Me
On it, Captain Killjoy. My squad of one is moving in.
Nick
Don't call me that. You know I hate it. And keep your damn hands off my sister.
Me
Me? I’m just a humble soldier following orders. Wait, which orders am I following again?
Nick
Chance, I swear to God, if you...
Me
Relax, Nick. I got this. winks Your baby sis is in good hands. *glances at photo again * Though maybe not the best position... I'll get her straightened out. Literally and figuratively.
Nick
Listen Prick, I’m trusting you. Heading to Charlie’s. If you don’t hear from me… just get her out of there before she ends up in jail or worse.
Me
Yes, sir! Consider it done. Though a little jail time might do Squirt some good...
"Listen, princess, why don't you toddle back to your first-class lounge and let the adults handle this?"
And there it is, the little princess dig, dripping with condescension. This asshole doesn't know who he's messing with.
The employee's patronizing tone sets off every protective instinct I've got, like a trip wire rigged to my protective big brother reflex.
My amusement evaporates as I shove my phone in my pocket.
With my jaw set, my laser-focus gaze snaps to the unfolding situation, assessing the threat level.
Some things never change. She's still that same spitfire who used to pick fights with anyone who underestimated her, who dared to tell her what she could or couldn't do. Only now she does it in a pencil skirt that's clearly designed to short-circuit a man's defenses and turn his brain to static.
"That bag has my entire future in it. I swear to God—" Her voice is low and dangerous, carrying a warning growl I've never quite heard from her before.
One that immediately makes me think of anger-fueled sex.
My brain skids to a halt harder than a private face-planting during a morning PT session.
I’m not thinking of her that way. It’s just leftover energy from giving Nick shit. That’s all. Nothing more.
A familiar restlessness I haven’t experienced in a hot minute skitters along my skin, all prickling heatBecause I’m an idiot. An idiot who probably should have skipped family Christmas for a second year in a row and taken the time to find some willing company to scratch this particular itch.
Pipe the fuck down, libido. No need for blood to be pumping hot and heavy to my junk like a busted hydrant in July. We're here for family bonding, not a Hallmark Channel holiday hookup. The last thing I need is to be walking around with a hair trigger, ready to blow at the first glimpse of Holly, of all people, in a tight sweater or short skirt.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Squirt?" The words are out, laced with the bite of frustration, before I can stop them. The nickname slips off my tongue with practiced ease.
More than two decades of calling her that, and suddenly it feels wrong in my mouth. Because the woman I haven't laid eyes on in two years—the one whose spine just went ramrod straight at the sound of my voice—is definitely not the kid sister I remember.
I blame the skirt. And the legs. And the way she's practically vibrating with that familiar stubborn, defiant energy that always spelled trouble, like a live wire sparking and spitting.
The image sears itself into my brain, taunting me. She's never allowed to vibrate while on her hands and knees again.
