Last bedroom on the left.
Connor’s room is fully stocked. A bed he ignores. A tub that doubles as a laundry bin, which I made him clean out. And two walk-in closets.
I have no idea what the prior owners were thinking, but someone definitely lost a bet during construction.
Enjoy the perks, hermanita.
The car meets us right on time, and I hustle the Evans brood out the door and deposit them with Auntie Hannah. They cheer like ditching their dad is the best thing that’s happened all week.
I remind myself not to take it personally, embrace the win-win for what it is, grab the muffin and coffee, and get back in the car.
Did I say car? I meant monster G-Wagon.
When Brian offered up a car and a driver, Travis, I lunged at the opportunity like it was the last chopper out of a zombie apocalypse.
Normally, I’d drive myself—no offense to Travis, who settles in behind the wheel. But the matte-black G-Wagon isn’t my thing.
It is, however, the platinum standard for private security.
Bulletproof. A non-negotiable.
Built to own the road and survive the parts no one plans for, while wrapping its passengers in luxury.
If I didn’t have a high-risk career and three kids I’d throw my body in front of shrapnel for, any four-wheel-drive pickup would do just fine.
But this ride has its perks. Pellegrino. Chilled hand towels. An assortment of candy and premium mixed nuts.
And because I handed my muffin to Travis after learning he pulled an all-nighter and got even less sleep than I did, I’m fucking starving.
The sacred, brutal oath of fatherhood.
Kids eat first.
My men eat next.
Dad eats when he can.
Usually dinner. Assuming fathers everywhere haven’t already gnawed off their own arms by then.
After polishing off a bag of nuts and a chocolate bar, the plush leather seats are enough to make a grown man weep.
A power nap would almost be on the table, except I have a file to review.
For the rest of the day, I’ll be elbow-deep in inspecting discreet security measures for an eight-figure client. Incognito. Brian hinted at suspected protocol breaches, possible internal sabotage, and just enough danger to raise my pulse.
It stirred something in me I hadn’t felt in weeks.
Raw.
Unapologetic.
Fuck yeah.
A workday where I can trade the choking noose of a tie and rigid suit for broken-in denim, steel-toed boots, and a flannel shirt softer than a baby’s butt?
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
A text pops through from Gabe. Codename: Gambit. Because his superpower is turning just about anything into a weapon. That, and a very drunk woman once mistook him for Channing Tatum, which he never lets us forget.
