Hideaway Heart (Cherry Tree Harbor Book 2)
Hideaway Heart: Chapter 1

I’LL JUST ADMIT IT. I’ve got an ego.

I’m not a jerk or anything—in fact, I think I’m a pretty good fucking time—it’s just that I have a lot of confidence that if a thing can be done, I can do it. And I tell it like it is.

But I’m also a nice guy. I believe in fair fights, second chances, and paying my debts. So when Kevin Sullivan called me that Wednesday night for a favor, I didn’t hesitate.

“You don’t even have to ask twice, Sully,” I said as I opened the sliding glass door and went out onto the patio, still sweaty from a run. “Name the time and place.”

The voice from my past laughed. “Don’t you want to know what it is first?”

“Won’t matter. I know what I owe you.” My right leg bore scars that served as a daily reminder of two things—the heroism of the man I was talking to and how close I’d come to dying six years ago.

“It’s a job,” he said.

“Talk to me.” I grabbed the top of my right foot and stretched out my quad. Those five miles had been a little rough today, had taken me a little longer. I blamed the late August heat. Or maybe my injury. Definitely not my age—I might have been thirty-one, but I felt eighteen.

Mostly.

“I know you’ve been out of the game for a while, but—”

“Not that long,” I told him. “I just left Cole Security about six months ago.”

“That’s what I heard. You moved back home? Opened a bar?”

“The bar isn’t quite open yet. I bought it over the summer, but it needed pretty extensive renovations. If all goes according to plan, opening will be three weeks from tomorrow.” Which meant I really didn’t have time for a side gig right now, but that didn’t matter. If Sully needed me, I was going to come through. “Tell me about the job. Is it domestic or international?”

“Domestic. Practically right in your backyard.”

“My backyard?”

That didn’t make much sense. Currently, I was living with my dad in the house where my four siblings and I had grown up. I glanced at the lawn I’d mowed a thousand times, at the rose bushes our mom had loved and our dad maintained in her memory, at the towering maple tree my brothers and I used to climb while our little sister cried that she wanted to play pirate ship too.

My plan had been to move out over the summer, but the bar was eating all my savings. I even had my eye on a house not too far from my brother Austin and his family, but I’d had to choose between making a down payment and getting the sound system I really wanted for Buckley’s Pub—and I went for the sound. I wanted the place to be comfortable but high-end, somewhere you could wear your ball cap and team jersey but drink expensive-as-fuck whiskey while you watched the game.

“I’m in Cherry Tree Harbor, Michigan, Sully,” I told him, dropping into one of the chairs on the patio. “Who needs security way the hell up here?”

“My little sister.”

I tried to remember if Sully had ever mentioned a sibling. We’d known each other a couple months before I got injured, but as the newest guy on our SEAL platoon, he’d understood he was expected to be seen and not heard. “I’m not sure I knew you had a sister.”

“Her real name is Kelly Jo Sullivan, but professionally she goes by Pixie Hart.”

“Pixie Hart, the country music singer? That’s your sister? How did I not know that?”

“I don’t talk about it much,” he said. “People can get weird about it. And I’m protective of her.”

“I get it.” I was protective too, but fucking hell. A celebrity?

I scowled as I recalled the one and only time I’d agreed to provide security for a rock band. They’d ignored every single safety precaution, trashed their hotel rooms, and generally behaved like drunk, entitled brats, making it impossible for me to do my job. I’d vowed I’d never take another celebrity gig again.

But it was Sully—I couldn’t say no.

“So what’s the deal?” I scrubbed a hand over my beard. “She need security for a concert or something? Music festival?”

“No. She needs a twenty-four-seven bodyguard during her two-week vacation.”

“Twenty-four-seven for two weeks?” The job got even less palatable. “I want to help, Sully, but I’m about to open a business. I can’t leave town.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” he said quickly. “She rented a place outside Petoskey for the first two weeks of September. That’s near you, right?”

“Yes,” I said warily.

“She should not stay there alone, no matter what she says.”

“And what does she say?”

“She’s a bit resistant to the idea.”

“What’s ‘a bit?’”

“I believe her words were, ‘I don’t want some Navy SEAL goon up in my business while I’m on vacation.’”

I laughed. “That seems like more than ‘a bit.’”

“She needs you, Xander. Paparazzi follow her and bang on her car windows. Weirdos go through her trash. She just got back from a sold-out tour where she was mobbed wherever she went.”

I frowned. “Didn’t she have security?”

“She did, but they were a bunch of clowns hired by the label. At least one of them was selling information to photographers—what hotel she was staying at, when she’d be coming and going, where and when she had restaurant reservations, where she was shopping.”

“Assholes,” I muttered.

“They were all fired, but one of them is threatening to sue her. She’s also got a dickhead ex-boyfriend who still thinks he owns her.”

My hackles went up. “Who is he?”

“Duke Pruitt.”

“That guy?” I could feel my face prune up like I’d smelled something bad. “His music sucks.”

“I’m not a fan.”

“Is he harassing her?”

“She says it’s nothing she can’t handle, but the guy’s a dick. I don’t trust him. He treated her like shit for years, and now that she finally left him for good, he wants her back.”

“Maybe now isn’t the best time for a vacation,” I suggested.

“We’ve told her that, but she insists she’s fine, even though she’s five-foot-nothing and has zero self-defense skills, besides a loud voice. And the way she posts on social media all the time, I feel like people are going to figure out where she is.”

I exhaled. “She should stay off social media.”

“She claims that’s impossible and unnecessary.”

Of course she did. Because she was a celebrity who knew everything. “Does she at least have security cameras at this vacation house?”

“Apparently not.”

I exhaled again. Louder this time.

“Look, I know this is a lot to ask. If I was in the states, I’d go with her. But I’m deployed—about to go off the grid—and my gut is telling me it’s a bad idea for her to be up there alone. I trust my gut. You would too, if it was your sister.”

“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 replace out where she is and bother her. She doesn’t even want me bothering her. Apparently, she’s totally against the idea of security.”

“Why?” Austin asked.

“Because she’s probably delusional. They all are.” I tipped up my beer. “Also, there was a breach on her previous security team, so I imagine she doesn’t trust anyone right now. Her brother told me she flat out refused to have some goon up in her business while she’s on vacation . . . right before he made me promise not to let her out of my sight.”

“Oh dear,” said Veronica.

Austin laughed. “Good luck with that.”

“You know what? I won’t need luck,” I said, pushing my shoulders back. “I’ve got charm. I’ve got magnetism. She’s gonna adore me.”

“Oh dear,” Veronica said again.

My brother shook his head. “What happens if she doesn’t?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “She’s stuck with me.”

After I packed a bag, I decided to do a little internet research on Pixie Hart. I Googled her name and clicked on some images that popped up in the search results.

Damn.

No denying it, Sully’s sister was a bombshell.

Not my type—I wasn’t into all the glitzy makeup and fancy clothes—but objectively, Pixie Hart was hot.

Tons of fiery red hair that fell halfway down her back, skin that looked like it might glow in the dark, giant green eyes flecked with gold, a megawatt smile with blindingly white teeth. She was short, like Sully had said, and she wore a lot of high heels, at least in these red carpet photos. She also wore a lot of glittery dresses, bright lipstick, and thick eye makeup. Her nails were long, pointy, and painted to match her outfits.

In some of the photos, that overrated dipshit Duke Pruitt stood next to her. He was a big name in country music, but he’d also acted in some movies. He was older, forty or so, and had a reputation for collecting vintage muscle cars and starry-eyed young singers. I was pretty sure he had at least three ex-wives.

Digging a little deeper, I discovered they’d had an on-and-off relationship for about three years. But the photos of the two of them were all at least six months old, and she had wiped her Instagram account clean of his existence.

Scrolling through her feed, I found some more casual photos of her. Boots instead of heels, jeans instead of dresses, cowboy hat and ponytail instead of all that big hair. There were also some pictures from photo shoots that showed her all dressed up in a fancy gown and running through wheat fields in bare feet (ridiculous), seated alone at a diner booth sipping a milkshake (she probably didn’t even eat dairy), or splashing in a creek wearing very short denim cutoffs and a white bikini top. Her nipples were clearly visible in that shot, so I clicked away from it immediately. (And by that I mean immediately after I zoomed in to make sure I saw what I thought I saw).

But this was Sully’s sister. And now she was my client. Everything, including my thoughts, had to stay completely professional.

Returning to my Pixie Hart search results, I clicked on news and checked out a few headlines. Beyond lots of gossip about her relationship with Duke Pruitt (consensus seemed to be that their troubles were due to his cheating), there were stories about her powering through a concert in Greenville despite having food poisoning, a piece about her visiting a children’s hospital in Philadelphia, and something about her returning to her high school to sing the National Anthem for homecoming in order to raise money for the marching band’s new uniforms. She was often referred to as “country music’s sweetheart.”

I read all the way through one article that described her humble beginnings—the county fair circuit, wedding bands—until she won a reality show called Nashville Next at age twenty-two, which launched her career. After that, she spent a few years opening for other acts, and then finally began headlining her own tours.

I peeked at a few reviews of her music, mostly positive despite some grumbling about her being a plastic doll propped up by the record label—all hat, no cattle—and how reality TV acts like her were ruining country music. But I saw plenty of praise for her “honeyed vocals with just the right amount of grit,” her “winsome pop-country appeal,” and her “balance of sparkling production and hell-raising fun.” According to one critic, her guitar playing was only “passable” and she had a “limited range,” but on the whole, most of the press was positive. Lots of writers mentioned her possession of that “it factor,” whatever intangible star quality it was that made some people light up the stage and connect with an audience.

After about ninety minutes, I yawned, shut down my laptop, and went to the basement to retrieve my laundry. While I was tossing my clean clothes into a bag, a call came in from a number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t pick up, and a moment later, I saw that I had a new voicemail.

“Hi, this message is for Xander Buckley.”

The voice was feminine but feisty, with only the barest hint of a twang. Honey and grit.

“This is Kelly Jo Sullivan. I’m Kevin’s sister? I just wanted to let you know that while I appreciate your offer to provide security for me on my vacation, it’s not necessary. In fact, I’d prefer to be left alone. No offense or anything, but the place I’ve rented is tiny, and there really isn’t room for two. Thanks anyway, and I hope you have a great night.”

Right away, I called Sully, but he didn’t pick up. Maybe he was off the grid already.

Oh well. I’d given my word to keep watch over her for those two weeks, day and night, whether she wanted it or not.

(And clearly, the answer was not.)

I wondered what would happen when I showed up. Would she accept the situation or would she insist on putting up a fight?

I remembered all that red hair and those loud ruby lips, and I had a feeling I knew what the answer was.

Fine by me.

I liked a good scrap.