Chapter 1
Harrison
Buzz!
That’s all it takes to drag me out of the first real sleep I’ve had in forever.
Instincts kick in, and my hand moves on autopilot. Eyes closed, I fumble for my phone, swipe blindly, and shove it under my pillow.
Silently, I pray the weapons of mass destruction haven’t been agitated.
I hold perfectly still for two Mississippis and listen hard.
Thankfully, no disturbance in the Force—other than my angelic daughter’s window-rattling snore.
For almost five straight hours, I’ve actually slept. No water requests. No bathroom emergencies. No deep 3:00 a.m. philosophical debate about whether dragons breathe fire and, if so, do they fart it, too.
Sleep. A parent’s Christmas miracle. One I intend to latch onto like an influencer with a cell phone. With a deep breath, I roll to my side and instantly drift off.
Buzz-buzz.
The second set of buzzes may as well be a sledgehammer against my skull. Defeated, I mentally set my phone on fire.
Whoever this is clearly hates me.
You know, it wasn’t that long ago I’d be up and at ’em. Boots laced. Adrenaline humming. Out the door before the ass-crack of dawn. My body used to live for, busting in doors and blowing shit up.
No headlines. No credit. Just results.
Making the world that much safer. One unseen op at a time.
I suck in a breath and realize the only thing busting now is whatever’s creaking in my back.
Quietly, I click ignore on the phone and try to get back to sleep.
Which is a lost cause.
Right now, I’m pinned under a pile of small, warm humans who treat my body like a dog bed.
Sophie’s drooling on my shoulder. Ollie’s foot is jammed somewhere between my ribs and kidney. And the air carries that unmistakable warning that someone definitely let one go.
Thank God it wasn’t my lethal teenager.
Knowing Connor, he’s probably face-down on the couch after another all-night Halo marathon, pumped full of way more energy drinks than he’s technically allowed to have.
But, it’s a requirement when in a highly competitive death match with Uncle Zac.
Calling one of them a grown man is debatable.
When a third string of buzzes hits, I give up.
A half hour more. Is that too much to ask?
After that, I’m back on duty as maid, cook, chauffeur, snack bitch, and pack mule to Sophie and Ollie.
Connor’s excluded from that last part. Teen Hulk can carry his own shit.
I yawn and grab the phone before it wakes my hellion tribe into their usual zombie shuffle for Cheerios and Saturday Marvel reruns.
“Evans,” I say, hushed, without looking at the screen.
“Did I wake you, princess?”
I smirk. Smartass.
“Hang on,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face. Years of conditioning kick in hard.
No sudden movements. No loud noises.
Slow and well-trained, I peel Snooki off me like a minivan decal. Then I shift my weight, careful not to wake the kid sporting a self-inflicted lightning bolt across his forehead.
Which reminds me. I need to google how to get Sharpie off a nine-year-old.
Then I slip out of the bedroom and make my way to the living room, where Connor is comatose in front of the big screen.
Sprawled out, his long teenage limbs are flung everywhere. One more inch, and he’d make a great chalk outline of a giraffe at a crime scene.
The kid has a perfectly good bed upstairs. Why he refuses to use it is beyond me.
I sidestep one of his enormous shoes. The ones he’s about to outgrow.
Note to self: stop feeding the teenager.
A muffled, “Are you there?” has me rushing. I promptly trip over the other one, landmine dead-center in the floor, and slam my pinky toe into the square leg of the coffee table.
Fuck! I swear.
Silently, of course. Years of SEAL ops and parenthood ensure all pre-dawn profanity is hardwired to my inside voice.
When my next step lands in something suspiciously sticky, I promptly file it under Yell at Someone Later.
Phone in hand, I slip inside the kitchen and shut the door.
“Hang on,” I say, because this butthead can definitely wait.
I pop a K-cup of high-octane diesel into the Keurig and almost hit start. I blink. A mug would be useful.
Since most of them are currently growing science experiments in the sink, I open the cupboard and find exactly one.
The I My Jingle Bells mug Snooki got for me last Christmas.
I stare at it.
It’s a snowman with two shiny, strategically placed bells.
Connor and Ollie convinced Snook it was the perfect gift for me.
Inwardly, I laughed so hard I nearly cried.
Outwardly, I took their phones for a full day. Which, in kid years, is the equivalent of cutting off oxygen.
Desperate, I grab my mug. Caffeine is non-negotiable.
I jab the brew button and glance back at the phone. It’s not even four a.m. in Los Angeles.
Hmm. Same old Gabe. Freewheeling his way through life, one tequila shot at a time.
While he’s stretched out, enjoying the sunrise on Pacific sands, I’m facing the first week of December in New York, debating whether to warm up the snowplow or pretend it’ll melt later.
Sure, I could’ve lived in the city, but kids need a yard.
I clear my throat. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I drawl. “Just wrapping up my last hundred push-ups.”
“Me, too. Did mine one-handed.”
“So, one hand did the push-ups and the other tossed back tequila? Or was it handling your usual morning dick-pic distribution?”
He chuckles. “It’s like there’s spyware on my phone.” A beat. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“A favor?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at the ceiling like patience might magically fall from it. “I already granted your no-notice vacay.”
“It’s a small favor. Or two…”
“At LA.’s witching hour? Highly doubtful,” I mutter, putting the phone on speaker.
I drop in a sugar cube to cut the taste of straight jet fuel.
“Favors called in this early usually involve brawls, bail, or body disposal. And since I’m no longer active duty, bar fights and ditch digging are out. But a Venmo, I can absolutely do.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Coming from Gabe Complicated Alvarez, consider me shocked.”
“You owe me,” he reminds me. “I saved your life.”
“I saved yours, too.”
“I saved yours more.”
“You counted?” I laugh, sipping.
“Yes. Just for occasions like this.”
“Considering I landed you that cushy gig as second-in-command of a global security conglomerate, I’m pretty sure if anyone owes anyone, you owe me.”
“You only did it so you could be my insufferable boss.”
I smile. Gabe’s got me there.
“And,” he adds, “I took the job because no one else would tolerate you.”
“I’m a gem,” I fire back.
“You’re Grumps McGrump. Every hour of every day. I’ve taken every shit assignment, put out your dumpster fires, and said thank you, sir, may I have another. Your bazillion-dollar security shop headaches have somehow turned into a well-oiled machine.”
He’s right. The past week without him has been a nightmare.
I let out a huff and give in. “Fine. A solid maybe. But if this involves a crypto investment or grunt labor, you’re on your own, bro.”
“Not all labor is bad.”
I already don’t like the amusement in his tone. I sip slowly. “What kind of labor is it?”
“How do you feel about selling yourself? Tastefully, of course.”
I freeze mid-sip. “What?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
I tilt my chin up and exhale hard. “Please tell me this isn’t another round of me, a fake profile, and your creative interpretation of client acquisition.”
“Ooh,” he says. “So close.”