drawer, and with a swift motion slid it on. Then he came over her, his eyes locking with hers for a breathless moment before he pushed inside.
A cry escaped her lips, the shock of pleasure stealing her breath.
It was better than she had ever imagined it could be, and her imagination had been plenty vivid when it came to Garrett McCall.
Every thought, every dream she had buried came rushing back, only now reality soared higher than any fantasy.
The rhythm built between them, fierce and consuming, until her body arched and the climax tore through her. She clung to him, trembling with release, and felt him give in seconds later, his body shuddering against hers as he followed her into that same rush.
For a moment, there was nothing else. No danger, no past, no secrets. Just the heat, the pounding of their hearts, and the connection they had never really lost.