America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(24)

“They’re not dangerous,” I tell her.

I think.

I’ve never actually met them in person, but Cash did. Once. When he starred in that remake of Blazing Sun two years ago.

“Sweetheart, have no fear,” Sunny says, crossing the lawn with her willowy build, lavender pants, and flowing white ruffly shirt, the miniature pig trotting happily beside her, sniffing at the flowers. “I made a few calls, and I found you the best stylist in all of Virginia. Your debut will be glorious.”

“Mom. I’m not having a debut.”

Mom?

I look again.

And holy fuck.

Sarah has Judson Clarke’s eyes.

And Sunny Darling’s nose.

And somebody’s splotchy blush.

“We’re not doing this,” she says, and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or to Hollywood’s not-really-retired power couple.

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

“Shut up,” Sarah mutters back. “Tell anyone and I’ll make your life hell.”

“I called my friend Giselle, and she’s sure she can find you a Dr. Who dress if you want. Or one with fireflies on it. You can still be true to yourself, and you’re not compromising your morals by having your hair cut every once in a while. Oh, my, are these beehives? How California of you, sweetheart. Do the bees have names?”

“Cupcake, no!” Sarah finally releases her death grip on me to shoo the pig out of the flowers. “Mom, she’s going to get stung.”

Judson Clarke stops in front of me and sizes me up. I have a few inches on him, but I feel about three feet tall right now.

I told Judson Clarke’s daughter to shut up and go have some babies. But not with me.

On a public forum.

I’m fucking dead.

“You treating my little girl right?” he asks in a growly drawl that could go head to head with Clint Eastwood’s.

“Dad, we’re just acquaintances.” Sarah tugs at the pig’s collar, but it has motivation on its side, and I wonder if it’s forty pounds of solid stubborn muscle. “Knock it off.”

“You know I don’t like men looking at you wrong,” he growls. “Or talking to you wrong.”

Yep.

I’m a dead man.

“He came to apologize, and now he’s leaving,” Sarah says.

“I saw that video, little darlin’. He already apologized. So what’s he have to apologize for now?”

“I guess that depends on if he can keep his mouth shut,” she replies.

Serendipity.

Holy shit.

Sarah’s Serendipity Darling.

And the—the—oh, shit.

No wonder she doesn’t want to go on camera.

“And I’m nailing that gate shut,” she adds.

“I got a guy who can booby trap it for you,” I offer.

Judson Clarke narrows his eyes at me, and I swear I just heard him drawl, try it, punk.

Sunny Darling frowns. “You mean in a humane and environmentally friendly way, of course,” she says. “The environment is very important to Serendipity.”

Every time she says Serendipity, Sarah’s left eyeball twitches. She grunts and pulls harder on the pig while a few bees swarm around her head.

“Do you need help?” I ask her.

“I need vodka,” she grits out.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s not that bad. Cupcake, come. Come this way, baby.” Sunny tugs on the leash, but the pig’s still straining to eat the flowers where the bees are buzzing increasingly agitatedly.

Judson Clarke is still eviscerating me with his deadly glare, and I’m having flashbacks to every one of his cowboy movies that I watched as a kid.

And how he had deadly aim.

And always won.

Because he was always the good guy.

Always.

The back door bangs open. “Sarah! Bathroom! Cooper Rock is—oh my god, Sunny Darling!”

She looks at me.

I look at Sarah.

Sarah Dempsey.

Serendipity Darling.

Who’s still struggling with a pig in a tutu in a desperate attempt to save her bees from being pork food or her pork’s snout from being bee target practice.

And I thought my life was weird.

Apparently I still need to get out more.





Thirteen





Sarah



So this is awkward.

There’s an underwear model who wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend making everyone cheesy bacon fries.

My father’s prowling about the house looking for bugs and taking audio notes for himself about increasing security, because that underwear model’s version of security couldn’t protect a mosquito in a swamp if we could get into your backyard with a tutu-ed pig on a leash.

My mother’s doting all over Mackenzie, who’s so tongue-tied she hasn’t even looked at the bloodbath of a baseball game on the TV in the living room, nor has she asked me to explain anything, which is making me feel like utter slime.

And Cupcake is trying to hump my cat, who’s just lying there under a kitchen chair and taking it like this is normal.

“Get off. Get off.” I tug the pig’s collar again.

She looks up at me, but she doesn’t stop trying to hump Meda.