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It’d be the thing that would make me better—more—than I ever would’ve been if it’d never happened.
    So, though Justin has no idea how much those particular words mean to me, they mean a hell of a lot.
    â€œIt’s what I’m here for, buddy.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Even when I was a kid—even after the accident—I had an overabundance of energy. Growing up, the worst punishment my nanny could inflict was making me sit still in the corner. With nothing to look at. Nothing to do . Used to make me feel like a lab monkey in a cage—batshit crazy.
    That trait followed me into adulthood. It’s why I run ten miles a day, why the first thing I do every morning is a long set of push-ups and sit-ups. It’s why I have a set of hand grips in my office drawer that I squeeze while I dictate a motion or take a call. It’s left me with a strong, rock-hard body and stamina to spare.
    Women really enjoy both, and boy, are they appreciative.
    It’s also why, although I have a butler at home who doubles as my driver, I walk to my office every day.
    It’s dark by the time I stroll through the door of my townhouse. The house itself is professionally decorated, and though dimension-wise it’s a fraction of just one floor of the beast I grew up in—on a high-end street, filled with young professionals who drive BMWs and hybrid Lexuses—it’s the perfect size for a bachelor.
    Well . . . a bachelor and his trusty sidekick.
    I’m secure enough in my manhood to call, “Honey, I’m home.”
    Just to mess with him.
    Because, British or not, Harrison is more serious than any twenty-two-year-old should ever be. He’s the son of my parents’ beloved butler, Henderson. When he decided to go into the family business—and because my mother still breaks out in hives at the thought of my living alone—I was more than happy to take the kid under my wing. And now that I’ve got him, I hope to corrupt the hell out of him.
    Harrison takes my briefcase. “Welcome home, sir.”
    I raise an eyebrow—feeling like a parent who’s had the exact same conversation with his teenager a hundred times. Because the day I become a “sir,” just fucking shoot me.
    His brown eyes pinch closed, then he forces out, “Brent. I meant, welcome home, Brent.”
    With fair skin and a hearty dose of freckles, Harrison looks younger than his age—something we have in common. It’s why I decided to grow my beard, a full jaw of neatly groomed dark hair.
    Women appreciate that too—these bristles have all kinds of creative uses.
    â€œHow was your day?”
    I smack him on the back. “It was great. I’m starved—what’s for dinner?”
    â€œChicken cordon bleu. I’ve set the table up on the back patio—it seemed like a lovely night to dine outside.”
    Harrison’s chicken cordon bleu rocks.
    My small backyard is professionally landscaped. A white privacy fence frames the property, which is only considerate because it’s rude to force your neighbors to watch you screw. And the screwing happens a lot back here due to the large, fantastic hot tub that holds a place of honor on a raised, lighted platform in the center. A small patch of grass, a scattering of evergreen bushes, a few Japanese maples, and a fragrant lemon tree complete the setting.
    I sit down at the round, cloth-covered table and Harrison removes the silver lid from my warm plate.
    â€œYour mother phoned today,” he mentions, moving to stand just behind me. “Your cousin Mildred is hosting her daughter’s first birthday celebration this Saturday, at the Potomac estate. Mrs. Mason’s exact words were: ‘I insist he attend, and I will personally come to retrieve him if he does not.’ ”
    That’s my mother for you—Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy on the outside, Dirty Harry on