Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Chance

Things I expect to see walking into Portland International to pick up Holly McAdams:

A trail of stunned businessmen who mistook her pink lipstick for weakness instead of the war paint it is.

She’s a a cyclone of complete chaos, she moves with frenetic energy that sweeps up everyone and everything around her.

Or even muttering about market projection formulas, risk analysis ratios, and pop song one-liners like some kind of tiny financial guerrilla warrior with a built-in soundtrack.

What I do not expect is her on her hands and knees, pert little ass in the air, her damn head shoved through the baggage claim flaps, and that tiny pencil skirt riding up, revealing smooth, toned thighs as she argues with airport personnel, her voice carrying across the terminal.

What the… Jesus Christ.

I should intervene. I should absolutely step in and handle this situation with the calm, strategic precision the Army drilled into me.

But this is Holly we’re talking about. And I’m on vacation.

Instead, I pull out my phone, a shit-eating grin spreading across my face. I have a best friend to pay back for saddling me with his sister-sitting duties while he's busy playing house with my sister, Charlie.

The one he was not supposed to diddle, but diddled anyway last Christmas. And in a particularly cheap kick to the balls, he sent me a damn pic of her with her freshly fucked glow in a goddamn lip-lock with him.

I’m delivering brutal payback until the kids they don’t have yet go to college.

Me

[image attached] I'm charging you a handling fee. This was not part of the plan

Nick

What the hell is she doing?

Me

Giving everyone a show while she threatens baggage claim personnel. Gonna need to add hazard pay to that fee

Nick

Get her off her knees!

Me

That's what she said

Nick

When I get my hands on you, you’re a dead man

Me

Death by Holly seems more likely. Rabid little thing. I’ll send you the med bills

Nick

I’m serious.

Me

Nice to meet you, Serious I'm your sister's new handler. Want to help me pick out a collar and leash for her.

Nick

Get her out of there dammit.

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.

I’m supposed to get her to the lodge in one piece. Getting her there unfucked was an unspoken condition to those orders, but right now, watching her slowly turn to face me with fire in her narrowed baby blues, I'm starting to think I'm the one who's fucked.

"Hell." Airport security doesn't take kindly to civilians breaching restricted areas, even pint-sized ones in fuck-me pencil skirts.

"Up. Now," I mutter through clenched teeth as I half haul her up to her feet before she gets herself arrested for disorderly conduct.

She yanks free the second she's vertical, but not before I catch her wobbling in those ridiculous heels. "My entire presentation is in that damn bag. Bound proposals. Risk analysis spreadsheets—this, THIS is why I never should have let Derek convince me to pack them in my checked bag to 'help me relax' on the plane. Forced relaxation, my ass."

"Who the hell is Derek?" The question flies out of my mouth unchecked, sharp and demanding. Not that I care. I'm just trying to assess the situation. Gather intel. Know thy enemy and all that.

"Does it matter? The point is, I need my goddamn suitcase." Her eyes flash, her chin jutting forward stubbornly. Classic Holly, digging in her heels.

"Look, you can verbally flay customer service from the safety of my truck." I nod toward the windows where fat wet snowflakes cling to the glass. "But we need to move. Now."

"I am not leaving without?—"

"Your personal brand of chaos? Already packed, Squirt." I eye the sky-high stilettos that probably cost more than my truck payment. "Though common sense clearly didn't make the cut."

Her eyes narrow to slits. "Says the guy whose entire Call of Duty cosplay signature look just stepped out of a two-for-one special at Tactical Bros 'R' Us. Tell me more about how cargo pants are appropriate for every occasion, GI Jackass. Don't worry, I'll wait while you check all sixteen pockets for your comeback."

"Definitely rabid.” Before she can process my words, I duck down and throw her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, her startled yelp music to my ears.

"Put me down!" She pounds her tiny fists against my back, her hits landing without any real force. "I swear to God, I will make you regret?—"

Stomping the twenty feet to the exit, I resign myself to the special circle of hell that will be three long hours stuck in a confined space with her and her feral energy, like trapping a wild raccoon

The minute I step out the doors, a wind gust as powerful and blustery as her temper kicks up, sending stinging snow swirling around us. A thick white wall of it swallows us whole, just long enough to obscure my vision.

The second my boot makes contact with the icy ground, we’re sliding. Without thinking, I adjust my grip, my palm sliding dangerously high up her thigh as I fight for balance.

"Hands!" she squeaks, squirming against my shoulder.

The snow sticking to the asphalt makes the trek to my truck look like a drunken three-legged race waiting to happen.

"Maybe next time pack some clothes suitable for, oh, I don't know… Maine in December." I hitch her higher on my shoulder, definitely not thinking about how soft and warm her skin is under my palm. Or how if I move it just a fraction more, my index finger will find a new home in the crease between her taut little ass cheek and thigh. "Now stop squirming, unless you want us both to end up on our asses."

"I had weather-appropriate clothes, you dickhead." She grumbles, her voice muffled against my back, hot breath seeping through my shirt.

The heat of it, of her, bleeds into me, and I can't say I entirely hate it, my treacherous body reacting in all sorts of inappropriate ways.

I've never been more grateful for my Army training, for the discipline that allows me to ignore even the most tempting distractions, no matter how good they feel… or sound… or how incredible they smell, like vanilla sugar cookies and something uniquely Holly.

Razzing Nick via text aside, I'm not actually going there. Don't shit where you eat. Don't piss in your own foxhole. Never muddy your own trench. No matter how you slice it, this little ski vacation is our own proverbial foxhole, our shared trench, and with a built-in audience watching our every move like hawks.

One lingering look, one suspicious touch, is all it takes to set the family gossip mill ablaze. And while I'm all for living dangerously, I prefer my risks of the enemy combatant variety, not the familial warfare one.

Reaching my truck at last, I yank open the passenger door and unceremoniously dump her into the seat, her skirt riding up to reveal a flash of white lace. "Now try to control both your mouth and your skirt, Squirt, and buckle up."

She rolls her eyes skyward and smirks. "I need to call customer service."

"Skirt. Seat belt. Customer service. In that order, genius."

She complies with an air of affronted dignity, smoothing her disheveled hair and yanking the seat belt into place with a little more force than necessary. Her flushed cheeks and wild, windswept waves are the picture of feminine outrage—a deeply fuckable picture that I shouldn't be noticing.

"Fine. But I'm putting the call on speaker. So lay off the orders."

"As long as we get on the road sometime today, I don't give a flying fuck. Knock yourself out, Squirt." I slam her door with a little more oomph than required and circle around to the driver's side, giving myself a much-needed mental shake. This is Nick's little sister.

This is all Nick’s fault. If he hadn’t hooked up with Charlie last Christmas, I wouldn’t think of Holly as anything other than the same pain in the ass wild child who used to follow us around and pester us incessantly, trying to hang with the big boys.

As I slide behind the wheel, I cast a sideways glance at the fuming brunette bedside me. "It's a vacation, Hols, not a working holiday. Remember? Skiing, booze, bad decisions we'll all claim not to remember in the morning?"

Her lips curve into a smile that's anything but sweet. "Maybe for you, GI Jackass. Some of us have bigger plans. Now shut up and drive."

"Sir, yes, sir," I mutter, cranking the engine. It's going to be a long three hours. A really long three hours. But as I pull out of the airport lot, her fingers already flying furiously over her phone screen, I can't help the small grin tugging at my mouth.

Same old Holly. Pretty, prickly, and ready to take on the world, one overpriced stiletto at a time. If I play my cards right, this forced quality time will be just what we need to get back on solid ground.

As long as I can keep my hands to myself, my smart-ass comments in check, and my dick in line, it'll be smooth sailing.

How hard can it be?