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"Jesus," Fifth mutters.
Cash heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. "What do you need?"
"A new job," I mutter. "Mine sucks."
Andreas kicks my barstool.
I huff out a curse. "Fuck. I meet her at the airport tomorrow." Callum, my cousin, is flying her in. His home office is in Nashville, though I don't fucking know why. He spends more time here lately than he does there. "I may need help keeping an eye on her. From the sounds of it, she isn't exactly thrilled to be coming." According to my dad, she called coming here a prison sentence. Her dad, Mac, warned me that she can be a handful. Though how much trouble one little slip of a girl can actually cause, I don't fucking know.
I guess I'll find out tomorrow.
Fuck my life.
If I never give my parents grandchildren, it'll be their own damn fault.
"Yo, man. We have a problem."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, lifting my gaze to look up at the glass ceiling. "The plane landed fifteen minutes ago. How can we possibly already have a problem?" I growl to my cousin, Callum. "You've been through every fucking airport in the south. There's no way you were followed."
"Yeah, that's not the problem."
"Explain," I demand. It's way too late for riddles. Their last flight was delayed, and I've been cooling my heels for three hours. I could be in bed right now, fantasizing about my future wife. I hope she's a curvy little goddess with sugar in her soul.
My ordinarily stoic, level-headed cousin grits out a curse. "As soon as we deplaned, she ducked into the bathroom."
"So go in and get her."
"Tried that. She's not in there. There's a goddamn exit on the other side. She gave me the slip."
"Son of a bitch," I curse, instantly on red alert. Houston International is a maze, with flights to damn near any and everywhere. Mac Sterling will kill me if I lose his daughter before I ever even have her in my possession. And then my dad will bring me back and kill me again. "Get me a fucking photo."
"I swear to God, Cormac, this chick is a menace," Callum mutters. "I'm too young for angina."
"Maybe she just doesn't like you."
He snorts. "Fine. Make your jokes, but don't say I didn't fucking warn you."
I'm suddenly curious as a motherfucker to know what she did to piss in his Cheerios. He's former Special Forces. It takes a hell of a lot to stress him out. But she's managed to do it in all of twenty-four hours. Either she's exactly as bad as her dad said, or Callum is losing his touch.
"Send a photo through," I demand, striding toward the security checkpoint.
"Already did." He pauses. "She shouldn't be hard to spot. Look for a curvy brunette wearing hot pink leggings and a white hoodie. She's deceptively angelic for a fucking menace to society."
"What'd she do to piss you off?"
"Nailed me in the balls with her backpack. And then stomped on my foot."
I bark a laugh, eager as hell to meet this chick now.
"It's not funny," Callum growls. "She has a laptop, a Kindle, textbooks, and about twenty pounds of random shit in that bag. My fucking balls still ache."
I laugh again, drawing attention from passersby. Swear to Christ, I get tired of people staring at me. It's not my fault I didn't stop growing at a normal motherfucker's size. I'm six-eight and over three hundred pounds. I stick out like a sore thumb, attracting attention no matter where the hell I go. It's inconvenient as hell.
"Why'd she nail you in the balls?" I ask, trying to ignore the stares turned in my direction.
"She thought I was staring at her ass."
"Were you?"
