“You’re right. I would.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust with her safety. Will you do it?”
Of course I would. Even if this gig was a total pain in the ass, I owed Sully my life. And his trust meant a lot to me. “I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He sounded relieved. “I’m sure the place she rented is nice. We were raised poor, but she’s got champagne tastes now. And you will be well compensated.”
“Fuck off. You know I won’t take your money.”
He laughed. “You might want to meet her before you refuse compensation. She’s sweet, but she’s got some sass to her.”
“Sounds like my little sister, Mabel.”
“It’s nothing you can’t handle. No matter what she says, just don’t let her fire you.”
“When do you need me there?”
“She arrives Thursday.”
“As in tomorrow?”
“Yeah—sorry about the late notice.”
Fuck. This gave me less than twenty-four hours to prepare. “Text me the location.”
“I will.” He paused. “Keep her safe, brother.”
With one last deep breath, I resigned myself to two weeks of babysitting a stubborn celebrity who didn’t want me around. “I will,” I promised. “You have my word.”
Later that night, I drove over to my brother Austin’s house. I found him in the garage, which functioned as his workshop. By day, he worked side by side with our dad running Two Buckleys Home Improvement, but recently he’d announced he wanted to leave that behind and start his own company making furniture out of reclaimed wood.
It had taken him forever to work up the nerve to tell our dad that’s what he wanted, and even though I’d given him endless shit about that (what are siblings for?), I understood why he’d felt such loyalty to our father. Our mom had died when we were kids, and our dad had raised the five of us entirely on his own. Well, not entirely—Austin, who’d only been twelve when we lost our mother, had stepped up in ways no seventh grader should have to. I’d only been one year behind him, but he’d always seemed ten years more mature. While I spent my high school years chasing down girls and athletic records in cross country and swimming and track and field, he spent his working for our dad and helping out with the younger kids. He also kicked my ass regularly, probably because he had no other outlet.
I didn’t mind. I liked a good scrap.
But that motherfucker was so talented. He could take a beat-up barn door and turn it into something so beautiful, you wanted to eat off it. I’d conned him into crafting a bar for Buckley’s Pub by betting him he wouldn’t be able to keep his pants zipped around the nanny he hired for the summer—he hadn’t even lasted two weeks.
That bar was fucking art.
“Hey.” I helped myself to a beer from his fridge and perched on the edge of his tool bench.
“Hey.” He didn’t even look up from measuring the planks across his work table. “Have a beer, why don’t you?”
I grinned. “Thanks, I will. Can I get you one?”
“Nah.”
“Veronica and the kids home?”
“They should be soon. They rode bikes into town after dinner for ice cream.”
I took a swallow from the bottle. “I got a phone call from Kevin Sullivan today.”
“The guy who saved your life?”
“Yeah. He needs a favor.”
Austin finally looked up. “I hope you said yes.”
“Of course I said yes,” I scoffed.
He nodded his approval.
“But I wish he needed a different kind of favor.”
“What’s he need?”
“Security for his sister.” I explained who his sister was and why he was concerned about her staying alone.
“Holy shit. So you’re moving in with Pixie Hart for two weeks?”
“I’m not moving in with her,” I said, annoyed. “I’m providing residential security. Close protection.”
“For who?” Veronica strolled into the garage, followed by Austin’s twins, seven-year-old Adelaide and Owen.
“Pixie Hart,” I told her.
Adelaide let out an ear-piercing squeal. “Pixie Hart! I love Pixie Hart! You get to meet her?”
“He gets to live with her,” said Austin.
I glared at him. “I promised my buddy I’d keep her safe, and that’s all I’m doing. And I don’t even want to do that.”
“Why not?” Owen asked. “She’s famous.”
“Because famous people are a pain in the butt. They don’t like being told what they can and cannot do, and they all think rules don’t apply to them.”
“So why do you have to do it?” Veronica asked.
“Because her brother saved my life in Afghanistan,” I said. “Carried me half a mile, under fire, to safety after I’d been shot twice in the leg.”
“He must be strong,” said Owen. “You’re even bigger than my dad.”
“Not that much bigger,” countered Austin, who continued to resent the two inches in height I had on him.
God, I loved those two inches.
“So are you going to Nashville?” Veronica asked, taking a seat in a wooden folding chair by the fridge. She was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, a perfect contrast to my brother, who had dark hair and brown eyes. He and I looked a lot alike, except I was taller, with more tattoos and a better beard.
“No,” I said. “She’s renting a cabin somewhere in the woods outside Petoskey, which means I’ll probably have to delay the opening of Buckley’s, even though I promoted the date already.”
“Why?”
“Because I won’t be around as much as I need to be to get it up and running. I’d need a temporary manager or something.”
Veronica looked thoughtful as she hugged her knees to her chest. “Maybe I can help you out so you don’t have to delay.”
“Thanks, but you’ll have your hands full with the new studio, won’t you?” Veronica, who’d been a professional dancer in New York, had taken over an old dance school just outside town. Austin was helping her rehab it.
“It’s only two weeks.” Veronica lifted her shoulders. “And Austin is still doing the remodeling. I think I can manage both—just tell me what you need me to do.”
“You’re a life saver,” I said gratefully. “Thanks.”
Adelaide came over and stood in front of me, her expression hopeful, a mint green blotch on her white shirt from her ice cream. “Will I get to meet her, Uncle Xander?”
“Maybe.” I tweaked one of her braids. “You excited for school to start next week?”
“Yes,” she said. “Hey, maybe I can bring Pixie Hart for Show and Tell!”
“I think she probably needs to lie low,” I told my niece, although I hated disappointing her.
“What’s that mean?” asked Owen, who had a chocolate mustache. “To ‘lie low.’”
“It means stay out of sight,” I said. “So that her fans and the photographers who follow her around everywhere don’t find out where she is and bother her. She doesn’t even want me bothering her. Apparently, she’s totally against the idea of security.”